Christie Golden - Vampires in the Mist

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Vampire Of The Mists
Christie Golden
He that can smile at death, as we know him, who can flourish in the midst of diseases that
kill off whole peoples. Oh, if such a one was to come from God, and not the Devil, what a force for
good might he not be in this world of ours.
—Bram Stoker, Dracula
Prologue
The last rays of the dying sun filtered through the stained glass windows of the castle's chapel and
cast pools of fading color upon the stone floor. The only other light came from a small brazier that glowed
on the altar. The Most High Priest of Barovia continued with his task until his old eyes could no longer see
clearly. Finally, annoyed at the necessary interruption, he placed the amulet aside and lit enough candles so
that he could continue.
The warm glow from the tapers illuminated the altar, but left most of the chapel shadowed. No
longer a place for holy symbols and rites, the low wooden altar had been transformed into a workman's
bench and was cluttered with tools for delicate metal work: small hammers, tongs, a smooth-faced jeweler's
anvil, wax lumps for molds. The white-haired priest lit the last candle and hurried back to the amulet, it was
a demanding master; its plaintive call for completion hammered at his brain.
The Most High Priest had been crafting the amulet for many weeks now, working with a feverish
intensity that had not let him rest as he neared the task's completion. Yet he was not tired. Energy seemed
to course through his veins even as it guided his clumsy, unschooled hands. The amulet was making itself.
His gnarled fingers were but the tools.
Part of him felt guilty. He was neglecting his duties as priest and comforter to a frightened people.
The intensity of the goblin attacks was increasing, but the Most High Priest sent his assistant to administer
rites for the growing number of dead. The voice of the amulet reassured him that he had been assigned a
greater task. He was forging more than a piece of jewelry, it told him. The amulet was to be a weapon the
likes of which this sorry world had never seen. The enemy it was being crafted to fight was far worse than
the goblins—an enemy who had yet to darken Barovia.
The Most High Priest paused, his hands trembling from the strain, and rubbed his bloodshot eyes
before resuming the task. Following the instructions in his head, he had blended two old things to create this
new one. The crystal was the gift of the earth. The platinum in which he had set the quartz was likewise
ancient, although his fingers marked the precious metal with runes of love rather than violence. The pendant
was shaped like a sunburst, and when the stone was placed in the center, it was as full of light and beauty
as a miniature sun.
Carefully, the old priest carved the last rune. He blinked the sweat out of his eyes and examined his
handiwork. There was one more thing he had to do. He draped the platinum pendant about his neck, tucking
it into his robes so that it would not be seen. He patted his pouch to reassure himself that the letter he had
written several days before was still there, and smiled slightly. The uncanny energy yet filled him, arid he
hurried from the altar and down the long torchlit halls of the castle with the speed and sureness of one
many years younger.
One of the lord's servants heard him burst through the double doors of the chapel. Struggling to
match the old man's pace, the servant inquired, "What now, Your Blessedness?"
"A horse," the Most High Priest snapped, not even bothering to glance at the man. Silently the
younger man sprinted ahead to do the priest's bidding. Before the master of the castle had left for war, he
had told the servants that His Blessedness was to be obeyed in all things. Swift though the servant was, the
priest paced nervously outside the castle's beautifully carved doors for several minutes before a stable boy
brought him his •steed. The Most High Priest practically leaped into the saddle before he yanked his
mount's head sharply -T around and clattered out of the courtyard. He was going to the Circle to complete
the divine errand.
The night grew misty as the priest and the horse galloped down the Old Svalich road. Flying chunks
of mud spattered man and beast, but the traveler was oblivious. He urged the animal on to greater speed at
the prompting of the amulet. Impatiently he abandoned the road and took to the Svalich Woods. He did not
know a shortcut, but the amulet did. At last, he reached his destination—a circle of large stones just outside
the limits of the village of Barovia.
He tried to dismount, retrieve the amulet, and run to the center of the circle all at the same time, but
all he accomplished was entangling his feet in his flowing robes and falling heavily to the earth. This old
body can't give much more, he thought grimly as he rose. He sank down in the heart of the stone circle next
to a large, flat rock, and laid the amulet down reverently.
The final blessing, he thought, and ail is done....
The young novice found the priest in the same spot late the next morning. The face of the Most
High Priest was peaceful and curiously unlined in death. Gray tips curved in a faint, sweet smile. One hand
held the sunburst pendant, the other, a note. The young man, his eyes full of tears, had to blink several times
before he could read the last words the priest had written.
Here is the gods gift to a troubled land. Use it well and with reverence, but pass the secret only
from priest to priest. The family of the ravens shall descend, and this is to be the holy symbol of their kind.
Its power is kin to that of the sun: light and warmth. It is a last hope to hold back the Shadow that shall fall
upon this sad realm.
One
The Queen’s Pride out of Evermeet rocked serenely in the inky water of Waterdeep Harbor. A
playful night breeze stirred the catamaran's ropes, which slapped noisily against the boat in the relative quiet
of the late hour. The wind increased, causing the standard to snap energetically, its heraldic image of a gold
tree against a dark blue, star-filled sky billowing. In the distance, buoys chimed friendly warnings. The smell
of fish and brine hung heavily in the cool, damp air.
From the safety of an alleyway, a lone figure gazed longingly at the catamaran. Selune's light
turned the gold elf's skin and hair to a pearly white and his worn blue tunic to a gray similar to his cloak and
breeches. Faded silver trim on the tunic still caught the milky radiance of the moon.
Jander Sunstar was tall for his race, nearly five foot nine, and slender. His features were clean and
sharp, softened now with remembered pain. Elven ears tapered into graceful points, almost but not quite lost
in the flowing gold of his hair. The boots that made no sound on the water-swollen boards of the dock were
of supple gray leather and reached to mid-thigh. A dagger, simple and sheathed, adorned his left hip.
Jander's silver eyes were filled with sorrow. How many decades had it been since he had seen a
ship from his homeland? Glorious Evermeet, land of beauty and harmony. He would never see it again.
Thin, long fingers closed tightly about the cape, pulling it closer to hide him from prying eyes.
The elf could bear no more. He turned away and moved quietly from the dock and into the heart of
the city that men called Waterdeep. This place, too, had been his home for a time, before the wanderlust
had called him to his doom.
Jander seldom ventured into the city any more. It was becoming too crowded for his liking. He
lived in a small cave beyond the city limits, where there were still trees and silence to be found. There
Jander indulged his innate, elven love of beauty and nature by planting and tending a small garden of
night-blooming flowers. Tonight, though, a great need drove the elf to steal into the Dock Ward. He moved
in absolute silence with a deadly purpose, his gray leather boots making no sound along the cobblestones.
Jander ignored the taverns, shops and warehouses. He was heading for the worst place in the city, where
the most tortured souls on Toril wept away their meaningless lives amid squalor and pain. The elf turned a
corner, his sharp features gaunt with hunger, his gray cape fluttering behind him.
Money could buy cures for just about anything in Waterdeep. There was a cleric for your wounds,
a mage for your good fortune. Sometimes, however, the gods would not listen to the prayers of their priests,
and sometimes spells went wrong. Horribly wrong.
Once, the unfortunates whose mental illnesses could not be helped by magic were locked away in
cellars or cast out on the streets. Some particularly vicious people even arranged for their inconvenient mad
relations to "disappear." Today, though, in the civilized year of I072, there was a place for the incurably
insane. As he approached the large stone-and-wood building, Jander winced. Even outside, his sensitive
ears were pained by the cacophony exploding within. Madhouses were places of more horror than haunted
castles, he mused; here truly could be found the wailings of the damned. He did not enjoy coming here to
feed, and did so only every few years, when the great thirst would not be slaked with animal's blood.
Steeling himself for what awaited him within, Jander stepped up to the door.
There were two main cells in the asylum, one for males and one for females. Other, smaller cells
housed inmates who were too violent for the main cells and those few pathetic souls whose former sex had
been so distorted that it could not be distinguished. As a rule, Jander never entered the individual cells. He
might be a vampire, but he could take only so much pain and ugliness.
He was nothing but tendrils of mist at first, creeping through the cracks in the wooden door of the
women's cell. The mist took on color—blue and silver and gold— then a being that some might have
mistaken for an angel stood where the formless fog had been.
Torches in sconces too high for the inmates to reach provided ample illumination. Too many of the
lunatics were afraid of the dark for the place not to be lit so. Straw and moldering pallets covered the floor.
There were chamber pots, but few of the inmates used them. Every few weeks, the city-appointed keepers
would remove the inmates and douse the area with bucketfuls of water, a process that did little to sanitize
the filthy place.
With the grace of a cat, Jander threaded his way through the scattered madwomen, turning his
blond head this way and that, his silver eyes raking the scene. Some of the lunatics scattered at his
approach, to huddle whimpering in corners. Others ignored him. Some even fawned on him. From these he
gently disengaged himself.
It had been nearly half a century since he had been here, and he recognized none of the inmates.
Some were fairly normal-looking, old women whose minds had faded and then quietly disappeared
altogether.
Some were misshapen monstrosities, victims of spells gone awry or perhaps even deliberate malice,
who howled their anguish as they huddled in corners. The saddest were the ones who were almost sane,
who could have functioned outside with a little aid but whose relatives couldn't be bothered to help them.
The growing population of Waterdeep had led to an increase in the number and variety of inmates.
Most of them were human, although here and there Jander recognized the squat forms of dwarves or
halflings. There were, thank the gods, no elves. Over in one corner of the damp, chilly place, one woman
methodically tore at a bleeding stump of an arm with a hand that was covered with scales. Her legs were
also reptilian and ended in the clawed toes of a lizardman. The expressionless face was completely human.
Another lay almost at the vampire's feet, shielding her head with her arms. As Jander stepped over her, she
shifted. The vampire flinched. The face she turned up to him was completely featureless save for the red
slash of a mouth.
"They're coming, you know," a voice bellowed in his ear. "All those eyes on their stalks, waving at
you, and the mouths, the mouths . . ." The madwoman became completely incoherent and began to suck on
her fingers. Jander closed his eyes. He hated this pace. He would take sustenance quickly and leave.
This method of feeding did little actual harm to the inmates. Jander could materialize within the cell,
partake of enough fluid to last until the next time his hunger demanded human blood, and disappear. Seldom
did he even drain enough of the precious fluid to leave a victim weak the next morning. The keepers had no
reason to check the throats of the patients. Consequently the small, insignificant marks were never noticed.
One woman lay huddled on a dirty straw pallet toward the back of the stone enclosure, separate
from the rest. At first glance, she didn't look much different from the regular inmates of the asylum. Her
long dark hair was tangled, and her pale limbs were dirty. She wore the ugly brown shift that was the
standard garb in the hellhole. Hardly more than a scrap of material, it offered little protection against the
damp chill of the place and none at all against the fumbling of the demented inhabitants. Perhaps feeling his
gaze, she looked up.
She was quite shockingly beautiful, and a soft cry of pain and wonder escaped Jander's lips.
Though her hair was matted and filthy, it must have been a captivating shade of auburn once. Her eyes
were large and shiny with tears. Even as he watched, they filled and drops coursed through the dirt on her
pale face. Her lips were pink, perfect roses in a porcelain face, and they trembled slightly. The vampire had
not seen such beauty in far too long; he certainly never expected to see it here. Captivated, he went to her
and knelt beside her. She kept her luminous brown gaze even with his.
"I greet you," he said, his voice sweet and full of music. The girl did not respond, only continued
looking at him with huge, soft eyes. "My name is Jander," he said, keeping his voice gentle. "What's yours?
Where are you from?" Her lips moved then. Jander tensed, hoping, yet no sound issued forth.
Disappointment filling him, he got to his feet. She still gazed up at him trustingly. Gods, so beautiful.. . Who
could have sent her to this horrible place?
"I wish I could take you out of here," he told her sadly, "but I couldn't look after you during the
day." He turned away from her. She gasped and reached out for him, her eyes filling with tears again.
"Sir!" she sobbed, holding her arms up to him. Jander didn't know what to do. Fully five centuries
had passed since anything beautiful had deigned to touch him, and here was this tragically radiant girl
reaching out for him. He hesitated, then sat down beside her and tentatively folded her into his arms.
"Shh, shh," he soothed, as if she were a child. He held her while she cried herself to sleep, then he
laid her back down on her pallet. The vampire rose, careful not to disturb her, and tended to his hunger
elsewhere in the room.
His heart was lighter than it had been for several long and empty years. Jander had found
something beautiful in a hellish place, something that wasn't afraid of him. It had to be nurtured. He knew
he would be back tomorrow night.
And so he was, bringing with him real food—meat from a traveler's fire, and bread and fruit
pilfered from a careless shop owner. Vampires made excellent thieves, Jander had discovered, although
few of them needed to pursue such a profession.
"Well again," he greeted her. She stared up at him, then her lips curved in a cautious, fleeting smile.
His heart turned over, and he smiled broadly in return. The elf sat down beside the woman and handed her
the food. She stared at it, confused.
"It's food," Jander explained. "You eat it." He mimed putting the bread in his mouth. The girl still
didn't understand. Jander would have eaten a bite himself, just to show her, but he could no longer digest
anything but blood.
A scuffling at his back gave him an idea. An old woman was staring hungrily at the bread.
"Watch," he told the girl, and tore off a chunk of bread. The old woman grabbed at the offered food and
chewed hungrily. The dark-haired girl smiled and nodded in comprehension. She rose with purpose and
began handing out the food he had brought to the other inmates, glancing back at him with a happy smile.
Jander had to laugh, even though he was annoyed. The girl needed food; she was positively
emaciated. She shouldn't be doling out what he had brought her—
He bolted upright. The lovely madwoman moved among her fellow inmates with a deliberate sense
of purpose, sharing her food with practiced grace. As though she had taken care of people before, Jander
thought. He was by her side in an instant, turning her to face him. "Dear gods," he whispered, "you weren't
born this way, were you?"
She smiled serenely at him and continued with her task. He was shaken, filled with a sudden
delirious hope. If she had been sane before, might she become sane again? Might he be able to bring her
back from the brink of madness?
One thing was certain. He had to try.
Prior to meeting his "flower," Jander had merely existed, going from night to night, taking
nourishment from animal blood. He tended his night garden, finding comfort in working with the soil and
watching things grow. Since he had become a vampire, he had lived as an outcast from all the things he had
most loved when he was alive.
But his undead state mattered not to this mysterious young woman in the asylum. She always
seemed pleased to see him, even if she spoke in little more than fragments of words he did not recognize.
Over the coming weeks, Jander finally succeeded in making her eat what he brought, and she began to gain
weight. One night, toward the beginning of fall, they sat together. Suddenly she tensed, drawing away from
his embrace, a worried frown on her lips. "What is it?" Jander asked.
The girl seemed not to hear him. Abruptly she got to her feet, her attention still directed inward.
Growing concerned, Jander reached up to tug gently on her dress.
The girl screamed, sparking accompanying shrieks from the other inmates that built to a hellish
crescendo. She began to wring her hands, every muscle in her thin body taut with what appeared to be
sheer terror. Frantically the madwoman glanced about, as if seeking an escape. She moaned low, the cry of
a trapped animal, and hurled herself against the wall, clawing at the rough stone with her fingers, then
pounding the unyielding surface desperately.
"No!" Jander cried. Swiftly he was by her side, pulling her away from her single-minded task. His
strong golden hands closed tightly about her wrists. She struggled against him for a few moments, wailing
piteously, then went limp against his chest. Bloody handprints dotted the stone wall, and a warm dampness
trickled down onto his long fingers. She had cut her hands quite badly, and her palms and lower arms were
sticky with blood.
Jander licked his lips, his hunger whetted, his silver gaze held by the torchlight flickering on the
redness. Then he dragged his eyes back to the girl's. What he saw in their depths moved him.
Something flickered, like a candle flame. It was so brief, he hardly believed he saw it, but there it
was. A flash of sanity, clear and bright as the sun on water, came and went.
"Oh, my little one," Jander said brokenly, "what happened to you?"
That was the first time he had seen her mysterious frenzy, but it was not the last. The contrast
between the woman's wretched state and the serenity she displayed most of the time pained the elf. She
would be fine for several days, perhaps even weeks or months. The'n, without warning, her inner calm
would shatter and she would again try to claw her way through the solid stone, desperately attempting to
flee from some pursuing horror that existed only in her mad mind.
Jander did what he could to protect her from her self-inflicted pain, pinning her arms behind her
back or to her sides, occasionally holding her in a grip so tight no movement was possible. She would
eventually quiet down and become the tranquil flower she had been previously. After one such outburst,
Jander held her as the tension ebbed from her body. He allowed himself to rest his head on her hair, content
that she was now no longer struggling. She pulled back a little and looked up at him, and her lips moved
soundlessly. Jander tensed. She placed a hand to her heart and babbled a strange combination of sounds.
He shook his head, not understanding. Again, a meaningless gibber and then, quite clearly she said, "Anna."
Jander was dumfounded. "Is that your name? Anna?"
She nodded, her eyes alert.
"I'm Jander," he said and was surprised at how keenly he wanted to hear his name on those sweet
pink lips. Anna had again retreated into herself, however, and the dull glaze dimmed those wonderful eyes.
There would be no more speech from her tonight. The vampire was not distressed. There were many
nights to come in which he would, he was confident, win Anna's trust and, he hoped, restore her sanity.
Winter was hard on the inhabitants of the madhouse. Jander stole some blankets and tried to keep
Anna as warm as he could. He wished he could simply leave the warm woolens with her, but the guards
would notice and grow suspicious as to their origins. It wasn't until spring that he won his next victory.
Jander had materialized in the cell just after twilight had bled to black. His garden was in full bloom,
and he had collected a small bouquet for Anna. Perhaps they would win from her that radiant smile he had
glimpsed a few times before. It was only after the mist congealed into his slender form that she recognized
him, smiling a welcome that lit up her face and made her look sane again. She reached up to him, like a
child to a beloved parent who has been too long away.
He placed the fragrant gift in her white arms. "For you, my dear" he said, his silky voice filled with
gentleness.
Anna buried her face in the flowers, then raised her large, soft eyes to his. "Sir!" she cried happily,
tossing the flowers to the stone floor and hugging him tightly.
Joyously he returned her embrace. As he held her affectionately, he gradually became aware that
his feelings for her had changed. Until this moment, he had thought of her as a wounded young forest
animal, in need of gentleness and care. He had attended to her so, denying the truth that now rushed to be
revealed. Whether he wished it so or not, Jander was deeply in love.
As if she somehow sensed the change in the elf, Anna clasped him closer still, one small hand
gently playing with the soft gold hair at the back of his neck. Emotions that had hitherto been as dead as his
body suddenly flared to new life. Passion mixed sharply with the thirst of a vampire; the scent of her blood
was overwhelming. Jander yielded to all his emotions and, with a groan, kissed Anna's throat, his fangs
emerging quickly and purposefully. Yet he was gentle as his sharp teeth pierced the white flesh of her
neck; his was the embrace of a lover, not a predator. And if she gasped a little with the first quick pangs,
she did not pull away.
Jander was about to materialize in the asylum when the voices reached his ears. He flattened
himself against the door, a blue and gray shadow, and listened intently to the voices within.
"Such a pretty thing," came one, gentle and warm.
"Aye, indeed," the second agreed. Jander recognized the voice of one of the guards. "Been that
way for over a hunnert years. Me grandfather use t'work here, and she ain't changed since then."
"Really? Oh, poor child. Look! I think she understands me!"
"Ah, she's just foolin' ye. She don't understand nothing. Ain't for a hundred years."
"Yes, so you said before." The voice was significantly cooler than before. Jander grinned to
himself. Any champion of Anna's was a friend of his. He shifted his position and placed one pointed ear to
the stone.
What the guard said disturbed him. Had she really been trapped here, unchanging, for over a
century? Mentally he ticked off the seasons. Time was nothing to a vampire, but he was shocked when he
determined that he had been visiting Anna for over a decade.
The kind voice continued. "Lathander is the god of hope, and hope comes fresh every day with the
dawn. Don't forget that, my son. What caused this woman's suffering?"
"We think it's a spell, sir. Don't nobody stay that way that long without it being caused by some kind
o' magic."
Jander tensed, his hands reflexively balling into fists. Magic! That would explain a great deal. He
fought to quell the anger that welled up inside him at the mention of the arcane arts.
The elven vampire hated magic. Once, it had been part of his very nature. Even now, he still had a
bit of elven magic at his control; his skill with the soil was only a minor example. Over the years, however,
magic had failed to aid him in truly important matters. Now he did not trust it even in good hands, and to
hear that Anna had probably been the focus of some evil spell enraged him. He deliberately forced himself
to be calm and listen.
"Has anyone tried to remove the spell?"
"Nope. She's got no family, no one to pay for it."
Jander chewed his lower lip nervously. If the cleric of Lathander tried to free Anna from the magic
that had kept her alive all these years, he might very well kill her. Apparently the priest had the same
thought. "I would try, but I'm afraid to. It could be dangerous."
The guard laughed, a harsh, nasal sound. "What kind of a life has she got now? Dead might be
better." Jander's eyes narrowed in anger. "Perhaps," came the voice of the priest, definitely icy now, "if you
took better care of your wards, this place might not be the sewer it is. I shall speak to your superior."
The vampire heard the sound of the cell door opening and melted back into the shadows. He
watched as the priest of Lathander strode out, inhaling the fresh air gratefully. The human was young, only
in his mid-thirties or so, and bore himself with a quiet grace. He wore his brown hair long, and his robes,
though beautifully colored in shades of gold and pink, were simple. From his bearing and what he had said in
the asylum, the priest ranked high in Jander's eyes. Besides, the elf had always favored the teachings of
Lathander "Morninglord," the gold-skinned god of dawn and beginnings—at least, he had favored them up
until the great darkness had fallen upon him, barring the dawn from his sight forever.
Once the guard had resumed his position outside the women's ward, Jander transformed into a mist
and crept inside. He went to Anna at once, gathering her in his arms and holding her tightly. "Magic. Magic
has done this to you. Oh, Anna." Suddenly overwhelmed by his empathy for her plight, he placed his hands
on either side of her face and kissed her deeply—and started back in surprised pain, one golden hand
reaching to touch his smarting, bitten lip.
Anna, caught up in her frenzy, screamed and pounded the walls. As always, Jander was beside her,
calming her. When the moment had passed and she looked at him, her eyes were full of remorse. Jander
embraced her tentatively, relieved, gently bridging the rift that he had unconsciously caused.
He did not ever try to kiss her again. Somehow, that token of affection triggered something in her
mad mind. "Who did this to you, my love?" he whispered, holding her tenderly, not expecting a response.
She said, quite clearly, "Barovia." Nothing more would she reveal.
Barovia. The word sat oddly on the vampire's tongue as he repeated it. Was it a person's name, or
that of a place, a word in her strange language for an action or idea? He had no way of knowing. All he
knew was that something or someone connected with the word "Barovia" was responsible for Anna's
present condition.
He would find out who.
Two
Days and nights ran their course in Waterdeep. Another year passed, and another, but time meant
nothing to the undead creature and the ensorcelled madwoman. A little progress was made, but not much.
Jander, however, had the patience of the dead and took comfort in each tiny victory.
It was in midwinter, nearly three decades after the elf had first met Anna, that time began to run
out. He appeared in the cell as soon as night had embraced the land, carrying food and blankets. Anna
lay huddled in a corner and did not greet him with her customary warm smile. "Anna?" She did not move at
the sound of his voice. Suddenly frightened, Jander rushed to her and stroked her hair gently with his hand.
"Anna, my dear, what is it?"
Carefully he turned her over, and his heart sank. "Oh, gods," he breathed. Anna's face, usually pale
from lack of exposure to the sun, was flushed. He felt her forehead, noting with alarm its burning heat and
dry ness. Her breathing was rapid and shallow, and her eyes were unnaturally bright.
Jander felt the icy hand of panic close about his in-sides. It had been so long since he had struggled
against an illness he had almost forgotten what to do. A fever. How did one tend a fever? The vampire
began to tremble. Angrily he forced himself to remain calm. The vampire wrapped his beloved in a blanket
and held her through the night as she shivered and moaned. The fever did not break.
For the next four days he tended her thus, forcing water down her throat and talking to her until his
own throat was dry. The weight she had gained through his care melted off her, but still her fever did not
break. Jander reached a decision.
All his love would not be enough to cure her. He had to find someone who had medical skills.
Clearly the keepers of this place didn't even care enough to try to heal one ill lunatic. Jander hoped he knew
someone who would.
He strode down the deserted streets of Waterdeep, not bothering to keep to the shadows this time.
He passed through the seamy dock area and entered the more refined Castle Ward. The human population
was increasing, and the city had grown considerably since Jander last was in this area of the city. Some of
the new buildings confused him momentarily, but at last he found what he was looking for.
The Spires of the Morning was still an attractive building. Brand new when Jander had been here a
hundred or so years ago, it was a little weather beaten by time, but not much. The building was made of
stone, but the door was wooden, painstakingly carved with a representation of Lathander Morninglord. The
god was depicted as a beautiful young man dressed in flowing robes with the sun rising behind him. Jander
hesitated, then knocked urgently.
No one answered. Impatiently he pounded on the ornate wooden door again. Above him, someone
opened the shutters and peered down at him. Jander couldn't see the speaker, but his voice was full of
sleepy amusement.
"No need to break the door down, my friend. It is open to all who would enter. Come in!"
There was no way that Jander could enter a holyhouse, even if he had been invited. "I cannot,"
Jander called up. "My message is too urgent. There is sickness in the asylum. Will you come?"
The priest did not hesitate. "Of course. Give me just a—" Jander had already gone, running swiftly
back to the madhouse. The priest arrived within a half-hour with a variety of herbs and holy symbols.
Jander recognized him as the young priest he had overheard talking with the guard thirty years earlier. He
was in his early sixties now, but still handsome. His hair was white, but as long and thick as the elf
remembered, and though his face was lined, it was filled with concern and kindness.
Jander let him inside. "Over there," he told the pink-robed cleric. "In the corner. She's got a fever."
The white-haired priest knelt beside the girl and began to examine her gently. The lines about his
brown eyes deepened. "How long has she been like this?"
"Four days, now."
"Why wasn't I called in earlier?"
"I don't know."
The cleric shot him a fierce look. "You're one of the guards, you ought to have—"
"No, I'm not, I'm just... a friend. Can you help her?"
The priest seemed about to say something more, but the look on Jander's worried features stopped
him. "I'll try, my son."
The hours ticked by with agonizing slowness. The priest prayed and chanted, administered herbs,
bathed the unconscious girl with holy water, all to no avail. At last, looking tired and haggard, he shook his
head and began to pack up his things. "I am truly sorry. She is in the hands of the gods now. I have done all
I can." Jander shook his head, uncomprehending. "No. You're a priest. You've got to be able to do
something!"
"I'm not the Morninglord," the priest said. He smiled sadly. "Although you might be. Every time I
see a sunrise elf, my breath catches in my throat. I wonder if your people might not be closer to the gods
than we mortals as you look so much like him."
"So I've been told," Jander snapped, "but if I were a god, do you think I'd let her die?"
The priest did not take offense, simply regarded the elf with pity. "This is an illness beyond my
ability to cure. I think it may be magical. Perhaps it has something to do with her imaging state. If I try to do
anything more for her, I could kill her."
Jander had never felt so helpless. He gazed at Anna, his eyes wide with pain. "Magic," he
whispered. "Damn alt magic."
"Come, my son," said the priest gently, laying a hand on Jander's shoulder and trying to steer him
toward the door. "You're liable to take ill yourself. You feel cold already."
The golden vampire shrugged off the priest's hand. "No," he said. "I'm staying."
"But—"
Jander fixed the old man with his silver gaze.
"Well, perhaps you're right," the priest relented. "I'm sure she could use some comfort." He walked
over to the wooden door of the cell and tugged it open.
"Lord—"
The cleric paused. "Yes, my son."
"Thank you."
The priest smiled sadly. "I'll pray for her. And for you," he added, then he was gone.
Alone with the madwomen, Jander sank down beside the woman he had taken care of for thirty
summers. Anna's fever still hadn't broken, and, although she was now conscious, she obviously failed to
recognize him. Jander laid his cheek on her hair and tightened his grave-cold hand on her shoulder.
He made the deadly decision without even thinking about it. It was the only option left to him. Anna
was dying, but Jander could not bear to be parted from her. "Anna, my love," he said softly, "if there were
any other way for us to be together..."
The elf’s slender hand brushed her cheek, hot and dry and red with her life's blood. Unable to hold
back any longer, Jander kissed that cheek. Corpse-cold lips slid down her jaw to her throat, pressed against
the beating vein. Had he thought any deity would have cared, he would have said a prayer for the success
that night's endeavor. What he was attempting held danger as well as promise. There came the familiar,
bittersweet ache in his mouth as his fangs emerged, ready to pierce soft white skin and take sustenance.
Swiftly, before his courage could fail him, Jander bit deeply into Anna's throat, deeper than he had ever
gone before. The skin resisted an instant, then popped and yielded a gush of hot fluid.
Anna gasped and struggled against the pain. The vampire's strength was more than mortal, and she
could not escape his grasp. Gradually she quieted, then went limp.
Jander drank eagerly, the warm, coppery-tasting fluid flowing easily down his throat. The life force
it carried began to seep through him, renewing his power and rekindling his senses. It had been a long time
since he had permitted himself such a banquet; he had almost forgotten the elation and heat a true feeding
engendered. He felt himself surrendering to the pleasure. Dimly he noticed the change as the flavor began
to turn ashy and empty.
Abruptly he stopped. He had almost gone too far; he had almost drained her dry in his hunger.
Quickly, still cradling her limp form in one powerful arm, he slashed a deep gash in his own throat with a
clawlike nail. New blood—Anna's blood—pumped from the incision. Jander moved her like a doll, placing
her mouth to his throat. "Drink, my love," he said hoarsely, "drink, and be one with me!"
There was no movement. Suddenly afraid, he shoved her face into the wound. "Anna, drink." She
tried feebly to push him away, and he cast a frantic glance down at her.
She smiled serenely, lucidly up at him through a ruddy mask of blood. Heartbeats away from her
death, some fraction of sanity had returned, like a benediction, to the tortured girl. Her mind was obviously
her own for the moment, and she had made a choice. She refused the eternal undeath he was foisting upon
her. Her strength was ebbing, but she mustered enough energy to lift a small hand to touch his golden face,
content, even happy with her decision.
"Sir," she whispered, a single tear sliding down her ashen cheek. Her magnificent eyes closed for
the last time, then her head fell back limply across his trembling arm.
"Anna?" Jander knew she was dead, of course, but he kept repeating dazedly, "Anna? Anna?"
Sanity returned to him shortly before dawn.
His eyes were closed when he again became aware of his surroundings. The first thing he noticed
was the silence. Not a single groan or whimper floated to his ears. No breath, no rustle, no sound at all.
Next came the smell—a hot, coppery scent that was as familiar as his own name.
He was lying on the cold stone floor and attempted to rise. It was then that he discovered that he
had been in his lupine form over the past few hours. Silver eyes still shut, Jander ran a pink tongue about his
jaws, tasting the fluid that had given off the copper smell. What had he done? He did not want to know, but
he had to face his deeds. Slowly the gold-furred wolf opened his silver eyes.
He had left not one of the miserable wretches alive. The sight of the slaughter greeted him like
some obscene carnival tableau. The madwomen lay strewn about like a child's forgotten toys, some on their
pal* lets, some on the floor, all with their throats gaping open like second mouths. Here and there were the
mutilated corpses of the guards who had foolishly tried to stop the carnage. Red was the predominant color
now instead of the flat gray of stone. It looked as though the same child who had tossed the corpses
carelessly aside had hurled bucketfuls of crimson about.
A low moan escaped Jander. The vampire couldn't even remember attacking them. He had killed
before, often. He had enjoyed killing before, occasionally. However, he had not known he was capable of
such total butchery. The people who now lay in ghastly puddles of gore had not been his enemies. They had
not even been food for his unnatural, cursed hunger. This was wanton murder, and the part of Jander that
was still elven, the part that still loved light and music and beauty, was appalled.
The full horror of what he had done settled on Jander like dust on a gravestone. Those slain by a
vampire were doomed to rise again as vampires themselves. He wasn't sure if these pitiful wretches
would—he had merely ripped them apart, he thought with grim humor, not drained them of blood. Still, it
was a thought that would chill any heart: one hundred insane vampires wandering the night landscape of the
Sword Coast.
Jander turned his shocked gaze back to Anna. He changed then, his sleek, golden wolf limbs
dissolving into mist and reforming gracefully into his elven manifestation. He gathered the dead girl's slight
frame in his arms and held her tightly for a few moments. Tenderly he laid her corpse out on the straw,
cleaning her bloody face as best he could.
Jander had tried to make Anna his mate, but she would not drink his blood. When she rose a few
nights from now as an undead, she would be only a weak, servile vampire: his slave. That was all she would
ever be, for all eternity, for slaves could never become true individuals while their maker existed. "Oh,
Anna, I never wanted that for you," he said brokenly. "Death would have been better."
The elven vampire rose slowly, wearily, and glanced around at the dead bodies until he found what
was left of a guard. He searched the bloody corpse until he found a ring of keys, then unlocked the heavy
wooden door and went to the other main cell. He wondered if he was doing the right thing for a brief
second, but pushed his hesitation aside. Jander inserted the large skeleton key into the lock, turned it twice,
then pushed open the door. Most of the madmen within took no notice of him, but a few crept timidly to the
door and peered out cautiously. With a cry, the elf ran about the large cell, waving his arms and herding the
inmates toward freedom. When the last one had left, Jander went to the individual cells and unlocked them
as well, swallowing his revulsion.
Now the asylum was empty, save for the dead. The vampire returned to the women's cell, and
knelt beside Anna for the last time. He allowed himself one final kiss, a gift that she had been too frightened
to grant him in life. Then Jander removed a torch from its sconce on the wall and tossed it into the straw
that covered the cell's floor. It caught quickly, and for a few minutes the elf hesitated.
His existence was a wretched one. It was tempting to end it here, to burn to charred flesh along
with Anna. The thought had occurred to the miserable vampire more than once over the last several
centuries, but always Jander had decided against suicide. There were worse things than vampires, and
Jander would become one should he die.
" The smoke became black and thick before the elf hurried outside into the fresh, cold night air. He
did not want to watch as Anna's body burned, but he knew it was the only way to send her tortured soul to
a final rest.
Jander walked silently westward, pulling his cape tight about his slender frame. The bitterness of
the midwinter night was not uncomfortable to him. The touch of a vampire was cold if he had not fed, but
the undead never felt the chill themselves. As he strode down the empty streets toward the city limits, he
could hear sounds of wakefulness behind him. He hoped that aid would not come before Anna's body had
been completely destroyed.
The elven vampire left Waterdeep behind him, heading for the comfort of the forest. The grass
beneath Jander's feet was coated with frost, but it made no sound under the tread of his gray boots. The
large trees were bare, and their silent, massive shapes did not invite his touch. Nevertheless, the elf leaned
his back against the trunk of one and lifted his eyes to the sky. The moon was half-full, fading before the
lavender and pink tinge of the approaching morning. He had a good half-hour, though, before he needed to
seek the dark shelter of his cave.
The predawn beauty felt more like a rebuff than a reassurance to the stricken vampire. He was
undead; he could hope for no acceptance anywhere. Even Anna had rejected the living death he offered.
For thirty years she had been the one hope that had made his existence bearable. Now there was nothing,
no one. Who would spare sympathy for the plight of a vampire?
"I did not choose this life!" Jander raged to the empty air. "I did nothing to earn it! Have I not
suffered in this state? Is there no mercy for such as me?"
The night remained still. It did not answer him. He clenched his fists. "Anna!" he wailed, his voice
shattering the night. He fell to his knees. "Anna . . ." He had killed the thing he loved best. It made no
difference that that had not been his intent.
Perhaps, came a thought like a whisper, you freed her. The vampire grasped at this hope. He
forced himself to remember her dreamy insanity, and the anger that had been directed at himself and his
undead state began to focus elsewhere. She had been something beautiful that had brushed his life, had
given him a reason for continuing his existence. Now, he had a new reason: revenge. Jander already felt
certain that someone had done something terrible to Anna, something that had driven her over the edge of
sanity. That was a greater sin than his. Filled with new resolve, he raised his arms to the paling sky. "Hear
me, gods! Hear me, powers of darkness and pain! If there is one who harmed her, I will find him. I will
destroy him. Punish me if you will, for my hands are not clean. But deny me not my revenge!"
Not in five hundred years of undeath or in two hundred years as a living being had Jander spoken
with such anguish. His hatred poisoned the words, and the good, clean earth of Toril shrank from the
bitterness he spewed forth. But there were other powers, far more corrupt than anything that dwelt in Toril,
and they drank Jander's tainted curse like nectar.
As it was a seaport, Waterdeep had its share of fogs. But years later, the inhabitants of the Dock
Ward would speak in hushed tones about the malevolent mist that appeared suddenly on that particular
dawn. It rolled in from the sea like a ghost ship. It was damp and chill, as was every fog, yet there was
something uncanny about it. Those awake retreated into their homes or huddled in their boats until it passed
them by. Those yet abed frowned in their sleep as dreams were transformed into nightmares. It came as if
guided, rolling through the streets of the ward to the west. It passed over the dock area quickly, leaving
behind a hazy morning. The noon sun burned away the last traces of the strange mist, and the sunset that
evening was stunning.
Jander never saw that sunset on Toril, nor the clear night that followed. When the mist rolled in, it
engulfed him completely. His mind was as clouded with hot thoughts of vengeance as the forest was with
the weird mist, but the vampire retained enough presence of mind to realize that he didn't have much time to
return to his cave.
He took the shape of a bat and flew toward the dank underground lair he called home. The mist
would obscure normal vision. Bats, however, navigated by emitting high sounds that bounced off objects
and returned to sensitive ears. Jander was surprised to find that the shrill shrieks he produced as he flapped
his leathery wings never echoed back to him. Resolutely he flew on, grimly crushing any notion that he
might become lost in this dense, gray fog.
After an alarmingly long time, an echo bounced back. Jander fluttered to the ground, changing yet
again into his elven form. The fog was lifting. It dissipated as quickly as it had come, revealing a landscape
so completely transformed that Jander couldn't believe the evidence of his eyes.
For one thing, he had been fleeing the dawn. Judging from the position of the moon, it wasn't even
midnight yet. The elf frowned. The moon was wrong, too. It had been only half-full when he left, he thought
to himself. Now it was full. Even the stars bore no resemblance to the constellations he had come to know
through centuries of observation. Everything was alien.
What was going on? For a moment, Jander wondered if he had spent too many nights among the
insane. Perhaps he, too, had lost his reason. Whatever the explanation, as far as his senses could determine
he was no longer in Waterdeep. Judging by the unfamiliar stars, he wasn't even in Toril anymore.
He shivered, though the air was balmy and full of the scents of spring. Magic.
The moon slipped in and out of cloud banks, alternately obscuring and revealing Jander's new
surroundings. Instead of frost-crusted grass, the elf discovered he was standing on a road, well-kept enough
but clearly not often traveled. The shapes of the tall trees that fringed the side of the path were large and
seemed to hover over him. They were apple trees, in full bloom, and they scattered petals on the ground as
the breeze stirred them. The road wound through a pass up ahead, then took a steep downward turn.
Jander strode to the crest, and peered down into the valley.
Nestled in the valley was a huge ring of dense fog. From his vantage point, Jander could see that
there was a village inside the circle, and north of the road a forbidding-looking castle perched like a vulture
over the town.
A mournful howl rent the air, one quickly joined by a dozen others. A fell harmony was raised, and
the source drew closer by the minute. The wolf pack did not worry
Jander. He was no lycanthrope, but he knew what it was to run four-footed over the hills with the
scent of the quarry hot in his nostrils. He had yet to meet a beast that did not bow to his command.
The howls increased. Jander threw back his head, found the slight wind, and sniffed, catching a
wild, musky scent. As the pack cleared a small hill the moonlight caught their bright eyes. They were
enormous—great, shaggy shapes of shadow and darkness. Jander kept his keen silver gaze even with the
pack leader's. Wolf and vampire regarded one another for a moment. The leader glanced back at his
companions, then down at Jander again. He cocked his head and twitched his ears, considering.
摘要：

VampireOfTheMistsChristieGoldenHethatcansmileatdeath,asweknowhim,whocanflourishinthemidstofdiseasesthatkilloffwholepeoples.Oh,ifsuchaonewastocomefromGod,andnottheDevil,whataforceforgoodmighthenotbeinthisworldofours.—BramStoker,DraculaPrologueThelastraysofthedyingsunfilteredthroughthestainedglasswind...

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