I regret to infringe upon my lord's most valuable time, but a matter has arisen of which I fear you would wish to be informed.
Late yesterday afternoon a stranger appeared at our gate demanding shelter for the night. As he was well spoken and well dressed we gave him audience, though I was very afraid of him for reasons I could not then understand. He introduced himself as Azalin and had a very superior manner about him, refusing our offers of food and drink. As night fell, he and my good husband retired to the study to talk, since he had expressed an interest in our books.
Not an hour had passed when there came much shouting and a crash, but I could not gain entry and my calls went unheeded within. Soon after, the stranger emerged and left our house, walking out without a word. He had an ebony box with him that the baron uses to hold things special to him. I hurried in to my husband and found him fast asleep on the floor and a number of our magic books burning in the fireplace. His hands were burned, but he seemed otherwise unharmed. When I asked him what had happened he had no memory of the incident. Indeed, he had no memory at all of the entire evening from the coming of this Azalin person. My poor Cazi is starting to think we are all mad as we keep insisting this happened while he is just as convinced it did not.
I have concluded that our strange visitor is a master of the Art, and it is well known that you ever wish to be notified of newcomers to Barovia, particularly of this sort. I am very anxious over this as I fear he may return and do worse than make us forget the passage of one evening.
Please, please as you are our lord and protector would you advise me what to do?
Your faithful servant, Zorah, Baroness Latos
I knew the Baroness rather well; Zorah was a careful, long-thinking woman, not given to being ruled by her emotions, and though the tone of the letter was by all other judgments restrained, for one such as herself it bordered on the edge of hysteria. It had been hastily written, with many mistakes and blots where the ink had gotten away from her, and the usual careful flourish of her signature was spiked and shaky.
In regard to her husband, for all of her other intellectual virtues, Zorah was inexplicably devoted to him. He was adequate at his public duties, but otherwise unremarkable. If a mage of any skill had visited their house her 'poor Cazi' would be very much out of his depth. No wonder she was upset.
'How came this to you?' I asked the Vistana. No need to inquire how he knew where to find me. His people had an uncanny knack for keeping track of my whereabouts.
He bowed again. 'A trusted servant of the lady gave it to my fourth cousin by marriage, who then gave it to my uncle, who passed it to my third cousin, who gave it to-'
I held up a hand. 'Enough. Was there anything else to this message?'
'None from the lady Zorah.' He stressed the final word.
'From anyone else then?'
'Madam Ilka-the letter happened to pass through her camp and-'
'What about her?' I asked sharply. I had kept an ear open to the rumors of the movements and doings of the Vistani. This Madam Ilka seemed to be Eva's chosen successor, though if rumor was true, Eva herself still seemed to be lingering about. This of course was impossible since she had already been ancient at our meeting many years ago. I therefore discounted such rumors as typical Vistani superstition.
The young man paused, his dark gaze flickering briefly at the others around us. All ears in the common room were canted in our direction, everyone listening intently. I wondered how much of this any of them should hear and decided to trust the Vistana's discretion, indicating he should continue.
'She said to say 'remember the warning Madam Eva gave you.''
'I see.'
I kept an outwardly calm appearance, but inside, the image of the necromancer and the garish graveyard painted upon Eva's cards came fresh to my mind, and my mouth went dust dry. No longer was I in the tavern but perched on a padded stool in a Vistana vardo with the heavy scent of drying herbs about me.
The memory of Eva's tarokka card reading over seventy years ago sprang to my inner eye as though taking place again before me. The Necromancer card with its ominous colors and dark meaning-was it about to become real?
She had warned me to prepare, and I had done just that, building up my defenses and bolstering my own skills by constant study and practice of the Art. In the times since then mages had appeared in Barovia out of the Mists, I made their acquaintance, sized them up, cultivated them even, to determine if they were the promised threat or not. If any dared to challenge me, I found it easy enough to deal with them, taking as spoils of war their spell books and whatever else useful they had to add to my knowledge. All these intruders proved to be false alarms, though; none had been worthy of Eva's warning.
I had no way of knowing if this new one was any different, but never before had the Vistani seen fit to remind me of the reading. Be that as it may, I would still never be so complacent as to sit idle while any self-serving mage ran rough over my lands and people. Turning the sheet over, I noted only the address to myself penned in Zorah's hand, but in her haste she had evidently forgotten to place a date on it.
'How long has it been in transit?' I asked the young man.
'Since but this morning, Lord Strahd. We Vistani can move like a mountain storm if the need is great.'
'And you knew the need was great?'
He spread his hands. 'Alas, Lord Strahd, I cannot read, so I do not know what important thing the paper says, but the lady gave us silver enough to understand a delay would not be welcome.'
Taking that as a broad hint, for I always paid well for interesting news to ever ensure its timely arrival, I tossed him a gold coin from my vest pocket. He was just beginning to babble a profuse thanks as I hurried out the door.
If I do say so, my acquired abilities make it possible for me to move faster than a mountain storm, or even faster than Vistani gossip when necessary. Wings spread and straining against the thin air, I worked my way steadily west. The wind was not in my favor, and it took nearly an hour to skirt the massive shoulder of Mount Ghakis before turning south to the vale between two of its spurs where nestled the estates of Baron Latos. The Latos estates were considerably smaller than they had been in the early years of my reign, due mostly to an inept and presumptuous ancestor of the current baron who had sought to curry favors with me. He had been disappointed. Much of the surrounding land was poor and not given to farming or herding, but one of Cazimir's nearer ancestors had possessed the wit to try planting a vineyard on the hillsides and the family's fortune had been secured for generations.
The current baron fancied himself a scholar and we had a common interest in books but little else, so my visits here, though not unheard of, were infrequent. Latos had accomplished one incredibly clever achievement in his otherwise bland life and that was to marry Zorah Buchvold. My informants in the social circles of the boyars reported a general reaction of surprise at her acceptance of the plump and sometimes fussy Cazimir Latos. He seemed a most unlikely sort for her, but where he was concerned her blind spot was firmly in place and she doted on him. A rumour had floated about some years past that the baron had fathered an illegitimate child with the wife of a minor landholder. But the rumours had died-or been hushed up-and I had deemed them unimportant anyway. To be fair, he did treat Zorah with great kindness and devotion, probably being too phlegmatic in temperament to get up to any mischief. He just was not the sort to offend anyone. Fine qualities for some people, but not always desirable for someone in a position of responsibility. He was good at tending his vineyards, but much of the smooth workings of his place in Barovia's governmental structure could be credited to his cannier wife.
I coasted swiftly along over foothills dotted with the lengthy system of frameworks that supported the vines. The fast-maturing dark red grapes native to Barovia were still pale green, but their growth seemed lush. It looked to be an excellent crop this year. I darted over them, then came to a landscaped hill near the top of which stood their home. It was fairly new, a century old or so, partly cut into the hillside. A retaining wall ran along the outer perimeter, giving it the look of a fortress. If it came down to a true war the household would indeed be able to defend itself for a short time, though that had never been tested. As things were reckoned in Barovia, there was no war or opportunities for such. I had seen to that.
If my boyars and other nobles had squabbles, they long ago learned to settle them without force of arms. The one occasion in Barovia's history after my change when a clash occurred was the absolute last.
It had begun as a property dispute that should have remained a minor hearing of arguments in a village court.
