Knight of the Black Rose Page 10

  In comparison to Soth, the Vistani held no real interest for the count. After all, she was merely a pawn. On the other hand, the death knight demanded careful study, so Strahd let his mind clear, then pushed into the newcomer’s consciousness.

  The surface of Soth’s mind appeared as cloudy as the wall of choking fog surrounding the village. Many of the usual emotions that colored the thoughts of men—love, desire, respect—were gone or deadened. Strahd ventured further, and a wave of seething hatred and impotent lust broke around him. The intensity shocked the dark lord, and his mind recoiled for an instant.

  What surprised Strahd most, as he resumed his journey into Soth’s consciousness, was the absolute lack of fear. Every other newcomer who had known anything of the count had shown apprehension about meeting him, but not this undead knight. The master of Castle Ravenloft cast no ominous shadow over Soth’s mind. Is he foolhardy? the count wondered, but the power he sensed told him otherwise.

  Thinking he knew all there was to know of the death knight’s turbulent thoughts, Strahd readied himself to leave Soth’s mind. He backed slowly away from the swirling chaos of violent emotions, but a flickering impulse made him hesitate. The ride in the carriage had stirred up some ancient event in the death knight’s mind.

  With the perverse joy of a voyeur, the lord of Barovia settled back.

  Soth’s knees ached as he kneeled in a huge hall. The room was packed with members of all three orders of the Knights of Solamnia—Crown, Sword, and Rose—and every man craned to see their fallen fellow. Their gawking faces angered Soth, and he forced himself to meet the eyes of many of the knights. It gave him a little comfort to see them turn away before he did. To him, their murmuring voices sounded like women gossiping in the marketplace, and their polished armor smelled like the scented handkerchiefs favored by courtiers in Kalaman.

  At the room’s front, he saw the highest-ranking members of each order. A long table lay before them, covered with a blanket of black roses. The dusky flowers proclaimed the council’s sentence, but Soth knew the Solamnic Knights would follow the trial’s ritual to the last. They weren’t kneeling in armor, though. Their knees weren’t cramped and almost numb from pain.

  “You have failed to defend yourself with regard to the charges brought against you, Soth. We have found you guilty of adultery with the elfmaid Isolde, the murder of Lady Gadria, your lawful wife, and a dozen other less hideous infractions,” Lord Ratelif said sadly. The high warrior of the Rose Knights picked up one of the black flowers and hurled it at the prisoner.

  The rose struck Soth in the face, but he refused to flinch. I will not even give them that much satisfaction, he thought vindictively.

  Sir Ratelif stood, then pronounced the fallen knight’s doom. “In accordance with the Measure, Soth of Dargaard Keep, Knight of the Rose, will be taken through the streets of this city in disgrace. He will be jailed until highsun tomorrow, then executed for crimes against the honor of the Order.”

  Rough hands grabbed Soth’s shoulders, and a sergeant jerked the knight’s sword free of its scabbard. The burly soldier then handed the prisoner’s weapon to Lord Ratelif. The high warrior held the bright sword before him, its blade toward Soth. “The means of execution shall be the guilty party’s own sword.”

  The memory grew vague in Soth’s mind as the knights pushed toward him in the room. Strahd had to strain to follow its thread.

  His armor was pulled off, but still Soth remained silent, refusing to lend legitimacy to the proceedings. Dressed in only a padded doublet, he was dragged to a cart and paraded through the streets of Palanthas. The day was cool, and the smells of the port city were everywhere—the taunting aromas of meats and vegetables cooking in the open-air markets, the sharp tang of smoke from crafters’ forges, the smell of salt air from the harbor. Scribes and butchers, priests and bureaucrats, all had come out to see the fallen knight, the man of honor brought low. To Soth they appeared as nothing so much as sheep, round-faced and bleating.

  “You knights are no better than any citizen of Solamnia,” one woman shouted from the throng.

  A grocer hurled an overripe melon at the cart. “The kingpriest is right! Even the Knights of Solamnia are corrupt!” The crowd cheered when the missile hit Soth.

  Calmly wiping the smear from his eyes, he looked back at the grocer. In the man’s jowled face, made red from standing in the sun to hawk his wares, the knight saw more hatred than he’d seen from most foes he’d faced at sword point.

  I’m no innocent, Soth told himself as the cart lurched through the crowded streets. His inner resolve cracked, and a coiling thread of self-doubt wound around his heart. Now I’ve given the kingpriest proof that corruption exists everywhere—even in the knighthood.

  A woman emptied a bucket of filthy water from an open window. As the shower soaked Lord Soth, he lost all thoughts of his own guilt. The people of Palanthas were acting like a mob, and the knights meant to guard him were doing nothing to shelter him. “You are all as guilty as I!” he shouted.

  Something struck Soth in the face, a blow that made stars appear before his eyes. When the haze cleared, he saw a young Knight of the Crown standing over him. The youth had his mailed fist raised, ready to strike again.

  Cold resolve took hold of the fallen knight’s soul once more, sealing his heart against any self-recrimination. For the rest of the humiliating ride through Palanthas, he closed his eyes and shut out the insults. Somehow I will make them sorry for this, Soth told himself over and over. Somehow I will make Palanthas pay.

  • • •

  A draconian, its curved blade coated with blood, stands over a fallen woman. His face frozen in horror, a young man holds his ground against one of Soth’s own skeletal minions, only to have his head severed from his body. Tanis Half-Elven flees down arrow-straight streets, showing his true soul at last…

  Something tugged at the edges of Soth’s consciousness. Amidst the clear scenes of victory a shadowy thing lurked. Yet, when the death knight tried to concentrate on it, the shadow-thing slipped away. Something powerful was intruding upon his mind.

  The death knight scowled. I will destroy any who betray me, any who prevent me from returning to Krynn, Soth repeated to himself again and again as the carriage rattled along its way through the night.

  Magda gasped, and the sharp sound drew Soth out of the near-trance into which he had lapsed. He had lost track of their progress, for now the carriage was high in the foothills. “What is it?” the death knight asked, but the answer was obvious.

  They had reached Castle Ravenloft.

  Twin gatehouses of crumbling, turreted stone slouched in the darkness like drowsing sentinels. Their charge, a wooden drawbridge that spanned a chasm of frightening depth, swayed in the wind, and the rusted chains holding the planks in place chimed and groaned. Across the bridge lay the keep, protected by a moss-covered curtain of gray stone. Gargoyles with hideous, tortured faces stared sightlessly from the wall.

  The rickety, weathered planks protested as the pitch-black horses charged across. Their complaints were so much idle threat; the carriage crossed the bridge without mishap. At the horses’ approach, the ancient portcullis that sealed the entrance to the keep lifted sullenly off the ground, clearing a path to the courtyard. Once inside the massive wall, the horses slowed, then stopped.

  “We have arrived,” Soth said as the carriage door opened. The death knight slid from the coach into the empty courtyard. He took in his surroundings with a glance.

  Castle Ravenloft must have been gorgeous once. Its subtly peaked roofs and lofty towers still gave testament to the builder’s skill, but wild vegetation left unchecked and weather damage left unrepaired had long ago marred the virgin beauty of the place. The castle’s huge double doors stood open now, and soft light bled into the courtyard.

  “Come,” Soth ordered. Magda hesitated, then shrank back into the plush red velvet seat. His voice cold, the death knight added, “Your master awaits.”

  Stee
ling herself, the Vistani climbed from the carriage. As soon as she was clear of the coach, its door slapped shut and the horses shot forward. The carriage disappeared back across the drawbridge and into the night.

  Magda led the way into the castle. A small entry hall, no wider than the main doors, greeted them. Near the ceiling, four dragons carved from red stone crouched. They seemed ready to pounce on unwelcome visitors, their gemstone eyes glittering menacingly.

  “Your Excellency?” the Vistani called.

  With a creak, the doors to the courtyard closed.

  “Parlor tricks any jester could rig,” Soth said disdainfully. Without waiting for a further reply, he boldly entered the next room.

  The room was large, and torches in iron sconces provided barely enough light to banish the darkness. No furniture filled the hall. No tapestries covered the walls. The domed ceiling and the leering gargoyles squatting around its rim were festooned with cobwebs. The gray sheets danced and fluttered, casting fantastic shadows over the ruined frescos that graced the dome. An arch opened onto a small room to the right, doors of solid bronze sagged on their hinges straight ahead, and, to the left, a wide stair of dust-covered stone climbed from the hall.

  “Count Strahd?” Magda said, shuddering. There was an oppressive feel to the castle, an air of subdued mystery that reminded her of nothing so much as the mausoleum from which she’d rescued Andari when they were children. He’d gone in to rob the dead, but all he’d gotten for the trouble was a broken ankle from a falling stone.

  “Ah, Lord Soth, Magda. I am Count Strahd Von Zarovich, ruler of Barovia. Thank you for accepting my invitation.”

  The Vistani started at the smooth voice, but the death knight turned with an air of disinterest to the man who had appeared at the top of the broad flight of stairs. “You must forgive me for not greeting you at the door,” the master of Castle Ravenloft said evenly. “I was in one of the tower rooms when you arrived, reading some tomes of… sentimental value.”

  The count took the stairs slowly, with a studied elegance. His long black cape floated behind him. Yet the cloak could not hide the strength in its wearer, strength possessed only by great warriors.

  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 stiff
ened 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.