The current baron fancied himself a scholar and we had a common interest in books but little else, so my visits here, though not unheard of, were infrequent. Latos had accomplished one incredibly clever achievement in his otherwise bland life and that was to marry Zorah Buchvold. My informants in the social circles of the boyars reported a general reaction of surprise at her acceptance of the plump and sometimes fussy Cazimir Latos. He seemed a most unlikely sort for her, but where he was concerned her blind spot was firmly in place and she doted on him. A rumour had floated about some years past that the baron had fathered an illegitimate child with the wife of a minor landholder. But the rumours had died—or been hushed up—and I had deemed them unimportant anyway. To be fair, he did treat Zorah with great kindness and devotion, probably being too phlegmatic in temperament to get up to any mischief. He just was not the sort to offend anyone. Fine qualities for some people, but not always desirable for someone in a position of responsibility. He was good at tending his vineyards, but much of the smooth workings of his place in Barovia's governmental structure could be credited to his cannier wife.

  I coasted swiftly along over foothills dotted with the lengthy system of frameworks that supported the vines. The fast-maturing dark red grapes native to Barovia were still pale green, but their growth seemed lush. It looked to be an excellent crop this year. I darted over them, then came to a landscaped hill near the top of which stood their home. It was fairly new, a century old or so, partly cut into the hillside. A retaining wall ran along the outer perimeter, giving it the look of a fortress. If it came down to a true war the household would indeed be able to defend itself for a short time, though that had never been tested. As things were reckoned in Barovia, there was no war or opportunities for such. I had seen to that.

  If my boyars and other nobles had squabbles, they long ago learned to settle them without force of arms. The one occasion in Barovia's history after my change when a clash occurred was the absolute last.

  It had begun as a property dispute that should have remained a minor hearing of arguments in a village court. The matter might have ended there, but the losing party in the case had given open challenge to the victor in the street. A fight had ensued, blood had been spilled, and vengeance had been required. One assassination of house members and their allies after another had taken place until things escalated to the point of each side raising an army.

  I'd been concerned with other matters that year, though my spies within each household had been sending regular reports up the Svalich Road to Castle Ravenloft, so I was well aware of what was going on. The reports for both sides included the observation that my lack of interference in the business had been taken as tacit approval. An unwise assumption, for it had been simple insufficiency of interest on my part until they began to gather troops. According to my law, only I am permitted to raise and keep an army.

  On the night before their initial battle I had soared over the camps, noting the numbers, the placement of their sentries, and other small details. Both sides had possessed a few hundred troops each, not a lot compared to the standards of the past, but enough to thoroughly disrupt the peace I'd established.

  I had begun disrupting things myself by landing and calling up phalanx after phalanx of rats from out of the wilderness to overrun each side. Instead of getting their rest, the soldiers were up all night raising an unholy row over the rodent invasion. This, combined with an unexpected rain and hail storm which lasted 'several hours, left their morale floundering in the mud with them.

  My spies had told me that the miniature armies finally lost all heart for conflict when in the bleary-eyed morning they had discovered the bodies of their respective leaders impaled and dying on tall stakes facing each other across what was to have been the battlefield. My crest had also been on each stake to let them know who was responsible for interrupting the conflict.

  Everyone had wisely heeded my warning and departed for home. Since that time peace had been relatively constant in Barovia. There were still squabbles between the boyars, but they kept them quiet. Anything that drew my attention was likely to draw my fatal annoyance.

  I landed just beyond the ten foot high walls surrounding the Latos house and allowed my form to fill itself out. The iron entry gate was locked for the night, as the rest of the place would be. For the sake of appearance I rang the bell, then as a mist I slipped between the bars, resumed solidity, and strode briskly up the stone walkway to the main door. I did not expect anyone to answer the ringing bell; night visitors in Barovia tend to be unpleasant and best left outside until morning. Much to my surprise, the big iron-studded door was pulled open, and I beheld the still excellent figure of Zorah herself standing there holding a candelabra high in one hand.

  The wind extinguished some of the candles, but enough light remained that she could see who had arrived.

  "Lord Strahd, I thought that it would be you," she said with a strange mixture of relief and fear in her tone. She seemed to be not at all startled at this sudden appearance of the Lord of Barovia himself on her front step, but neither did she seem pleased. She would not look me in the face and her voice trembled as she said, "Be welcome to our home, my lord."

  "Your crisis is still with you?" I asked.

  "The man has not come back, but my poor Cazi— oh, my manners—come in, my lord, and I will tell you everything."

  She carried herself like a queen—albeit a very frightened queen—as she hesitantly took my arm and swept us both inside the house. A servant shut the door against the darkness while others scattered to their tasks.

  The years had been good to Zorah, all forty-five of them, and though her dark hair was now shot through with many strands of gray, they suited her well. She took me into one of the front parlors.

  "Would my lord care for some refreshment?" she asked, after inviting me to sit on one of her delicate chairs.

  She was observing the social protocols, but there was a great deal of tension whirling about her like a snow devil. Each of her movements was a little too fast, a little too forceful. She was obviously afraid, but only partly of me, which seemed strange.

  "Come now, Baroness, what has happened?" I asked brusquely.

  She dropped her gaze and her shoulders slumped for some moments. I feared she might break down to tears, but fortunately she collected herself and spared us that minor embarrassment.

  She sat up straight again to look me in the eye. "It is as I wrote you, my lord—you did receive my note?—of course, you must have. I've been most distracted by this and poor Cazi doesn't make it any better. I fear he is under some terrible enchantment and there may be worse to come. Had I known the result of letting that horrid man in the house I would never have allowed it."

  "Chances are he would have gained entry with or without your permission if he is a mage as you suspect."

  "He must be. Who else could do as he's done?"

  She appeared outwardly calm, as was instilled in her by her breeding, but I could clearly hear her inner agitation in the swift thump of her heart. That in turn inspired certain powerful urgings within me, but this was not the time or place to indulge the sating of my appetite.

  I leaned back in my chair, elbows on its arms, fingers steepled, and looked at her. "Now, tell me ail that has happened. Leave out nothing," I instructed, and listened for a quarter hour as she created a more detailed picture of the last evening's events. No new point presented itself, but she more fully described this Azalin person and her reaction to him.

  "He's tall as you are tall, but very thin, and has a hawkish look to his face. It's not an ugly face, but there's nothing at all pleasant to his expression, and his eyes… I'm not sure how to say it. They seemed to glint red and yet be cold as winter at the same time. What bothered me most was that there was a kind of darkness around him, like a shadow, but without any real shadow. It was nothing you could see, only feel inside when he drew close enough. All I wanted to do was run away, but I dared not. Cazi was also afraid, but we'd already granted the man permission to come inside and it was too late."

  Many times during her talk she referred to the instinctual fear this Azalin had inspired in her, and I noted how she would even yet jump at the least noise.

  "How fares the baron?" I asked.

  "Well enough, but still with no memory of this visitation. He is in a fit of temper because of the books that were burned. They've been in the family for generations and are—were—quite valuable."

  "Only to a collector of curiosities, I assure you."

  Not the first time had I mentioned that point. On my infrequent visits of state to the manor I had occasionally chided Cazimir about the worthlessness of his precious tomes, only to have the baron—with vast courtesy— discount it. The Latos magic books were little more than sad remnants of what must have once been a prized hoard on the Thaumaturgic Arts. His proud ancestors, for reasons best known to themselves, had "improved" the originals by recopying and rebinding them on a regular basis, thus destroying the integrity of the spells and formulae. They were rather dangerous now, but since none in the family had the least talent in the Art, it was safe enough to leave things as they were. The disposal of minor family heirlooms was beneath my notice unless there was a real threat involved. The books had harmlessly occupied shelf space in the baron's library for decades—until this Azalin saw fit to burn them.

  "What about the ebony box that he carried out?"

  She shook her head. "It's not particularly valuable but has been in the family for generations. Cazi thinks it's just been misplaced, is quite unconcerned about it, and won't believe me when I tell him otherwise."

  "You have no idea why this man should take it? Was there anything missing from the study, something small enough to fit into the box?"

  "I don't think so or Cazi would have noticed and complained about it—unless he was made to forget—but one of the servants would have—unless they've been made to—" She caught herself before she carried things too far. "Forgive me, my lord, I am just that upset about things. I'm not used to feeling like this and I don't like it."

  She certainly must be upset to think I would even be remotely interested in this confidence, though her sudden vulnerability appealed strongly to me. It made the blood run fast in her veins. I restrained myself and kept firmly focused on the matter at hand. Next I would need to interview her spouse. Although I had never found Cazimir to be more than a fastidious little fool, I had not forgotten his ancestor's presumptuous ambition. Treachery had seldom been a danger since Barovia's isolation. But if a mage of substantial power had indeed entered my realm, one could not be too careful.

  "Where is the baron, Zorah?"

  "In his study, my lord. He doesn't know I've asked you to come."

  "Not to worry, I am sure he won't mind." then took myself away to the baron's study. The servants made themselves scarce as I passed through the hall. She either had them very well trained or they were naturally cautious. Or both. I tapped twice against the study door and went in before Latos could answer.

  "Zorah, I said I was busy and—" he began rather peevishly, then seemed to come very close to swallowing his tongue when he caught sight of me. He was a round-faced, round-bodied man, with a nervous manner about him, at least when he was with me. Very informally attired in a yellow and green dressing robe, all of his fingers were lightly bandaged, and from across the room I could scent the herbs of a healing salve on the air.

  He and another man who worked as his chief scribe were at a long table that served as a desk, and scattered over it were the sooty remains of the burned books, pieces of them anyway. A pile of clean paper was on the left, several quills were at ready, and another stack of paper—written upon—was on the right. Both men quickly stood, Latos nearly toppling a pot of ink. His scribe made a hasty and fortunately accurate grab before it went over.

  "Lord Strahd?" said Latos, quite flabbergasted. He made an awkward bow. "It-it is an honor, but how come you here? There is nothing amiss with the tax collection I hope; my records are—"

  I raised a hand to calm and quiet him. "I came in regard to a recent incident that has come to my attention. Vandalism to your library, was it not?"

  "Indeed it was, my lord, and it is most kind of you to even be concerned with what must be such a minor thing to you."

  "Sometimes the minutiae of life are the most important." I gave a pointed look to the scribe and another to Latos, who quickly made a gesture of dismissal. The fellow all but bolted for the door, still holding the ink pot.

  Latos was for plying me with food and drink, ever his own way of seeking comfort, but I politely dismissed any for myself. He was very fidgety and anxious to please, but had always been so from childhood. This occasionally made it difficult to discern if he was trying to hide something or just being himself.

  I let my gaze fix on his bandages. He folded his injured hands close to his chest, a defensive movement, as though he was ashamed of them.

  "Tell me what happened," I ordered.

  He did so, weaving a dramatic tale of coming in for an after dinner nap as was his custom only to be awakened by his agitated wife and find to his dismay that his fine books were burned and so were his hands. He was of the opinion that someone had tossed the collection in the fire and he had tried to retrieve them, then fainted from the pain, which had addled his memory.

  "The servants claim to know nothing, and they've been with us for years and years, but perhaps one of them suddenly went mad. It makes more sense than this tale of a stranger coming to the gate as they and my dear wife keep insisting. What think you, my lord?"

  I made no immediate answer. He sounded truthful, though there were some problems with his story. One does not simply pass out from pain. The ordeal of it might send a body into a faint, but not pain itself, else the criminals in my dungeons would never be awake long enough to appreciate their punishments. I put it down to either the enchantment Zorah feared or his own penchant for the dramatic and nodded at the table. "What are you doing here?"

  "I hope to salvage some of what was lost. A few volumes survived nearly intact. I was having the pages re-copied and it's very difficult. The language is strange, almost gibberish, but my scribe is being careful about it."

  So he was no better than his ancestors when it came to literary mutilation. I thought it best not to tell him that what he was trying to preserve was gibberish now indeed.

  "Why did you have a fire in the room to start with? It's summer."

  "Sometimes I like a bit of toasted bread, butter, and honey, and if I wait on the servants to bring any from the kitchen it's all soggy and spoiled, so I make it here myself." He drew my attention to a little cabinet with glass doors that did duty as a pantry. Inside I could see a loaf of bread and other edibles. "I—I get a little hungry between meals, you understand."

  Far better than he could dare imagine. "Come, Latos, sit down a moment." I waved him toward a comfortable chair. He eased into it, mightily puzzled and somewhat fearful, which did not last long once the force of my full influence was upon him. "Now, you will tell me everything that happened from the moment the stranger called Azalin appeared."

  "Stranger?"

  His eyes had a far away look to them and he began to sweat, so I knew he was under my control. However, he made no immediate reply, only shook his head, wincing as though in pain. I studied him with senses other than my sight and understood the problem: some sort of a minor constraining spell had been placed on him. I knew of several types but had never bothered to memorize any because of my own innate ability made it seem unnecessary. Fortunately, I knew how to negate the effect and did so, repeating my question about Azalin.

  Latos promptly launched into a recitation similar to his wife's. The stranger called himself Azalin and said he was from a place called Oerth. He was new to Barovia and mentioned an incident he had stumbled into regarding the assault of a young servant girl by four men, one of whom was the scion of a noble house in Berez. The baron seemed to hesitate and stumble over this last statement, trying not to continue, but the force of my will forced it from him.

  "Azalin interrupted their crime, allowing the girl to get away, then questioned the men before he sent them running off into the night after relieving them of all their clothes."

  "Did he?" One man against four. Interesting. "That is all this Azalin did?"

  "They were bruised and quite humiliated."

  "A light enough punishment considering what they were about."

  My views on obeying the law were well known to all of Barovia. I pushed that aside for the moment and told Latos to continue.

  "It is from them that he found out about my books, for he was very interested in magic and everyone in the area knows about the collection. He wanted to know everything about Barovia. He acted as though he'd never before heard of it."

  I let my control over him slip somewhat. Hypnosis is excellent for obtaining matter-of-fact information, but often important details are left out. The dam had been sufficiently breached so Latos was in a most verbose mood. One of the details he now included was the frequent mention of the inexplicable cold fear Azalin inspired in everyone. When the man asked about his magic books, timid Latos had not dared to turn him down.

  "There was something very horrid about him, unnatural, as though it would be all the same to him to either walk past without noticing you or skin you alive. I showed him my books, and he looked at each, but his reaction was most insulting. He grew very angry and threw them around like they were nothing, then ordered me—me in my own house, under my own roof!—to be silent. I was in deadly fear for my life and those around me and tried to think of something, anything, that might appease him. He wanted magic books, and I had one other new addition to the house collection."