"Indeed, or else it would not be part of the ritual." My court at that time had been very concerned with such trivialities. Now nearly all of it was forgotten.

  "Symbol is the very heart of spell work," he continued, now as if instructing a slow student, and stating that which was as familiar to me as my own skin. "Had you been casting a spell at the time it would have effectively bound you to the land."

  "I was bound already by word and deed; no magic was necessary. It was but a formality, something to give work to the scribes."

  "There is more to it than that. In all your time here you must surely have noticed how the weather reacts to your state of mind."

  I dismissed the idea with a wave. "Mere coincidence. I rather think it is the other way around, the same as for most people."

  In actuality, he did have a point. I'd long noticed how the weather often reflected my strongest emotions with storms, clear skies, or biting winds. The Mists, of course, were quite something else again. Perhaps I could have admitted to it, but I had good reason to always lead him into underestimating me.

  "What about this second ceremony, though?" he asked.

  "Second ceremony?"

  "The one performed with the Ba'al Verzi knife."

  "Where did you read of that?" That incident was not in the official record. I pretended to search the table for something, hoping my reaction was casual.

  "I found it in the appendices of two different histories. One was a mere reference; the other had a more detailed account of how you foiled an assassination plot against you, but not before being wounded by the culprit's knife, then repeating the ritual words as you bled."

  "He wounded me slightly with only a scratch along my ribs." Damned historians, they never do get things right.

  "And the repeating of the words?"

  That had been my antic humor getting the better of me. The witnesses to what had happened in the castle garden had been so wide of eye and in awe that I had given in to temptation and shocked them even more.

  "What happened?" he pressed.

  "I took possession of the knife—no others were willing to touch it. A moment later I cut myself on the hand by accident, forgetting how sharp the blade was."

  "By accident? I do not believe in them, not when it comes to magic."

  "Believe as you like." I was growing irritated at the direction he was taking.

  "But it was a magical knife, and you spoke the ritual words. Perhaps far back in the darks of time they were truly magical in origin—"

  "I did, and I see where you wish to go with this and concede the possibility of a connection. I think it most unlikely, though. Why should it even interest you?"

  "Because if your tie to the land is too strong, then you may never be able to escape Barovia."

  I met this statement with a long silence and a stony face. What is his game? was my first thought. Was he trying to prepare me for a future failure in this proposed escape? If he broke free of this plane and left me behind… I would not be able to do a damned thing to stop him. Not unless I watched him much more closely than I was already.

  "Of course, there may be ways around such a tie," he added.

  "If it exists."

  "I have no doubt that it does. I'm thinking that if you have any valedictory ritual that we can employ, it might serve to negate the tie you established at the time, freeing you to escape."

  I had a mental picture of him holding out a carrot with his right hand, and the instant I took it I would then discover the stunning effect of the stick hidden in his left. Such a ritual as he conjectured existed, but to initiate it was not a light matter.

  As though hearing my very thoughts he went on. "In fact, a severance might be absolutely necessary for our success."

  And weaken my hold on the land. All those questions about the country and its history made great sense if they were part of his first step toward supplanting me. But even if he had no ambition to take my place… how could I truly sever myself from Barovia? I longed to leave it and be free, but not forever. Tatyana was here. I could never abandon her, and should I perform such a separation ceremony it might also end any hope of my finding her again.

  "I shall investigate the idea," I said, trying to sound indifferent. And I would, exhaustively, before making so irrevocable a decision.

  "Excellent." He sounded most pleased with himself, which did nothing to negate my distrust of him.

  "But I promise nothing."

  He made a slight gesture of dismissal as though to belie the importance of the subject. "Now about this other incident concerning your brother and his bride—"

  "A family tragedy that I would prefer not to go into," I said shortly, growing tired of his delving.

  His gaunt face gave away nothing, but his mouth did twitch. He knew he had finally stung me in turn.

  He repeated the dismissive gesture. "Perhaps another time, then. The night is passing and we should be at work."

  So saying, he focused himself upon the task before him, blending diverse items together and noting down the details. The smugness fairly dripped from him. Yes, he'd gotten to me, but anything to do with Tatyana was none of his damned business.

  He was just as closed-mouthed about his personal past, though ever eager to recount his endless magical exploits and triumphs, sometimes in exhaustive detail. He claimed to have destroyed many less knowledgeable mages, defending his actions by saying it was their own fault. They lacked his experience and talent, but were full of self-delusion about their powers, attempting to challenge him when they should have known better than to try. I took this as a not too terribly subtle warning to take care not to repeat their mistake.

  He had nothing to worry about on that account, for I would not be so foolish as to attempt an open attack against him, being wise enough to seek other means should they become necessary.

  He could be quite the bore about his adventures unless I could sidetrack him into topics more to my liking. Perhaps he lacked social skills, but he could also discuss magical theory for hours, which I had to admit I enjoyed greatly. Though insufferably conceited he did know his Art. I learned much from him. The work was anything but easy, but I kept at it. With a war looming I would need formidable defenses to survive.

  Gradually, under the terms of our agreement, he taught me many of the spells he knew. Like my sharing of the library, it was a necessary evil, since the process of the research and work ahead required we have an equality of knowledge. Though snappish and overbearing, he was fairly cooperative at parting with his secrets (those he chose to share), all of which I carefully recorded away in my own spell books. We both came to think—even take for granted—his sojourn in Barovia was but a temporary inconvenience, and he would be gone to distant lands soon enough, so it seemed safe for the time being.

  In regard to the exchange of information I did wonder about his own studies. Though he was always at my books, like the new spells he developed, he showed little interest in trying the spells contained in them—at least while I was awake. Perhaps he wasn't far enough along in his training to master them yet, but that was most unlikely in light of the complicated ones I learned from him. His fluency in the language of spell work was profound, so there was some other reason why he abstained from adding to his store, for most practitioners are positively greedy about adding to their repertoire.

  Again I held back from directly asking him about this apparent eccentricity, though I wanted to know. Something, some instinct, always kept the question unspoken on my lips. At worst all he could really do was refuse to answer, but then I'd want to know the why of that refusal and so on. The time would eventually come, though, when I would ask and he would have to respond or lose face—in his case a most serious matter. His pride was vast.

  My questions to him about the land "Oerth" from which he had come were legion, and those I had no trouble putting to him, nor was he stingy with answers. Setting aside his contempt for the people he'd ruled along with other slanted judgments, it sounded very similar to the world I'd known before the Mists had come to Barovia, though his native language was so remarkably different as to convince us both that they were from entirely different planes of existence. However, separate as they were, both lay somewhere beyond the Mists, all we had to do was create a passage back to one and surely the other could be reached using similar means.

  If I could trust him.

  If we could trust each other.

  Once away from Barovia and the restrictions of our pact, it would be every mage for himself and me more than most. In his position I would take the common sense approach of killing me just to prevent me from being a future threat. Barring that, one finds a foolproof way of controlling an enemy to keep him out of mischief.

  When you know a man's weakness you can better dominate him. I had to acknowledge that I possessed many of those: being dormant during the day the chief amongst my physical limitations. I also had to admit that my love for Tatyana was a major weakness, hence my reluctance to inform Azalin of the full story concerning her. Knowledge is power and this was one fragment I wanted to keep from him for as long as possible lest he find a way of using it against me.

  But to turn the tables I found that he did not seem to suffer from normal, mortal vices. While I was awake I never once saw him eat or drink, never heard him express interest in carnal joys, or even take a moment's pleasure in music or the savage beauty of a starlit sky. He was wholly consumed by his work, and I had to admit his powers of concentration were formidable when the mood was upon him.

  Again I never heard the beat of his heart, and he reserved breathing for the purposes of speech only. Although 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.