After some moments I was calm enough to deal with things in a more rational manner. Before I gave in to natural urge and killed this insufferable bastard, I wanted to know more about him. If he proved to be stronger and more skilled in the Art, and thus immune to anything I could perpetrate, I would have more to deal with than just being shrugged off like an annoying stingfly.

  Perhaps this Azalin had but a few spells and only happened to be very good with them, bolstering himself the rest of the time with a supreme show of confidence.

  That was my hope, but I doubted things would prove to be so simple. The obvious fact was that he was extremely powerful in the Art, knew how to use it, and had little regard for the consequences of his actions. A highly dangerous combination.

  I was not about to let him intimidate me, though. I was still lord of the land with all its strength at my back and a substantial knowledge of magic to draw upon. I had woven a number of deep protections about my person and Castle Ravenloft that would be difficult for even a skilled practitioner in the Art to breach. Difficult, I reminded myself, but not impossible. Caution was required.

  Still holding to the mist, I eased forward until I encountered the outer layer of his spell. It was new to me, but not impenetrable. I could have likely dissipated it, but that would require effort better saved for other things, as well as alert him to my coming. I went through the barrier with hardly any resistance at all.

  Cold. An unfamiliar sensation in this form, but the chill was not something even remotely physical. It was the sort to affect the mind rather than the body, permeating the heart and whatever it was I had left that served as a soul. Part of his defenses. I ignored it and pressed through it and the front gates of the house.

  Re-forming just enough to see, I found I possessed two views at once, illusion and reality layered upon each other. In illusion the iron bars were new and locked, in reality, fallen and rusting in the mud.

  The same went for the once massive front door. As I floated into the entry hall I seemed to pass right through the thick slab of oak, but at the same time it was flat on the floor, covered with debris.

  A third layer of illusion assailed me inside, and it was wholly from my own mind: the sight of the cringing, murderous burgomaster and next to him Tatyana in the humble clothes of a serving maid. They were ghosts, but only in my memory. I was unprepared for the strength of the memories, but long practice helped me to push them away. I could spare no attention for the past now and needed my every thought trained upon the hazardous present.

  The more I concentrated, the more clearly could I see what was reality, and after a few moments I shattered the last blocks.

  Around me the dank ruin emerged from the illusion, the counterfeit manor abruptly melting away. After surveying the wreckage, I almost wanted the illusion back, then dismissed the dream. There was work to do yet.

  Gradually, I assumed full solidity, ready to forsake it should the pain return, but nothing untoward happened. I took a look about me and found no immediate threat in the dismal hall, beyond the insistent cold.

  Ahead, in the very room where I had met Tatyana again, I heard a distinct scraping sound, perhaps a chair or table being dragged along the warped flooring.

  No light. What illumination there was came from the windows, and they were choked with the pale mist seeping in. It was more than sufficient for my use. I let myself go mist-like again, holding to a nearly transparent form, but with little substance, and floated forward, my boots an inch or so above the floor, utterly silent.

  His back was to me as he stood over a rickety table, at first little more than a tall man-shape in a black velvet cloak with blood-red fur lining showing at the collar and edges. The style was definitely not Barovian, but its blatant richness and severity was decidedly meant to intimidate lesser souls. The heavy material was wrong for this time of year, as though he had come from a colder climate.

  He partially turned, presenting his profile; I recognized him at once from Zorah's description, the lean face, dark hair, and hawkish features. I could not yet see his eyes. His gaze was fixed on the tattered pages of a crumbling book lying on the table top. An ebony box bearing the Latos crest lay on the floor in one corner as if impatiently flung there. No mystery remained as to what he had carried away in it now.

  Thief, I thought. For all his powers he was no better than some greedy cutpurse on market day. The magic book—and it was magical, I could feel it even at this distance—would be mine soon, as it should have been.

  He turned his back again, leaning on the table with one hand and flipping the pages with another, reading in near-total darkness. I sensed he had placed some preservation spell on it to keep it from further deterioration, else the near-ruined paper would surely have cracked away to dust under his handling.

  I took that moment to fill out into solidity again.

  Cold. Very cold it was in here with him.

  A scent of dust in the air, very strong, filled my head as I silently inhaled. Not unexpected in these surroundings, but this had the additional sour taint of decay, as if something had crawled in and died, but the odor seemed to come from the man before me, not the house.

  Then I noticed the silence. Like that of a grave in here. What was missing?

  His heartbeat.

  I could not detect the least muffled thump of life from his chest, nor was he breathing. Was he an illusion as well? But no, his hands created sound while turning the pages, thin creaking whispers they were as his fingertips brushed the paper, like that of a spider scuttling over the sheets.

  He was not like me, so said my instincts, yet there was something very unnatural about him, something otherworldly in a sense beyond his outlander origins. Until I found out precisely who—and what—I was dealing with, I would have to be very careful with this one.

  "I see you have made the acquaintance of Baron Latos," I said loudly, stepping into the room.

  He gave a singularly gratifying start and jump and whirled around, his forbidding features converted to the comedic by his complete and utter surprise. He recovered himself nearly as fast, first to a defensive posture, then relaxing when I made no move against him. He straightened, settling his cloak into place. I noticed that for all his proximity to the filthy table there was not the least speck of dust marring his fine black velvet clothes. Another illusion, then, and one that was far superior to that which he had cast on the house.

  There was no hiding his eyes, though. As Zorah promised they held more than just a glint of crimson, not a reflection, but the result of some cold fire burning within. His focus fell hard upon me.

  "I see I underestimated you, Strahd," he said warily.

  "It is a common mistake."

  His reaction to my entrance improved my humor to the point where I took no exception to his use of my given name. No purpose would be served to let him think such a trifle could annoy me.

  "Now that we are speaking face-to-face, as you wished—" slight emphasis on the 'you' "—perhaps you would be willing to answer some questions."

  Some of my satisfaction dimmed. A fine thing it is, he steals, trespasses, is insufferably rude, then wants to conduct an interrogation of me. I smiled and said, "If you would be willing to do the same."

  "Of course. What would you wish first to know?"

  I had already decided to ask a question of which I already knew the answer. "How did you come to Barovia? Was it the Mists that brought you?"

  "You know of the Mists, then?"

  Of course I do, but then you are not sure of that yet, are you? I thought. "I know of them. For two centuries they have surrounded my land and held it hostage, held its people and myself prisoners. What do you know of them?"

  "Far less than you, apparently. I entered what I thought were morning mists waiting to be burned away by the sun, but when they cleared, it was night. And I was here, in a land so distant it is unknown in my own, as mine is unknown in yours." Whatever was beneath the illusion shrugged, a very human gesture. "I have come to suspect your land of being on a different plane of existence. Are you familiar with the concept?"

  He knew of things I had suspected for a very long time but had hardly dared to think on. Perhaps he would share his information if I could but draw him out.

  "I have heard mages speak of it, but none have offered evidence to bolster their words."

  He nodded. "It is the same on Oerth. I have feigned similar knowledge, admitting only to myself that it was wildest speculation."

  Feigned? With his powers why should he bother lying to anyone? And why be honest with me unless he felt himself safe? I hoped for as much, though I could not count on him underestimating me a second time.

  "Such candor is rare. Does it extend to other matters? Your reasons for establishing yourself here, for example, in the remnants of this particular manor house?"

  "It is of significance then?"

  I was curious to find out if he had been attracted to the house because of the terrible things that happened here so long ago. It might give me a clue as to what he was. "I will perhaps know that when I know your reasons."

  Another shrug. "It was the first structure I came upon after my puzzling arrival. And my need for shelter is not great." He gestured at the place falling down around his illusionary ears.

  "The Mists deposited you nearby?"

  "Quite nearby. I was able to detect the presence of those four fools and their victim." He paused, probably waiting for me to ask him to elaborate on the story, but I merely nodded for him to continue. "I intended merely to question them, but the situation I found upon entering demanded my actions. But tell me, of what significance is this place to you?

  Damn, but he was quick. I must have revealed something of my inner feelings. The problem with not projecting an illusion of oneself is that others can read your face if you let your guard down. This Azalin apparently possessed a talent for that, or he had picked up on the negative reverberations still echoing in the place and made an accurate guess. Or worse, he had picked up on my very thoughts. I would tell the truth then.

  "One very dear to me was… slaughtered here many years ago. It has not been occupied since that time. I am surprised that, beneath the illusion, much of the structure still stands."

  A brief pause from him as he digested that little tidbit. "You can see the truth beneath illusions, then?" His tone indicated he did not care much for that idea.

  "In many cases." I paused a moment as well and thought it best to be truthful again. "The one you wrap so tightly about yourself, however, is, as yet, beyond my abilities."

  As yet.

  The face he presented so convincingly showed surprise. "You would not wish to be privy to my reality. I often wish that I were not."

  Interesting comment, that. Why would he be so displeased with his "reality" as he put it? Perhaps he was disfigured in some way. People can be very vain. "You are more than a mage, then?" More than human?

  "And less," he said cryptically. The words had the same finality as before when he had dismissed me. I would leave the subject for later.

  "And your plans?" My gaze focused for an instant upon his stolen book. It all but glowed with power to my eyes.

  "My only desire is to return to my own land." On that he sounded entirely truthful. Harsh as his voice was—unless it was also illusion—he could not keep out the determination and… longing? It seemed too soft an emotion for him.

  "And if you cannot? I trust you would not then try to steal mine." By his manner alone I could infer that he had held a position of power in his land of Oerth. He might want to recreate that here.

  "I would not steal what is another's." Ever so slight emphasis on the word 'steal.' And a lie, considering the matter of the book.

  "But to challenge that other? Is that acceptable in your eyes?"

  "To challenge openly is always honorable. That is not, however, currently my intent."

  Currently. I noted that word. Barovia was small, but all I had. I nodded. "I see. But in the future?"

  "Whatever happens, it will be dictated by circumstance and necessity."

  An answer such as I would make myself. "You do not rule it out, then?"

  "I rule out nothing. Nor, I imagine, do you."

  I gave him a thin smile. "It would be the height of foolishness to do so."

  "As it would be for me."

  If I could only see past his illusion, somehow gain a hint of what was beneath, I could plan how best to deal with him, for deal with him I would. My initial assessment of him on a personal basis was anything but complimentary, but he had knowledge and skills I could find a use for, so I could ignore the revulsion he aroused in me.

  Though I hadn't faced it in many a year I recognized his kind of arrogance; it was backed up by true power, dangerous power. I could not control him, but perhaps I could talk him into controlling himself.

  I am not modest to the point of downplaying my own powers and talents; they are considerable, but I am well aware of my limits. This Azalin, whoever and whatever he was, was superior to me on many important levels—I had sensed that much—but he had yet to realize it. I could play on that point to my advantage.

  I had limits, but if there is one thing which I have learned as both a soldier and politician it is the art of the successful bluff.

  "Well, Azalin, until circumstance and necessity raise their ugly heads, I will bid you welcome to Barovia."

  "As a subject?" There was a decided sneer attached to that query.

  "As my honored guest."

  He gave me a long contemplative look, full of caution, but I could tell he was interested. "There are sacred customs in my land regarding host and guest associations."

  "It is likely they are similar to the ones here."

  "Which are?"

  "The host promises to defend and nurture his guest. The guest promises to honor his host and keep the peace and law of his house."

  "I can protect myself."

  "Are you so sure of that? There are dangers in Barovia of which you have no knowledge. I do."

  "Yourself being the chief amongst them?"

  I spread my hands, smiling. He shifted slightly at the movement as if to react to an attack. "I will not deny it," I said, repeating back his own words. "However, if you are my guest then I am obligated to protect you."

  "So long as I keep your peace and law."

  "Not a difficult task, I assure you."

  "You would accept my word?"

  "I would, since the consequences of your breaking it would be… unfortunate."

  "Might you elaborate on that?"

  "You are intelligent enough to imagine for yourself what you might do to me were our positions reversed and I attempted to violate your laws." Excellent word, that: 'attempted.' I could almost see him turning it over in his mind. Certainly he must now be as curious about me as I was of him and wanting to learn more. "I think you can see the advantage of cooperation over conflict. The latter would be a great waste."

  "I would not want my place as your guest to hinder in any manner my efforts to return home."

  "On the contrary, it would be my delight to aid you in the process. If you can escape this 'plane of existence' as you call it, then I, if not all of Barovia, could be set free as well."

  "You would help me?"

  "We would help each other. I can provide you with the resources and equipment to allow you to begin work without delay. Give me your word to keep the law, and you may avail yourself of my own library of magical volumes. Then you need not be reduced to barrel scrapings such as this." I indicated the priceless book with well judged contempt, not too much, not too little.

  He made an ugly, mirthless sound, but I was certain it was a laugh. A bitter one. "And am I to trust you to keep your word?"

  "Mutual trust for us is an absolute necessity for mutual survival so long as you are here, otherwise neither of us will break free. I would keep my word. Anything less would be dishonorable."

  "And you trust me to keep mine?"

  "Just so. I think you would prefer to search for a return path through the Mists without the distraction of constantly having to look over your shoulder."

  I would be there, anyway, but then he would know that and could be confident that I wouldn't put a knife in to his back—purely in the figurative sense, mind you. It was my expectation that any normal weapon would have little effect on him.

  "You would work with me on this escape?"

  "Yes."

  "I would want to set down additional rules before agreeing to this."

  I gave a gracious nod. Anything he could come up with would only be for his own self-protection and likely have little consequence against me. I was quite serious about my duties as host. Getting him to accept that fact would effectively place him under my rule and once there, I could play on that point to my best advantage for as long as necessary.

  Most people pace around or let their gaze wander as an aid to thought. He continued to look steadily at me with those strangely cold red eyes. It might have disconcerted a lesser being, but I had faced the personification of Death itself and survived. At this point, Azalin inspired no fear in me.

  "Very well," he said.

  I strove not to let my satisfaction show, but in those two words he had just delivered himself to my tender care.

  "You have my sworn word to abide by your laws for so long as I am here—and so long as you return in kind."

  "I swear to return in kind."

  "The chances are," he added, as if to discount the profound importance of what he had just done, "that this is but a temporary situation."

  On that I could offer no comment.

  ***

  From Azalin's private commentary notebooks, contd.