I soon grew used to it, the chill he exuded was always with him, along with the occasional scent of death. The latter was only in evidence during those times when his attention was focused on some serious study. Other than that, the illusion he cast so tightly about his true form never wavered.
He was not human-at least not anymore-of that I was sure, but since he was so adamant about preserving the outer trappings of his human appearance I assumed he had a strong reason for doing so. Something he'd said during our first meeting gave me to think it was a physical disfigurement. I continued to refrain from questioning him directly on the point. An unwise omission? I thought not, sensing that it would have been more foolish to inquire; though the desire to do so sometimes lightly nagged at me, I decided to keep silent. Sooner or later, I sensed the answer would eventually come, either from him when he was ready to speak of it or from my own researches. For now it was a mere detail and did not seem to be of any real importance to me.
One point did stand out: he had a remarkable affinity for controlling the dead. Upon first entering the castle gates he immediately observed my skeletal guards on perpetual watch. Usually even the hardiest visitors are always vulnerable to a moment of revulsion and fear, but Azalin merely inspected them up close and asked about the animation spells I'd used.
He called them 'zombies,' yet another unfamiliar word to me, and was able to order them about as easily as I did. He was careful to restrict them to small harmless tasks of fetching and carrying, nothing more. This might have disturbed me but for the fact that the whole basis of the magic governing them had to do with protecting their maker. Even Azalin would not be able to turn them against me; they'd turn on each other before that happened, so I felt moderately safe.
It was an interesting oddity, like the gloves he constantly wore. Those were real, not illusion like the rest of his garments, for they became soiled with use while his always rich clothing remained clean and unworn. When his gloves were off, which was rare, his movements were more careful and slower, otherwise he tended to drop things. When that happened it never failed to put him into a foul mood.
His idiosyncrasies were piling up in my mind and they began to gnaw at me. The many clues must mean something important, but for all my musings I hadn't yet made the right connection between them. I could have gotten impatient about it, but let it rest for the time being. When it was ready my inner mind would hand me the right answer.
Since he never seemed to sleep he had much more time available than I, always keeping busy with the preparations for his experimental area, or laboratory. He needed a lot of specialized equipment and most of it had to be built from scratch. The craft guilds had an unexpected improvement in business during the winter months, sending workers up the Svalich road to the village of Barovia to ply their trade when the weather allowed. Some of them were required to stay at the castle, so exacting was the labor which Azalin demanded from them.
He had the glass blowers at their task nearly all the time, often personally overseeing their work as they turned his unfamiliar designs on paper into reality. Each finished piece was carefully checked; the least flaw and he would send it flying. The breakage did not bother me; I was content to be silent and observe the workings of his temper. From this I learned that he did not lead people so much as drive them.
Having some familiarity with the workings of shepherds and their flocks, it struck me as a poor way of dealing with his servants. A shepherd may drive his sheep before him, but given the chance they will panic and scatter in a dozen directions unless his herding dogs keep them together. From this I thought he might have ruled his own land in a similar manner, issuing orders and trusting his human dogs to carry them out.
He had none here, so it was quite educational to see how he dealt with straying sheep.
One young fellow in particular caught the brunt of his temper more often than the others. He really shouldn't have been apprenticed to the guild in the first place since he obviously had little talent for the craft. None of the senior journeymen trusted him with any of the truly delicate work and certainly not the masters, but the man was pathetically anxious to please, and contrariwise, he was the most ill-equipped to do so.
One evening Azalin finally lost all patience with him and lashed out, sending him tumbling across the snow patched courtyard, screaming. It must have been the spell I had encountered on that first night; if so, then he had every reason to scream if he felt the impact of a thousand fiery needles lodging in his fragile flesh. He rolled and shrieked, thrashing and slapping himself.
The other workers halted, aghast and helpless at the sight of their comrade enveloped head-to-toe with miniature lightning bolts. I happened to be on the walkway overlooking the courtyard when I heard the row. Instinctively I threw out a negating spell, interrupting the flow of force between the man and Azalin. The backwash of his own power caught him by complete surprise; it spun back upon him like a tide of fire and sent him staggering. He recovered very swiftly and whirled to glare up at the source of the interference.
'You dare!' he snarled, eyes glowing like the windows of hell. No need to ask if he was furious, it was obvious in every line of his illusionary body.
A bad moment for us both to be seen arguing before the hired help. Normally I cared nothing for their good opinion of me, but with the threat of a future war I thought it best to reinforce the idea that I was still their lord and protector. Like the Vistani, they were better off with me than this outland Necromancer, and it would not hurt for them to remember that fact. If a war came I would need willing fighters, not reluctant conscripts.
'If you are having a problem with labor relations,' I called down to Azalin in my blandest tone, 'I think it would be best if you brought it first to my attention and let me sort it out. Your work is far too important for you to have to deal with such minor concerns.'
He was clever enough to see I was apparently trying to be diplomatic and allow him to save face. He scowled mightily, but finally nodded and swept from the courtyard. The other workers rushed over to see to their fallen friend, who was sluggishly beginning to move again.
'Guildmaster!'
One of the older men looked up at me, his face very pale. 'Yes, my lord?'
'Do you see any future for that one in your craft?'
'H-he just needs a bit of experience. Th-there's no harm in the-'
'The truth, guildmaster,' I grated.
He dropped his gaze in shame and fear. 'No, my lord.'
'Here, then,' I tossed a few gold coins down. 'Consider his apprenticeship paid up and help him find something honest for which he does have a talent. The only thing worse than an idle worker is one who is incompetent.'
The astonished guildmaster readily accepted my offer and took my suggestion to heart. Very wise of him. He and his guild also later took their tale to the nearest tavern. As I'd hoped, the story of the incident spread and grew out of proportion to what had actually happened. By the time the common folk had finished with it, they had me bodily throwing myself between a humble, inoffensive peasant and a terrible sorcerer. According to the growing myth, I took the blazing force of his evil spell myself and nobly suffered for it. Fortunately I was strong enough to shrug it off, then soundly thrash the mage to teach him to mind his manners. He then had to apologize to the peasant and begged him to accept a chest of gold in amends for his rudeness.
Quite gratifying, that. However fictional and absurd, I was glad of this boon to my popular image with the common folk; of course, only the most foolish of my subjects actually believed the story, but the fact that it was being told and becoming part of the local lore was something of a victory for me, and all before the start of the conflict. If anything happened, I wanted them firmly on my part of the field.
They were simple enough to manipulate with Azalin's unknowing help, for he apparently had but one way of handling people: terrify them to near-immobility-not the best course to take when you want them to do something right the first time. Consequently he endured a lot of unnecessary frustration. A more genteel mediator-myself-was often required just to get the work done. Again, a help to my cause.
When Azalin wasn't breathing-figuratively speaking of course-down their necks, the guilds accomplished their jobs well enough. In comparison I was an easier taskmaster, but they knew I had no tolerance for shirkers-or fraud as a few unlucky souls discovered. One would think they would know better, but occasionally some fool would either cheat on his work or have the temerity to attempt to cheat me. It was usually something small and subtle, such as the man who charged the price of a hundred bricks and delivered only seventy-five. Such things did not escape my exchequer officers who were responsible for arrests. On those occasions I took it upon myself to determine absolute guilt or innocence, an easy task with hypnosis. For me it was the same as any other thievery and the transgressor became intimately acquainted with the brickwork of my dungeons-for the brief period he survived, anyway.
Stories about this were also mainstays of the taverns, but one cannot always direct everything to one's
