The lord of Barovia was tall, just over six feet. A tight, formal jacket hugged his lean frame. He wore black pants and polished dark leather boots. A chain of gold links hung from his neck and ended in a large red stone that sharply reflected the torchlight. His white shirt stood in stark contrast to the rest of his attire, and the count wore its pointed collar turned up. The white cloth framed his strong chin like dove’s wings.
As he reached the foot of the stairs, he bowed to the death knight. His face was pale, with high cheekbones and dark hair brushed back from his forehead. Black, arched brows rested over probing eyes. He rested his gaze on the armored dead man and waited for him to bow in return.
Soth scowled. “Let us not waste time with pleasantries, Count,” he said. “Why have you brought me here?”
Strahd held up a gray-gloved hand in lieu of answering, then turned his hypnotic eyes to Magda. “The trip has not been an easy one for you, my dear. I’m sure Lord Soth meant to cause you no discomfort in taking you through the forest, but-” he pulled his thin lips into a smile “-like me, he is a soldier. Soldiers tend to forget everyone is not as disciplined as they themselves must be.”
The woman looked down at her mud-splattered legs and her torn skirt. “My apologies, Your Excellency, I-”
Again Strahd smiled, this time more unctuously. The expression was every bit as frightening to see as a wolf’s snarl. “Think nothing of it,” he said, his voice a mesmerizing purr. “However, I do think it would be best for you to change out of those ragged clothes. There are some dresses in the next room, old but in good condition. One might fit you. Please go and try them on.”
To emphasize the invitation, Strahd extended a hand toward the small room across from the stairs. Magda walked shyly to the vaulted room. “The doors to your right,” the count noted patiently. “Modesty will demand you close them behind you. Take your time changing. We will be waiting here when you are through.”
Strahd kept a smile plastered on his pale face until the doors clicked shut behind her, then he looked to the death knight. The polite facade had vanished. “Your question is a bit vague, Lord Soth, but I will answer it anyway. I do not, as you suspect, control the mists that brought you to Barovia.” He waited for some reaction from Soth. When it was obvious none would be forthcoming, he added, “I brought you to my home as a gesture of politeness. It is my way of apologizing for the unfortunate treatment you received from Madame Girani.”
“You admit the Vistani are your spies?”
“Nothing so formal as all that,” Strahd replied. “I grant them certain privileges, and they offer me information about visitors to my land. It’s all very casual. Still, I will admit that I asked Madame Girani to discover what she could about you.”
“Why? What interest am I to you?” Soth’s hand drifted threateningly to the hilt of his sword.
A flush of anger passed over the count’s face, and his dark eyes took on the character of burning embers, red-hot sparks. “You are a guest in my home and in my land,” he said with forced calm. “Let us assume you had good reason for attacking the gypsies. They have paid for whatever slight they may have given you. But do not think I will allow you to threaten me. Even with your curse, I am still your master in experience. Do not underestimate my wrath.”
Soth smiled inwardly at the count’s attitude. Had Strahd not taken offense, the death knight would have assumed him a fool or a weakling. Either conclusion would have precipitated an attack.
“My apologies, Count,” Lord Soth said, relaxing his hand. At last he returned Strahd’s courteous bow. “My journey to your land was quite unexpected and quite unwelcome. I desire now only to find my seneschal and travel back to my home.”
Strahd arched one jet-black eyebrow. “Seneschal? Do you mean the ghost who entered the land with you?”
“What news do you have of him? Is he here?”
“Alas, no,” the count replied. “He made it to this castle and attempted to enter without my permission. My home is protected by certain magical wards-quite ancient and deadly, even to the undead. This… seneschal of yours was destroyed utterly by one of those wards.” After a suitable pause, he added, “My condolences, Lord Soth. Were you close to the man?”
The death knight didn’t hear the count’s question. Caradoc destroyed? The notion was almost impossible to believe. Had he been robbed of his revenge against the traitorous ghost? And what about Kitiara? This would make finding her soul all the more difficult. Ah, the death knight cried inwardly, it would be worth almost anything to have had my revenge upon Caradoc. Frustration boiled within him, but something about the tale wasn’t quite right.
“How do you know he’s dead?” Soth asked.
Strahd shrugged as if the question wasn’t of the least importance. “As I said earlier, the wards that destroyed him were magical. While I did not witness his demise as it occurred, the enchantments on the castle are such that I can recreate almost any event that transpires on the grounds.”
“Then I, too, wish to see how Caradoc expired. Call upon your enchantments.”
“Now?” Strahd asked, incredulous at Soth’s audacity.
When Soth nodded, the count rubbed his chin. “I do this because you are my guest, Lord Soth, and because I wish to be open with you.”
With a slight gesture, Strahd called up a reduced image of the keep’s huge portcullis. The gate appeared faintly at the room’s center, and as Soth watched, Caradoc crept toward it. The ghost’s neck was broken, his gait slow and labored. There was no sound from the phantom scene, but the death knight guessed that something followed close on Caradoc’s heels; every few steps he looked back, his eyes wide with fear. He tried to pass through the portcullis, but a bolt of bright light struck him the moment he touched it. The grim result was over quickly. Caradoc stiffened under the violent lashings of the magical bolt, then opened his mouth to scream. Finally, he faded away, leaving no trace.
As the image faded, the count turned from his guest and studied the ruined frescos overhead. “This keep is well over four hundred years old. It’s hardly the luxurious place it once was, but-”
“You are obviously a mage.” Soth motioned toward the spot where Caradoc’s demise had played itself out. “Is that how you learned my name, how you kept track of my movement through the countryside-magic?”
Strahd sighed and faced the death knight once more. “I know a great deal about you, Lord Soth. More than you might imagine. As you have guessed already, the Vistani are but one source of information for me. However, it would hardly be prudent of me to reveal all my secrets to you. In time-”
At that instant Magda entered the room. A sleek floor-length gown of red silk flowed from her bare shoulders. The fabric hissed along the stone floor, stirring up dust. Magda’s bare feet peeked out from under the hem. “Thank you, Your Excellency,” she said. “It’s a beautiful gown, far more lovely than anything I’ve ever owned.”
The count watched her cross the floor, his attention ensnared by her beauty and simple grace. She had obviously found the pitcher of water he’d left out; the mud on her cheeks had been replaced by a rosy blush of modesty. She’d also put her hair up in a style that emphasized the curve of her neck. “A dress is a collection of cloth snippets sewn together. It is made lovely by the person who wears it.”
Magda curtsied in response, proud to wear the count’s gift and certain she had been given the gown as a reward for bringing Soth to the castle. Then her eyes spotted the death knight. She shuddered visibly. “Lord Soth,” the woman began. Her words trailed off into uncomfortable silence.
“The knight is still on edge from his journey,” Strahd said amiably. His eyes remained locked on the woman, on the soft white flesh of her shoulders. “Let us retire to the hall for a little food and some entertainment.”
“I do not require food,” Soth noted hollowly.
Strahd placed a hand on the death knight’s shoulder. “But the young lady does,” he said. “And I am certain you will find the entertainment to your liking.”
With a single, long stride, Soth stepped from the count’s grasp. The fact that the nobleman’s hand, though gloved, looked none the worse for its contact with his form did not escape the death knight. “I do not see the need, Count. I want information, not diversions.”
Magda froze, afraid to disturb the tense silence that settled on the room. Strahd and Soth remained a few feet apart, their gazes locked. Without raising his arm, the count secretly traced a pattern in the air with his fingertip. Neither the knight nor the Vistani noticed the casual movement.
A high keening rang out in the next room, the sound of a violin played masterfully. The music crept into the hall where Strahd and his guests still stood. “Ah, he’s started without us,” the count noted, feigning mild surprise.
