Vampire of the Mists

by Christie Golden

  Painful memories flooded Jander’s mind, though he tried to hold them at bay.

  The elven vampire leaned on the small wrought iron gate, trembling with exhaustion. He gazed down the flower-lined path that ended at the cottage. Now that he was finally here, Jander hesitated, wondering if he’d have the courage to go through with it.

  It had taken him many weeks, traveling by night and resting by day, to make it to Waterdeep in his weakened condition. Since he had destroyed his master, Cassiar, he had refused to feed upon human blood, despite the fact that his undead body craved the fluid. Even drinking the blood of the forest creatures disturbed him, so he had forced himself to feed only when absolutely necessary.

  Out of a stubborn pride, he had not even shapechanged to speed the journey. A wolf or bat would have reached Waterdeep more quickly, but Jander clung to his elven heritage. He made the journey on his own two feet.

  He had thought Lyria “the Lovely” long dead, crumbled to dust a century or more ago. When he had learned that she lived by means of her magical skills in Waterdeep, of all places, he had been filled with a renewed hope. He mentally took a deep breath and opened the little gate, walking across that small but yet gigantic distance to his former comrade’s door. He used the knocker to announce his presence.

  At first the cottage was silent. Jander knocked again. A light flickered on in one of the upper rooms, and his superior hearing caught the creaking of stairs as someone descended.

  “It’s late, you know. I charge double after hours.” Jander half-smiled.

  “Let me in, you round-eared wench,” he replied, trying to sound as lighthearted as he had been a century before.

  There was a pause, and Jander heard the grating of the bolt sliding back. The door creaked open. “Only one person in the world calls me round-ear, twig-finger,” Lyria teased happily.

  She had scarcely changed. Whatever potions she was imbibing, they certainly worked. Her hair was no longer the color of the sun, but a pale creamy white that somehow suited her. Wrinkles lined her fabulous green eyes, but her body, draped in the multicolored garment she called her “rainbow robe,” was as lithe and slim as ever. With a whoop, she flung up her arms and hugged the elf energetically about the neck.

  Taken aback, he hesitated before returning her embrace. They pulled away, regarding each other.

  “Lyria the Lovely,” Jander said, his voice warm with affection. “You look as beautiful as ever.”

  “The elves always were the best flatterers,” she quipped. “Well met, indeed, my old friend. Come in, come in! Your hands are like ice!”

  Fussing like a mother hen with a solitary chick, she ushered Jander inside. The room suited her, at once welcoming and elegant. A fire blazed in a hearth of gray stone, driving away the damp from the high bookcases flanking it on either side. Two low divans, opulent with fat burgundy cushions, faced each other across a low table of inlaid woods.

  In the center of the table a tray of etched silver held a decanter of dark wine and four graceful drinking vessels of blown glass, as delicately opalescent as bubbles on the face of a stream. Lyria gestured Jander to one of the divans, then indicated the decanter.

  “A goblet of wine to take away the chill, perhaps?”

  “No, thank you,” said Jander too quickly. “I don’t drink alcohol anymore.”

  “What?” Lyria began to laugh her musical laugh, and even Jander smiled. He, too, remembered his contests with Trumper Hillhollow. The halfling had usually won, but Jander had managed to drink Trumper under the table on at least two occasions. “A hundred years can change a person, I suppose.” She smiled as she poured herself some of the ruby liquid. “Perhaps something else? You’re positively arctic, Jander, and you’ve looked better. Is something troubling you?”

  Jander felt the weight of his burden resettle on his slender shoulders as if it were something tangible. “Lyria … what do I look like?” For almost a hundred years Jander had been a vampire, unable to see his reflection.

  Lyria frowned. “That’s an odd question. Here, let me get you a mirror, and you can—”

  “No!” Jander grabbed the mage’s hand before he realized what he was doing, and he forced himself to let go. “No, just—just tell me what you see.”

  Lyria’s emerald eyes grew speculative. They roamed over the elf critically, appraising what they saw. “Let me see. Your hair is the same color, that gorgeous wheat-gold that I so envied. Your eyes … They’re not quite silver. More iron gray, I’d say. It’s your skin that’s really different. Kind of tan, not so bronze anymore. You’re awfully thin, Jander, and cold.”

  The elf’s gaze fell to the floor. How to put it into words? He was so intent on his own grief that he failed to notice when Lyria rose and began moving about. “Old friend,” he began, lifting his eyes from the stone, “I—”

  He shrieked in agony, toppling from the divan. A flailing arm caught two of the goblets on the table, sending them crashing to the floor. Lyria had found a reflective surface and had directed it at him. The mage looked, horrified, at the cringing elf on the floor.

  “It’s only a—” She glanced in the mirror, and, suddenly, she understood.

  Reflected clearly in the mirror was the divan and the burgundy cushions. The broken goblets were there too, as was the floor and stone walls of the cottage. There was no reflection of Jander.

  “Oh, my poor friend.” Lyria breathed, filled with pity. “My poor, poor friend.” Still trembling, Jander glanced up at the woman. His gaze was filled with agony, and a single bloody tear trickled down his cheek.

  Lyria’s hands were gentle as they helped him back into his seat. She drew up a chair opposite the elf. “How?” she asked.

  Jander laughed, a dry sound empty of humor. “I wasn’t even adventuring. I was returning here, to Waterdeep. I’d had enough of the wandering life and was planning to board the next ship to Evermeet. Two days away from home. I was—” He stopped in mid-sentence, wondering if he should tell her the blackest part of a dark story. He decided against it as he looked in her green, concern-filled eyes. There was no sense in inflicting more pain on her.

  “Go on.” she prodded. He licked his lips and continued.

  “I was surprised by a vampire in my sleep. The master of the mob of undead, Cassiar, was fascinated by me. He’d never heard of an elven vampire, so he let me alone for a long time. I was a novelty for him. It took me almost a century to kill him.

  “I resolved to find you. If anybody could lift the curse, it would be you. It took me a long time.” He seized the mage’s hands. “I haven’t really changed, Lyria. I stayed an elf. I’m so pale because I haven’t had human blood for months, haven’t even had animal blood for days. The gods don’t care; they didn’t save me. But you can, because you know magic. You can cure me, can’t you?”

  It was Lyria’s turn to look away uncomfortably. She pressed Jander’s icy hands, then rose and began to pace. The elf’s gut twisted. He knew the mage well enough to realize that pacing was a bad sign. “Lyria …”

  She waved an impatient hand, silencing him. “Jander Sunstar, I remember when I first met you, before we formed the Silver Six. You told me all about your land of Evermeet and how you had always wanted to come here, to Faerûn. Your face was on fire with enthusiasm. I remember trying to drum some magic into that sane, stable, non-magical head of yours. We’ve been through so much together: the dragon, Daggerdale—” Her voice caught, and her eyes grew bright. “You know that if there were any way, in this or any—any—world to help you, I would.”

  The pain in Jander’s gut increased. “That sounds like a no.” The tears escaped the prison of her eyes and slid down her face. Lyria dashed them away with the back of her hand.

  “That’s because, old friend, there is nothing I can do. There is no cure for vampirism, save one, and that’s death. Death cures just about everything.”

  Jander’s mind raced. “Could you kill me and then resurrect me?”

  “Oh, certainly
I could. I’d resurrect a vampire, though, because that’s what you are. There’s no magic that can help you.”

  A red haze seemed to descend upon Jander. “No … no … I’m an elf! I’m an elf!” Nervously he began picking up the pieces of glass. “I can’t be one of … I was at Daggerdale. I know what vampires do. I know what they are. I remember. Lyria, please, I beg you, tell me I’m not—”

  He realized that he had clenched his fist about a sharp fragment of glass, but he felt no pain. Barely aware of what he was doing, he pulled out the piece of glass. The wound did not bleed.

  “I don’t know how you did it, but you’ve clung to who you were. That’s something to be proud of, something to get strength from. There’s no magical cure for you, but that doesn’t mean you have to be one of those Daggerdale horrors. Maybe you can—” Lyria’s voice faltered and died before the stricken look that Jander shot her.

  “There’s no hope,” Jander whispered. He buried his face in his hands. Gently Lyria placed a hand on the elf’s shoulder.

  “No magic can save you. There is only one way to end your curse. Should you seek true death, my sweet, gentle Jander, come to me and I shall deal it mercifully. It is better to die at the hand of a friend.”

  With a roar, Jander sprang from the divan and charged at her. The mage was quicker, though, and leaped to the side. She scrabbled frantically in a box of odds and ends until her hand closed on something. She swung about and shoved the object into Jander’s face.

  The vampire stumbled backward, thrusting his arms up and hiding his face. “Lyria!” he cried in a broken voice, “you mock my pain!” Then he vanished, and Lyria was alone.

  Catching her breath, the mage studied the object that had driven the undead elf away. It was a small, pink-hued wooden disk—the symbol of Lathander Morninglord. Lyria closed her eyes in sympathetic pain for her friend. Jander had once been a follower of the beautiful, golden-skinned god of the morning.

  THE MUSICAL SOUND OF THE RAIN PATTERING AGAINST the window woke Sasha. He lay in his small, snug bed for a few moments longer, enjoying the languid sleepiness, and was silently grateful for the rain. It meant that he and Martyn wouldn’t have to perform their daily ritual of greeting the dawn in Market Square.

  It was not that Sasha was an irreligious man. Since that awful night fourteen years ago, he had made Lathander Morninglord the center of his world. Even today, he and Brother Martyn would hold their own dawn ceremony here in the church, leaving the door open for anyone who cared to join them. Sasha just didn’t like the fact that they had failed to convince more than a handful of the Barovians of Lathander’s truth. It was discouraging to stand up on a podium in Market Square for an hour when no one cared what he had to say.

  The distant roll of thunder made Sasha open his eyes. Reluctantly he yawned and stretched, then swung his feet onto the floorboards, tugging on a robe to ease his shivering. It was still dark in the small, cold room, so the young man lit a candle. He rolled out his prayer rug and sat down, composing himself for his own private moment with the Morninglord.

  Below, Brother Martyn was already preparing the altar. He hummed as he worked, laying a clean white cloth over the altar and reverently placing the candlesticks on it. In his mid-thirties, he had changed little on the outside. On the inside, however, Martyn was being eaten up by a dark growth. He had known about the disease for some time and had long recognized it as the will of the Morninglord. Hence, he had never mentioned it to Sasha.

  “Sorry I’m late, Brother Martyn, but the rain delayed me a little,” came Katya’s sweet voice, echoing in the empty nave. She stopped at the door and shook her damp hair, sending droplets scattering. Shivering a little, she quickly removed her dark green wool cloak and spread it atop one of the pews to dry.

  “My dear, don’t worry. Sasha is being a lazy slugabed, and I haven’t even seen him yet this morning.”

  Katya laughed, her warm eyes dancing. “I found something to tempt even you into eating, Brother,” she teased as she walked to the altar with a covered, rain-speckled basket on her arm. “Your favorite—a plum pastry. I also have bread, cheese, and some dried sugared apples.”

  The priest was touched. “Katya, how did Sasha and I ever get along without you? I’m afraid, though, that I’m still not very hungry. You and Sasha can share the pastry. I will,” he added, “eat a little bit of those sugared apples.”

  Katya put her hands on her small hips and glared at him. “And?” she prodded.

  “And some cheese.”

  “And?”

  Martyn laughed. “Mercy, I pray you!” he protested mockingly. A sound at the church’s back caused them to look up. Cristina, the seamstress, hurried inside, her black cloak pulled tightly around her as much for disguise as to shield her from the rain. Her sharp face was flushed, and her dark eyes wary as she scurried down to the altar.

  “I don’t know how much longer I can keep coming here, Brother Martyn,” she said in a low voice that trembled. “If my husband finds out—”

  “Sister,” Martyn said kindly, taking her strong hands in his own smooth ones, “Lathander will take care of you. I only wish the Morninglord had touched Ivar as he has touched you.”

  “Greetings, Sister Cristina, Sister Katya,” called Sasha as he entered, clad in his formal robe of embroidered pink satin. Cristina had made it for him last year, and he wore it with pleasure and pride. The harried seamstress smiled a little when she saw him in the garment.

  “Greetings, Brother Sasha,” Katya murmured, suddenly busying herself with lighting the candles in the nave.

  Sasha looked at her, more hungry for that sight than for the food she had brought. It had been six months since the girl had arrived in the village, six months during which Sasha had seen her every day. It was becoming more and more difficult for him to hide his growing infatuation.

  It was admittedly her looks that he had fallen in love with first. Who wouldn’t? There was no denying Katya’s beauty, with her dark curls, trim figure, and large, expressive eyes. Besides, Sasha was half Vistani, and it was a saying in Barovia that Vistani men always had an eye for the prettiest women.

  There was more to the girl than looks, however. In the end, it was her gentle disposition that thoroughly won Sasha’s heart. He watched her moving from candle to candle with a lit taper, reaching up to light the large, fat tallows. As the wick caught, it illumined her features with a soft, warm glow. Sasha reached a decision. He tapped Martyn on the shoulder. “Brother, a word with you?”

  “Certainly, Sasha. What is it?”

  The young man walked them a little bit away from Cristina, then spoke in a low voice. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking these past few months,” he told the priest. “I was wondering—we never talked about this, but … can priests of Lathander marry?”

  There, it was out. Sasha felt relieved to have finally brought it up, no matter what Martyn might say. The priest smiled, looking from Sasha to Katya. “It’s her, isn’t it?” The young man nodded and smiled a little sheepishly. “As long as your bride is one of the faithful, there is no reason you cannot marry. Now, my boy,” he said, his tone growing serious, “there is one obstacle standing in your way.”

  Sasha looked up at him, concerned. “What?”

  “She has to say ‘yes.’ ” Martyn’s voice was still sober, but there was a twinkle in his pale blue eyes.

  The young priest looked again at Katya. She had finished her task and was sitting with Cristina in the first pew. The two women, one older and harried, one young and full of life, had their heads close together. As Sasha watched, Katya pressed Cristina’s hands impulsively. Feeling his eyes on her, the girl met Sasha’s gaze, smiling shyly. The priest smiled back, somewhat giddily. He would ask her that very day, right after the dawn ritual.

  “It is almost time, and we are not prepared,” Martyn chided him. Sasha grimaced in apology and hurried to help Martyn finish decorating the altar.

  A few busy moments later, the sun rose, littl
e more than a lightening of the grayness. Few in town noticed the difference, but the four huddled in the church bowed their heads in thanksgiving for the dawn. The Morninglord had vanquished the long Barovian night, chased away all the terrors that used the darkness as a cloak. That was no little thing. They passed around the Sun Cup, a gold-plated chalice filled with white wine, and each took a sip. Sasha led the Prayer of the Morning, and afterward they sang a song of praise for another safe night.

  Sasha’s pure tenor carried easily. The rain increased, drenching a small, boyish shape that huddled outside the church door. With the door open a crack, the Little Fox could hear the song, and her chilled lips moved as she mouthed the words. Leisl wiped away a bead of moisture from her face, unsure if it was a raindrop or a tear.

  Jander had seen Strahd angry before, but it had never been like this.

  The black-haired vampire bellowed his rage from the entryway, echoing the sinister boom of thunder outside. The count prided himself on his poise, but Jander had always known there was a quick, fathomless rage that lurked beneath the polished surface. As Strahd stood drenched with rain and blood, carrying a dripping corpse in his arms, he was livid.

  “Who dares!” the count cried to no one in particular. “Who dares?”

  “What happened?” asked Jander. Trina, who had come scurrying into the room when she heard the commotion, smiled a little as she took in the scene.

  Angrily Strahd tossed the corpse to the floor. It hit with a soggy thump, and Jander saw that it was missing its head and there was a great hole in the breastbone. Strahd was shaking in his rage. “Someone has killed one of my slaves!”

  Jander bit back a retort. He could have predicted that. In fact, he had tried to warn the count about having so many slaves; Strahd’s rage stopped him from mentioning it, though. “Curse him, I wasn’t done with her yet!” Strahd turned his attention to the surprised elf. “Do you have any idea which of those wretched creatures down in the village might have had the gall to do such a thing?”