To sleep with Evil (ravenloft)

by Andria Cardarelle

  "You speak in riddles," said Marguerite. "Are you saying I must gather the web by moonlight?"

  Zosia eyed her carefully. "Precisely. And it must be tonight. I have seen to it that your lord remains indisposed until tomorrow, but when the dawn comes, he will once again be keen to your whereabouts."

  Marguerite said nothing, pondering the dreadful prospect of venturing into the forest after nightfall.

  Sensing her fear, Zosia took a tin box from the rough-hewn shelf above the hearth and withdrew a tiny leather pouch on a string. She placed the pouch around Marguerite's neck and whispered, "Something to keep the beasts at bay. But fear not. Marguerite. The time for your death has not come."

  Later, as Marguerite pushed past a pine branch in the thick of the forest, she clung to those words, They gave her comfort until another phrase came to mind: "a fate worse than death." Nervously she fondled the little pouch around her neck, pulling it to her nose. It smelled of garlic and mustard and something else she could not identify-something earthy and sour Whatever lay in the pouch, Marguerite prayed its strength was as potent as its stench.

  She had donned leggings, boots, and a heavy tunic, tying a small satchel at her waist. Thinking an early start was prudent, Marguerite had slipped out after lunch. After all, who knew how long it would take her to find a white spider? Zosia had offered little in the way of clues. But if Marguerite could locate the spider by day, she reasoned, then she could gather its web as soon as the sun fell, sparing herself a more difficult search in the dark.

  The very notion that a spider web could solve her problems seemed a ridiculous fantasy, but she had no other hope, so she devoted herself to the effort.

  Hours passed, and a light rain fell intermittently, dampening Marguerite's clothes. She sought webs in the crevices of rocks, between the rotting limbs of fallen trees, and beneath the low, sagging branches of the forest. She found spiders aplenty-small, large, black, brown, hairy, bald. But none of the eight-eyed creatures that stared back at her or darted for cover had a white body and white legs. Eventually, the sight of so many spiders and other skittering bugs made her flesh crawl. Marguerite began to imagine that someone's eyes were constantly upon her. She never saw them, of course, but she could feel them, like soft claws scrabbling at the base of her neck. She wondered if Griezellbub had followed her into the forest. Later, she thought of Ramus, who had watched her as she wandered before. Certainly by now, he had departed Donskoy's land.

  The daylight waned. Marguerite continued her search at the clearing near the waterfall, where she had rested during her previous foray into the woods. As night fell, the mist cleared, and the sky became a dark vault teasingly flecked by low clouds. At least the moon was in Marguerite's favor. Cloud-shadows raced across the ground like hounds on the hunt. Their fleeting images taunted Marguerite; more than once she started and cried out, mistaking the play of light for an animal rushing past, or perhaps a spirit.

  Mow and again she saw them-the eyes of the forest, frozen in the glow of the moon. The scampering mouse, seized by the owl; the weasel slinking furtively through the brush, with something small and soft in its jaws. Once, as she huddled breathlessly at the base of a tree and clutched at the leather pouch around her neck, a huge black shape shambled past. Marguerite saw its yellow eyes shining in the dark. She thought of the beast from the banquet-the hideous sacrifice that had been part bear, part boar, part. else. But the silhouette lumbered on, leaving her unscathed. Marguerite told herself it was an ordinary bear.

  Time was running out. She plunged deeper into the wood. She dropped to her hands and knees, willing her eyes to find the webs of spiders. The wind moaned plaintiveiy, achieving a clear, sorrowful note. Then she realized it was not the wind at alt; it was an instrument-a violin. She thought at once of Ramus. She crept through the forest toward the sound, which drew her like a siren's song.

  Finally she saw him, standing near the old vardo, holding a shiny black fiddle to his chin. He had built a small fire, and its warmth lit his face with yellow-gold light. His black horse stood nearby, nosing the ground.

  Marguerite crawled beneath the pungent skirts of a hemlock and hid, amused that the tables had turned. Mow she was the watcher. She pressed herself low to the ground, oblivious to the dampness that seeped into her clothing. The music held her spellbound. The gypsy played beautifully, stroking and compressing the strings of his violin until they cried out in elation and agony.

  Marguerite thought he must be playing for himself or simply serenading the night. But then she saw white wisps of fog rise from the soil and swirl about Ramus's body. They caressed him, coiling teasingly around his fingers and around the slender bow, streaming between the strings of the violin. As they passed through the instrument, they stretched and bent, assuming the shape of three Vistani women. They were ghosts, ephemeral as smoke, as smooth as white glass. They rose through the air, and the music swelled to echo the rhythm of their whirling dance. Diaphanous white skirts trailed behind them like the tails of comets.

  Soon Ramus closed his eyes and slowed his tune.

  The women clasped hands, moving three as one. Their features were indistinct, but something about them suggested age and sorrow. They sank toward the ground. The soil steamed beneath them. Ramus continued to play, his notes somber and slow. The women's ghostly white heads began to melt away from their shoulders, dripping down their bodies like candle wax. Then their bodies sagged and slumped, and the shoulders disappeared, and the breasts, and the hips and the legs-melting away until nothing remained but a white cloud upon the ground. Then even that disappeared.

  Ramus moved his fiddle from his chin and stared into the forest. Marguerite held her breath, not daring to move. She lay directly in the path of his gaze.

  The gypsy walked across the clearing to where his black horse stood waiting. He slipped the violin into an embroidered satchel that hung from the saddle, then retrieved his round-brimmed hat from the pommel. The horse snorted, pawing nervously at the dirt. Ramus stroked the animal's muzzle and whispered something to quiet it. Then he turned once again toward Marguerite's hiding place.

  "Lost again, Marguerite?" he asked, flashing a white smile. He tipped his hat.

  Marguerite did not answer, hoping that if she remained silent, she might also be invisible.

  "Mot coming out?" asked Ramus. "Then you must mean for me to clamber in after you. A pleasant invitation indeed."

  Marguerite wormed her way out of her hiding place, feeling graceless and chagrined. She took a step forward, then stopped, leaving several paces between them. Still she felt his attraction, and it amazed her. She swayed, unsteady. And she said nothing, for suddenly nothing at all would come to mind.

  "So we meet again," Ramus said deeply. "I hope you enjoyed my serenade."

  "I did," she replied, almost in a whisper. "It was magical."

  Meither of them spoke of the spirits. It occurred to Marguerite that Ramus had summoned them with a powerful spell. If she mentioned his magic, she might somehow fall prey to its power. The dance lay between them tike a secret, something intimately shared.

  "Do you know the legend of the Vistani violin?" Ramus asked, reaching forward to stir the fire.

  Marguerite shook her head.

  "The first violin, it is said, was created to lure a lover. A young Vistana longed for the affections of a girl who spurned him. So deep was his desire that he sought the aid of dark powers to win her. The powers consented to help him. In payment, they demanded the spirits of the boy's brothers and sisters. The powers bound them into the strings and bow of the first violin, then gave the instrument to the boy, so that he might serenade his sweetheart. When the boy played, the violin filled the air with his family's pain, as well as their remembered joys, and the girl was spellbound. Unfortunately, she loved the musician only when he played, and eventually the sound of his victims drove the young man mad. He killed himself. But the next Vistana who took up the instrument found he could reproduce the sound with all its be
auty. And so the violin was born."

  "What a sad story," whispered Marguerite.

  "Indeed. But only a legend." Ramus looked up from the fire. "So, what brings you out after nightfall, Marguerite? Was it me you sought? Did I lure you with my violin?"

  "No," said Marguerite, struggling to think of some excuse for her wandering. She did not want to share her secrets with Ramus. "I was merely restless."

  "Ah. My kind well understands that feeling. But it must take a great deal of restlessness to drive a gior-gia from her cozy bed and into the forest after dark. Are you finding your home so unpleasant then, Marguerite, that you must escape into the night?"

  "Not at all," she lied. "We are very happy at the keep."

  Ramus laughed softly. "I am glad," he said. "Though I must say it is surprising."

  "And why is that?" she asked, indignant.

  Ramus shrugged. "Lord Donskoy's reputation suggests otherwise. But if he treats you well, I am glad to hear it. I must admit that you do not appear entirely abused." He smiled a sly smile. "Of course I myself could treat you better, and please you in ways you cannot imagine."

  She had anticipated the advance, but it unnerved her nonetheless. "I'm certain I don't know what you mean."

  Ramus's dark eyes flared, and his voice sank low, "And I'm certain that you do."

  Marguerite expected him to step toward her, to touch her, but he made no move. "You mistake me," she said, "for another type of woman."

  "I think I understand you quite well," he replied. "But I am no fiend. Your answer is no, then?"

  "Yes."

  He chortled. "Yes?"

  "No."

  "Such a pity for us both. But if you won't allow me to coax the music from your instrument, perhaps I can help you find what you are seeking."

  Marguerite blushed. "I am seeking nothing. I told you I was just restless."

  "Indeed. Just as you were not lost the other day?

  Your pretense is foolish. I saw you scrabbling about the forest floor, and I watched your face grow dark with the setting of the sun. If you are looking for something, you should let me assist. I know the woods well. Alone you may never succeed."

  Marguerite considered this for a moment. The Vis-tani spent their lives in the wild, and their reputation as trackers and woodsmen knew no equal. Perhaps Ramus could help her after all-if she could trust him. He stood beside his horse, smiling. He had summoned the dead, it was true, and made a few roguish advances, yet Marguerite did not fear him. Strangely, she did not dread him in the least. And she did not wish for him to leave her alone.

  "Don't laugh," she said, "but I am seeking the web of a white spider."

  Ramus chortled. "Not pregnant yet, is that it? And _ord Donskoy knows no patience."

  Marguerite's face grew hot,

  "Perhaps I can help there as well," he continued, "and we won't be needing a spider."

  "You are too bold," said Marguerite huffily. "I don't want your help after all."

  Ramus stepped closer and touched her arm. "Forgive me, Marguerite. I did not mean to offend you- ¦ru!y. Perhaps I spend so much time alone that rudeness comes easily. Please allow me to assist you. I Know where to look, and it is dangerous for you to continue this search alone."

  Reluctantly, she accepted his help. Claiming they would do better on foot, Ramus took his satchel from his mount and slapped it on the flank; the horse vanished into the shadows. They wandered together into the woods. He explained that the spider she sought could be found only in a cave. Marguerite protested at first, thinking Zosia would surely have toId her as much, but she followed anyway. She had enjoyed no success on her own.

  The pair walked down into the hollows, and then up again, until they reached a sharp outcropping of rock, jutting up toward the sky.

  "A cave lies near the top," Ramus said. "Inside, I believe we'll find the spider you need."

  Carefully they picked their way up the slope. As promised, they came upon the mouth of a cave. Marguerite stooped, following Ramus's lead, then emerged in an immense chamber. A strange red moss coated the walls, lighting the cavern with a faint luminescence. Stalagmites rose up from the floor, reaching out toward their twins above. Between the pinnacles, great webs hung like lacy sails. Small white bones were scattered about the floor below.

  Marguerite noticed a firepit near the center of the cave. A stack of kindling and small branches lay beside it. Someone had been here before-Ramus, undoubtedly. After all, the cave provided a natural shelter.

  "Sit," said Ramus, "and rest a while. I'll build a fire. Then we'll wait for the spider to crawl into view. Ef we remain quiet, it shouldn't take long."

  Marguerite stood gazing about the chamber, awestruck. The webs were immense, and she could only wonder about the size of their maker. "But I don't need the spider itself," she protested gently, "only the web."

  "Until we see the spinner, we cannot be sure of the product."

  Marguerite heard the crackling of a fire behind her. She turned, and saw that Ramus had already mounded kindling in the black hollow and summoned a flame. She wondered at his skill. Something nagged at the back of her mind, some inconsistency between the fire and the Vistana's statement, but she was too weary and cold to bring it to the fore.

  Ramus took a blanket from his satchel and spread it near the fire. He bowed deeply, then motioned for Marguerite to sit. She smiled and complied. The gypsy added a small log to the fire, reaching across her, brushing her arm. He sniffed, then reached out and lifted the pouch from her neck. "What's this?" he asked, wrinkling his nose.

  "Protection," she said. "Zosia gave it to me. Don-skoy's cook. She's a Vistani too, or was. She's rather secretive."

  Ramus raised a brow, and Marguerite suddenly feit foolish.

  "Anyway," she continued, "Zosia told rne this would keep the beasts of the forest at bay."

  Ramus laughed darkly. "Somehow I doubt it." He sniffed the pouch again and grimaced in disgust. "Though it could deter anything with a sensitive nose. And it might also deter the spider." He tugged at the string circling Marguerite's neck and broke it, throwing the pouch into the fire. The flames reared up, angry and green, then subsided and began lapping at the edges of the leather.

  "Thanks a lot," muttered Marguerite.

  Ramus looked at her and smiled. "Don't worry. I will see that you return to the keep safely. You should trust me, Marguerite. What other stranger has treated you so kindly?"

  Marguerite did not reply. She wished she were home safe in her chamber, carrying the child of the lord she imagined Donskoy could become-surely would become, if she pleased him.

  "Are you cold?" asked Ramus, putting his arm around her shoulder.

  "No," she said, withdrawing herself. It was like dragging her body through water.

  "Then let us sit quietly. The spider will come if we remain still,"

  Marguerite nodded, staring at the fire, in time, she became hypnotized by the flame.

  A tap on her shoulder broke the spell. Ramus pointed toward the corner of the cavern. A creature as large as a dog was dangling overhead, slowly descending. It was white and translucent, glowing like the moon. Ichor dripped from its jaws as its legs touched the cavern floor.

  Without bothering to rise, Ramus withdrew a dagger from his belt. With a sharp flick of his wrist, the blade soared toward its mark, planting itself deep in the spider's abdomen. The creature faltered, curling its legs around the dripping wound, mouth working incessantly. And then it was still.

  Marguerite scrambled to her feet. Her heart drummed in her chest.

  "You see?" said Ramus calmly, slowly rising to stand. "A simple matter. Mow am I certain to whom the webs belong." He walked to the spider and withdrew his blade from its body. Two legs wiggled, a final gesture. The Vistana wiped his knife on a rag from his satchel and returned it to its sheath.

  Marguerite suddenly recalled her quest. She let out her breath and approached the webs, giving ample berth to the spider's corpse. She extended a hand ove
rhead but found she couldn't reach. Ramus stepped up behind her, standing so close she could feel the brush of his clothing, and he reached up to procure a strand. Marguerite took it from him shyly, tucking it into her pouch. Ramus doused the fire, and they went out of the cave together.

  "I suppose I should thank you," said Marguerite.

  "It would be appropriate, but I did not assist you to earn your gratitude."

  "Nonetheless," said Marguerite, "I am grateful."

  Ramus smiled. "Your thanks are accepted."

  He whistled for his horse. When they reached the bottom of the slope, the beast was waiting. He returned his satchel to the saddle, then, as the woods were too dense to ride, they walked together. At length, they returned to the old vardo.

  Marguerite stared at the firepit. The coals were still glowing, though Ramus had extinguished the flame before they left. She remembered the spirits, and could not resist voicing the question that teased her thoughts.

  "While you played. "

  "Yes?"

  "I observed something strange."

  "Something strange?I' Ramus echoed. His voice was teasing, almost daring Marguerite to continue.

  "Yes. Three women. Specters."

  Ramus smiled. "Your sight is keen for a glorgia."

  "Who were they? The spirits, I mean. And how did you summon them?"

  Ramus walked to his horse and withdrew his violin from the saddle. "You know how,"

  Realizing his intent. Marguerite started. "I have to return to the castle," she protested. "Don't summon them now."

  "If you don't wish to know the answer, you shouldn't ask the question." Ramus lifted his violin to his chin, drawing the bow across the strings. Marguerite turned, looking at the wall of forest that lay between her and the keep. "I have to go,I' she said, but her feet did not move.

  "Don't be afraid." Ramus continued to play.

  The music slid into Marguerite's body, pulling her gently toward the gypsy. She heard Ramus whisper, "You have nothing to fear. And much to learn about your lord, your land. Wouldn't you like to know its secrets?"