Andria Cardarelle - Ravenloft - To Sleep With Evil

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To Sleep With Evil

Ravenloft

Andria Cardarelle

For Troy

Acknowledgements

Thanks to the members of TSR's game design kargat, especially Bruce Nesmith, for shaping the

mysterious mists with their tenuous islands of terror; Bill Connors, for introducing Jacqueline Montarri to

the Ravenloft® campaign setting; and David Wise, who authored Van Richten's Guide to the Vistani

Finally, thanks to Barbara and Peter, "editors in relay," and of course to Brian, for patience,

encouragement, and for leaving my fingers intact.

PROLOGUE

The gypsy stood in a moonlit circle of blossoms, dancing slowly to the rhythm of the drums. She was

naked, concealed only by a curtain of wild black hair that tumbled just past the curve of her waist. On the

ground outside the circle crouched the drummers—three withered, silver-haired sisters. Like the dancer,

they wore no clothes, only a coat-ing of white clay that had dried and cracked in the folds of their sagging

skin.

If the women were aware of their watcher, they showed no sign. Roused from his slumber by the

throbbing of Vistani drums, the man had followed the sound into the woods and pressed himself into the

shadow of a tree, becoming one with its dark shape— a silent voyeur, held captive by sight of the

dancer.

The Vistana moaned with each swirl of her hips, turn-ing slowly in the moonlight. She was luminous.

She extended one perfect arm aloft, tracing a serpentine path through the air, fingers unfolding like a fan.

The hand dropped slowly, descending past her face and across her torso like a feather drifting to the

ground. She began to chant in low, unintelligible tones.

The moon overhead was swollen with power. The dancer threw her head back and stretched both

arms toward the silver orb, commanding its strength to flow into her.

The voyeur felt its power too.

He knew it was forbidden to watch—that no man, let alone a giorgio, a nongypsy, was meant to

witness this sacred ritual This was a Vistani dance of the iunaset the night of a full moon.

Yet no one noticed him. No clucking females sought to drive him away with shaking fists. No tribal

captain brandished a blade toward his throat. And no rauni, or tribal queen, threatened him with a curse

or the evil eye.

To the voyeur, this proved that he had powers of his own. He squared his shoulders and stood

straighter in the shadows, Soon, he mused, he would be nearly as potent as the god the dancer hoped to

summon. It could be that he was already. Perhaps that was why the drums had roused him from his

slumber, had drawn him into the dark wood; it was he she called, and not some elusive being.

He knew this woman; he had seen her before, in the Vistani camp, her dark eyes and wine-colored

lips fas-cinating every giorgio and gypsy male alike. As lord of the manor and leader of his own band of

thieves, the voyeur had been invited to stay by the campfire. There she had danced, her bright silks

swirling and her round hips rolling, until his longing had grown almost painful. Then, of course, he and the

other gior-gios had been dismissed from the camp. But no one would dismiss him tonight. And tonight,

the dancer was even more bewitching.

She snatched something small from the ground besifde her feet and held it aloft. It was a clucking black

hen. "Ravallah," she intoned. Strangely, the hen fell silent. "Ravallah-niri."

The dancer arched her back and held the bird above her, plucking its feathers until they fell upon her

breasts like black snow. Her body glistened with sweat, and the feathers clung to her damp skin.

"Ravallah-niri," she said again, pleading, almost in a whisper.

The voyeur saw that her face was wet with tears.

The dancer plunged her sharp nails into the hen, digging her fingers deep into its living breast, then

killed it with a twist of the neck.

The drumbeats quickened.

"Goddess of the moon," said the woman, "send me Ravallah. Let him pass out of the darkness and into

me, that he may show us the way through the mists. Show us the way home."

Blood streamed from the hen, and the gypsy clutched the bird to her heart. Her tears ran red.

The drumbeats reached a savage pace. The dancer placed her hands upon her thighs, letting the dead

bird fall to the ground. She shifted her weight quickly from one foot to the other, chanting, swaying her

hips, painting her smooth skin with the hen's darkening blood. The voyeur was spellbound.

She let her head fall forward, then rolled it from shoulder to shoulder as if the weight were too great to

carry.

"Ravallah come to me," she pleaded, amid a strange chorus of sisterly moans and sighs from the trio of

withered drummers. "Come and show me the way."

The voyeur did not know Ravallah, did not know who or what he was. It hardly mattered. From the

pieading intonations, he gathered that the gypsy's summons had never been answered. These lands were

not the kind where prayers were heeded—at least not the prayers of ordinary men.

But certainly he was no ordinary man. The voyeur dug his fingers into his hands, until his nails tore his

flesh and dampened his palms with his own blood. He felt drunk with the promise of transformation. On

this night he would will himself to be something greater. He would shed his weakness and cast out the

pathetic creature he loathed, the one who toadied to other lords. Who were these gypsies who camped

on his land as if it were their own? He had feared them once. Mow they would fear him—fear htm and

worship him.

"/ am Ravallah," he called. It was a lie, yet he almost believed it himself.

The drummers stopped. The dancer continued to sway.

"I am Ravallah," he repeated. He entered the clear-ing. A vein pulsed in his forehead, echoing the

rhythm the drummers had let fall silent.

He drew his sword, and the withered sisters stared with watery eyes at his blade. They did not rise. He

swung his weapon and sliced through the first crone's neck. The others did not cry out. He whirled, as if

per-forming his own macabre dance—a lunaset ritual to celebrate the harvest—and beheaded the

second drummer. The third sister bowed her head, then he spun again and struck it off.

The pale sphere rolled across the circle of blos-soms toward the dancer. When it came to rest, its

milky blind eyes gazed skyward, glowing faintly. Dirt and fragments of leaves clung to the moist stump of

its neck.

The gypsy dancer was frozen in place, her face awash with horror.

The voyeur stepped into the circle. He kicked the head aside, then took hold of the dancer's hair,

grasp-ing it behind her neck and pulling it backward to lift her face. Her only reaction was a vacant stare.

He brushed the dark tears from her cheeks, staining them with the blood from his lacerated palm. He

traced a path across her skin with a fingertip, meandering from her neck to her breasts, to the fullness of

her right hip. In its wake, his finger left a faint red trail The tendons on his hand were raised and taut, and

the skin was turning black. He did not notice. He was tost in a tem-pest of his own creation.

"I am Ravallah," he said, now for the third time. His tone was low and measured. "And I am here to

show you the way."

ONE

Marguerite's head snapped back violently, striking the narrow wooden planks behind it. A single blow

vanquished her slumber, and the dreams that came with it retreated into oblivion. Her eyes flew open.

The wagon plunged into another muddy rut and, for a sec-ond, held fast. The stout gray ponies snorted

loudly, jerking their heads in protest. Marguerite's skull struck the wall again. Then the wagon pulled free.

Night had fallen, and the gypsy caravan journeyed through a sea of darkness. The air was cold and

wet and pungent with the smell of pines that crowded against the road. Marguerite's head throbbed, and

her neck ached. She righted herself on the wagon seat, then pulled the green hooded cloak around her

like a cocoon. It did little to ease the chill that had invaded her body.

She stared at the driver beside her. His eyes did not leave the road, though what he could see through

the black shroud of night, she could not imagine. He was fully two heads taller than she and nearly twice

as broad at the shoulders. Beside him, she looked a child—not nearly the woman of twenty that she was.

A red gem adorned the side of his nose—a mark of vanity, but to Marguerite it resembled a blood

blister. A similar bauble pierced his brow, while a trio of small gold hoops dangled from his left ear. His

black hair, oiled and slicked close to his head, fell in greasy ringlets to his shoulders.

She sniffled at the cold air and caught his scent: a mixture of damp wool, acrid tobacco, and spicy

sweat. His name was Arturi, but she knew little else about him. It didn't matter, she supposed—not as

long as he fulfilled his purpose and ferried her to her new life. Fortunately, he would not be in it.

As a young girl, she had viewed the Vistani with awe, drawn by their aura of danger and their dark

physical alture. They had passed through her village each year, bringing ponies from the distant land of

Nova Vaasa or performing sensual gypsy dances to enhance the harvest. She had watched them in secret

{her father would never have approved), reveling in the thrill. In fact her first kiss had been bestowed by

a Vistana, a young rake whose lips had suddenly and lightly fulfilled an eleven-year-old's fantasies,

leaving her quivering but unscathed. Her childish illusions had faded with time, of course, but Marguerite

remained fascinated by the Vistani's wild, mysterious manner. Proximity must quell desire, she thought.

Now, sitting next to Arturi's rank body, Marguerite felt no attraction whatsoever. She longed for her

journey to be over.

As if reading her thoughts, Arturi drew the wagon to a halt. About ten paces ahead, the road forked

into two equally dark branches. Without a word, the Vistana stepped down from the seat and strode to

the side of the wagon, where he busied himself with some ropes.

"Why are we stopping?" Marguerite asked, craning around the seat to peer at him. Her head felt heavy

and dull, as if it had been embalmed while she slept.

Arturi didn't answer. Marguerite could barely make out the next vardo in line—the graceful upward

curve of its roof, the swaying sacks and darkened lanterns sus-pended from the eaves. The remaining

wagons in the caravan, two or perhaps three, were obscured by the night For a moment, Marguerite

wondered if they were still nearby, but then she heard the chickens clucking in their crates secured

beneath the vardos. A bear groaned; the beast was tethered at the rear. Inside these rolling chambers,

women and children slept. Marguerite, how-ever, had not been invited to join them. She was a

pas-senger—living cargo, nothing more.

Arturi grunted something unintelligible to the driver of the second vardo. The Vistana, an older male,

nod-ded and came forward to help pull at the ropes.

Marguerite's eyes began to penetrate the darkness. The feathered shapes of the pines came into view

alongside the road. Tendrils of slow-moving mist swirled around the base of their rough black trunks.

"Why have we stopped?" she asked again. "Are you adjusting the load?"

Arturi chuckled, and, for the first time since their journey began, he spoke. "You might say that. Soon

we'll be one woman lighter."

"This can't be the place," Marguerite protested. "Lord Donskoy would not have his bride deposited in

the middte of nowhere. And surely not in the dead of night."

Arturi arched his brows, mocking her with his smile. "Wouldn't he?"

She stiffened. Could the tribe have some treachery in mind? Were they breaking their end of the

bargain? No, they wouldn't be paid in full for her passage until the journey was done. But what if they

didn't care?

Marguerite pulled herself up to her full height, mustering her strength. She said evenly, "Your

arrangement with my parents was that you would deliver me to Donskoy's keep. We can scarcely be out

of Darkon."

Arturi scowled. "Darkon is only a memory now. This is the place, and we travel no farther. Donskoy's

own men will take you the rest of the way."

He and his companion freed Marguerite's bridal chest from beneath the vardo, then set it at the edge of

the road- The trunk was not much to look at, a plain brown box decorated with a few simple carvings.

Beside it, the two men laid a second crate from beneath the vardo, a black oblong box as long as

Marguerite was tail. It was crudely built, with planks that gaped along the side and heavy spikes driven in

at the corners.

"That isn't mine," Marguerite said. "I brought only the square chest."

"It belongs to your lord," said Arturi. "For the time being."

"What is it?" Marguerite asked.

Arturi shrugged. "Cargo. And none of your concern, I imagine." He glanced at her intently. "But

because you are curious, I can assure you it is nothing of importance. I believe the contents are ultimately

des-tined for Barovia."

Marguerite was intrigued; she had heard of Barovia once but thought it lay an eternity away from

Darkon, if it existed at all. She had no time to ponder the exotic name, however. Arturi reached up to

guide her from the wagon seat, and if he had been any more forceful, she would have landed face down

in the muck.

"How could we possibly have reached Donskoy's lands?" she asked. Her head throbbed as she

spoke. "I thought the journey would take several days."

"You have been asleep longer than you know," replied Arturi. "Besides, the trip went quickly—

thanks, in part, to your new lord's eagerness."

He leaned uncomfortably close to Marguerite, so that their bodies almost touched and his mouth

hov-ered just above hers. She smelled liquor mingling with his tobacco and sweat.

"Can't you feel your lord's presence?" He dropped his voice to a deep whisper. "No? Can't you feel

the heaviness in the air, the way it presses like a weight?I'

Marguerite stepped backward, pulling her cloak around her neck defensively. His boldness astonished

her.

Arturi pressed forward. "Your lord is not the only one who is eager. So are the others," he whispered.

"Can't you feel their old eyes upon you, watching? Watching and waiting?" He licked his lips. "You have

entered a sticky web, sweet giorgia. Take care not to get eaten."

Marguerite took a half-step back, then jutted out her chin. "!f you're trying to frighten me," she said,

"you'll have to try harder. I'm not the little fool you imagine." Despite her bravado, she shivered.

Arturi laughed. "What I can imagine and what you actually know are worlds apart, miss, with a

bottom-less pit between them. But just the same, I'm sure you're nobody's fool, save perhaps your own.

Now, I suggest you stand back even farther, unless you fancy being soiled as we pass." He pulled her

brusquely toward her belongings at the side of the road. "Sit here and wait. Donskoy's men will come

shortly."

Marguerite's head swam, and her stomach seemed about to turn inside out. !t was more than fear; she

felt queasy and flushed. "Please stay with me," she pleaded, changing her approach. "I don't think I'm

well. What if Lord Donskoy's men are delayed?"

Arturi turned his back and walked away.

Marguerite called after him, struggling to sound imperious. "I demand that you wait with me! Are the

Vistani as immoral and untrustworthy as half of all Darkon presumes?" Ho sooner had the words

escaped than she regretted them. "Besides," she added, "you won't get your full payment if you abandon

me."

Arturi continued to ignore her. Marguerite squinted into the darkness, following the Vistana through the

purple night shadows with her eyes. He passed his vardo and went to the fork in the road, where he

with-drew his knife and carved something into the trunk of a tree. Then he stepped into the brush and

bent over. When he returned, he was carrying a small sack.

He shook it at Marguerite. A soft jingle came from inside. "You see?" he said, jeering. "The deal is

com-plete,11 He spat on the ground.

Marguerite opened her mouth to protest, to ask him once again not to abandon her, but she stopped

short. It was futile.

Arturi climbed back onto the wagon seat. He smiled grimly at Marguerite. "Endari oitir. Miss de

Boche." It was the Vistani farewell. "Endari uitir."

Arturi waved to the driver behind, then gathered the reins and slapped them across the ponies' backs.

The wagon lurched forward and passed into the dark embrace of the forest, veering left at the fork. The

remaining vardos followed solemnly. None of the dri-vers gave Marguerite so much as a glance. Even the

tethered bear paid her no attention as it lumbered past.

Marguerite watched the last vardo vanish into the night, then heard a soft whinny behind her and

turned.

Something shone in the darkness—the glint of a sil-ver bridle chain. A sleek black horse took shape,

step-ping crisply toward her, straining its head sideways against the stiff restraint of the reins. One dark,

watery eye rimmed in white met Marguerite's gaze. The beast snorted, spraying gouts of steam from its

nostrils.

Upon the horse rode a man dressed in black from head to toe. A heavy cloak grazed the top of his

high boots. His head was covered by a black felt hat with a narrow upturned brim and a rounded crown.

Marguerite had never seen the Vistana before, yet he must have belonged to Arturi's tribe. He shared the

same brown-olive skin; the same strong, straight nose; the same high cheekbones and full, wide mouth.

But unlike Arturi's face, his was well balanced, and completely unpitted and unpierced; he wore no

jewelry except a single hoop, barely visible upon his right ear. The gypsy's clothing was simpler and

darker than Arturi's, and more somber than the Vistani garb worn even among the most austere tribes in

Darkon.

Marguerite marveled at the smoothness of the Vis-tana's skin; it seemed completely unlined, like a

boy's, though his expression and demeanor were that of someone at least thirty or more. His dark, wavy

hair flowed to his shoulders without pomade or grease to control it. It was shot through with white

around his face, creating a kind of halo against which his dark eyes gleamed.

He smiled at her, then tipped his hat. The eyes tilted downward at the corners, and they looked a little

sad.

Marguerite forced herself to break the stare. She nodded but said nothing. She did not want to appear

meek, nor did she wish to invite the improper com-pany of a stranger. Caution was warranted.

In a deep voice, the Vistana said, "Arturi can be off-putting."

She wondered how he knew.

"Nonetheless, he spoke the truth/I continued the man. His voice was oddly soothing. "Wait here as he

told you. Donskoy's men will arrive soon. And there is no safety in the cover of these woods."

Again Marguerite wondered at the extent of his knowledge. He spoke as if they knew one another, as

if they had passed the entire journey chatting together in some cozy conveyance. Prudence dictated she

remain on guard, but she felt the tension easing from her body.

The Vistana rode to the fork and reined his horse to a stop. The beast pawed impatiently at the

ground. Though full morning still lay an hour beneath the hori-zon, false dawn was approaching; the sky

had light-ened to pale gray, against which the rider and his horse stood in dark silhouette. The gypsy

turned toward Marguerite, tipped his hat again, then guided his horse toward the left fork. A roiling cloud

of mist suddenly drifted across the road, engulfing his form. When it passed, the man had vanished.

Marguerite sat on the oblong box Arturi had placed beside her bridal chest, suddenly more alone than

before. Waiting seemed her only option. She pulled her cloak near. The worst dangers lay behind in

Darkon, she told herself, with the fiends of Lord Aza-lin's secret police, those inhuman monsters who had

ravaged her sheltered and simple life. Ahead lay the promise of sanctuary, perhaps even affection.

She drew her knees up onto the long black box and rested her head upon her arms, her cloak flowing

around her like a tent. Her gaze remained fixed upon the road ahead. A trio of little gray-and-white

warblers flitted past; they were vista-chiri, the bright-songed followers of gypsy caravans. Except for the

birds and the lightening sky, the scene remained unchanged.

Marguerite tried to imagine the men who would come to retrieve her. Perhaps they would steer a

car-riage in which Donskoy himself rode. She wondered what he would think of her, whether she would

please him. So much depended on it. Certainly others had found her desirable. But if Donskoy knew of

one suitor in particular, he might be repulsed.

Creaking wood and jangling chains disrupted her thoughts. She started and rose.

A narrow old wagon drawn by a tired gray horse was approaching from the right side of the fork. The

cart groaned and clattered, protesting the kettle-holes and jagged rocks beneath its wheels. On the bench

huddled two men. The driver was tall, narrow, and rigid, like a wooden pole in a slim dark coat. He

looked even taller because of his peculiar fur hat, which resembled a black bee hive built upon his head.

Despite the uneven ride, he swayed only slightly.

His companion, in contrast, jiggled like half-jelled lard. He sat barely as high as the tall man's shoulder,

yet his haunches eclipsed nearly two-thirds of the bench. With his ridiculous grin, he looked like a squat

happy toad swaddled in tattered brown woolens. His elbows bowed outward and bounced with the rest

of him, creating the impression that he had just told a joke and was nudging his companion to emphasize

the punch line.

The wagon drew to a halt. The tall man tipped his head toward Marguerite. Like his body, his pasty

face was long and narrow, with damp gray eyes set beneath a pale silvery brow. A fringe of white hair

dangled beneath the rim of his hat.

The driver said, "Marguerite de Boche, I presume?" He lifted one eyebrow to punctuate the question.

The rest of his face remained strangely immobile.

Marguerite nodded, but could not find the words to speak.

"Allow me to introduce ourselves. I am Ekhart, and this is Ljubo." Ekhart waved at his oafish

companion. "We are humble servants to Lord Donskoy. It is our pleasure to escort you to your new

home."

Ekhart's words were practiced and polite, but he barely moved his jaw as he spoke; his mouth looked

like a long incision drawn horizontally across his face. The gash was rimmed by a pair of thin, bumpy

tjps— grayish pink and slightly raised, like scar tissue. At the corners, they were so dry and scabrous

that to smile might cause them to bleed.

Ljubo grinned ridiculously, exposing his broken and stained teeth. "So very nice to meet you." He gave

quick little nods as he spoke, a silent and staccato yes-yes-yes to underscore his words. Even after the

nodding stopped, his sagging red cheeks continued to jiggle.

"The feeling is mutual,11 replied Marguerite. "For a time, I was afraid no one would come."

"Yes," said Ekhart. He paused, as if annoyed by the burden of conversation. "It can be lonely out here

in the wild."

Ljubo oozed off the seat and plopped his feet onto the road. His legs all but disappeared as they

bowed to absorb the shock of his weight.

He waddled toward the cargo. Ekhart watched care-fully but made no move to assist.

Marguerite watched too. Ljubo's hands were stubby and round. He wore the tattered remnants of

woolen gloves, and his fingertips, left bare, were dirty and rough.

Despite his almost crippled appearance, the squat man readily hoisted Marguerite's bridal chest into

the back of the cart. But he struggled with the heavy oblong box, succeeding only in lifting one end until it

stood upright like a sarcophagus. Ekhart grunted, then reluctantly climbed off the wagon to help. Beside

Ljubo's doughy shape, the tall man looked brittle.

They secured the box, then Ljubo hefted himself into the wagon alongside the cargo, leaving the bench

free for Marguerite. He grinned again and gestured toward the seat.

Ekhart extended his hand. "Milady," he said curtly. He helped Marguerite onto the perch, then settled

beside her and reclaimed the reins. The horse turned the wagon through the neck of the fork, and they

jour-neyed in the direction from which the men had come.

Morning was fuil upon them, though no sun was visible- The air was still damp, and the sky glowed

faintly with a cold white light Black spruce and heav-ily fringed pines towered beside the road as far as

the eye could see, leaning toward one another as if ready to fall. Some had already toppled against their

neigh-bors, with tangled roots tilting out of the soil like bod-ies unearthed from the grave.

"Is it far?" Marguerite asked.

"Half an hour, maybe less," Ekhart replied.

Marguerite nodded and smiled faintly. She was glad the journey was near an end. Though part of her

feared the future, she did not regret her decision to leave Darkon. She could not. There had been no

choice.

"You're lucky," said Ljubo behind her. Ekhart frowned and glanced over his shoulder, but Ljubo

ignored the look.

"Oh?" said Marguerite. She wondered if Ljubo had somehow been reading her thoughts.

"Often this road can't be traveled at all. The castle gets sealed in for months at a time, what with the ice

or mud or fallen timber. Then, when we can travel out again, we've all but forgotten the paths. Some of

them—"

"Ljubo," Ekhart interrupted. "Do not prattle on like a fool/

Marguerite turned to smile at the man behind her. "Oh, but I'm interested."

"Of course, milady," Ekhart replied evenly, "but it should be your lord's pleasure to acquaint you with

your new home. He would be displeased—rather, quite disappointed—if we stole that opportunity by

speaking out of turn."

Ljubo fell silent and stared at his nails, which were caked with reddish brown soil. He began to pick at

the frayed dry skin around the nail bed, showering his lap with tiny flakes. He appeared to be

disintegrating. Marguerite returned her gaze to the road.

For a moment, she remained silent as well. But her curiosity was piqued. Determined to learn

something about her new home, she tried another tack. "Perhaps you wouldn't mind telling me about

yourselves, then," she said. "Are you native to these parts?"

"No, miss," Ekhart replied. He offered nothing more.

Marguerite was not daunted. "And how is that you serve Lord Donskoy?"

"We retrieve things," chimed Ljubo, "like—"

"Such as yourself, Mistress de Boche," interrupted Ekhart. "But 'retrieve' is not the best description of

our tasks. Ljubo does not choose his words wisely. [ am the stable master, and Ljubo is my assistant.

Therefore we handle matters of conveyance." He paused. A little muscle in his cheek pulsed, "Truly, it

would be best if you reserved your questions for Lord Donskoy."

Marguerite did not wish to vex him, so she remained silent.

The wagon journeyed on. Soon the dense evergreens gave way to a patch of beech and aspen. The

forest retreated from the road, leaving marshy ground in its wake. Dead grass and fetid brown pools

spread on either side, dotted with brambles and rocky outcrop-pings. The tangled shrubs had refused to

iet go of their withered leaves; they shivered as the wagon passed.

Marguerite inhaled deeply. The cool air stung her nostrils, filling them with the nauseating smell of

rotting flora. The road turned sharply, and her stomach twisted along with it. Bile rose suddenly in her

throat, and she choked it back. The wagon plunged once more into the forest. A black, icy stream

flowed along one side. Then the road began to rise, and they passed over a little stone bridge that

crossed the stream.

Ljubo nudged Marguerite. "Look there," he said.

Without warning, the keep confronted them. The massive block of gray stone thrust up from a low rise,

looming nearly twice as high as its width. A low cur-tain wall extended before it, crumbled and gaping,

with only the skeleton of a gate remaining. A higher wall extended from the left side of the keep, creating

a court. To the right, the ground gave way to a steep ravine. Round towers jutted from the corners of the

castle and flanked the entrance. Decay had ravaged the entire structure. Dark red-brown lichens now

spread their lacy fingers across the stonework and hung from the crenetation like sloughing skin. Tall,

narrow windows pierced the upper half of the keep. Where they were barred, the ironwork had rusted

and wept, creating long, dark streaks on the facade below.

"Impressive, huh?" said Ljubo.

Marguerite felt a fresh wave of nausea. She held her breath for a moment, then replied quietly,

"Indeed." The keep was immense and chilling. Like Ljubo, it appeared to be falling apart. She hoped the

lord of the manor was in better repair. Then she chided herself. Besides curiosity, pessimism was her

worst trait—and it was one she had intended to leave behind in Darkon.

The wagon drew to a halt before the main entrance. Ekhart helped Marguerite down from her perch.

"I must assist Ljubo briefly in the stable," he said stiffly. "Then I will return to escort you. Please wait

here."

"What about my bridal chest?" asked Marguerite tensely. Suddenly she felt a pang, as if parting with

her possessions—the last vestiges of her former life— meant losing more than cloth and a few mementos.

"Ljubo will bring the chest to your chamber," Ekhart replied. Then he climbed back onto the wagon

seat and guided the horse toward the doors that breached the wall flanking the castle. The doors opened.

Ljubo gave a quick little wave from the back. Then the wagon disappeared through the gap.

Once again, Marguerite stood waiting, deposited like a sack of goods. She shivered. Somewhere just

along the edge of her vision, she saw a dark shape moving. She looked toward the wood, but discerned

only the swaying of a branch. The shape flickered again, disappearing at the corner of the castle. Was it,

she wondered, a man perhaps? Someone observing her arrival?

Marguerite shook her head. "Your imagination," she said aloud. It was a phantom planted in her mind

by the unsavory Vistana, who took pleasure in creating unease.

Marguerite gazed at the long stair before her. It seemed to stretch and retract subtly, beckoning. She

was cold and weary, and simply standing made her more so. Who was this Ekhart to detain her? Wasn't

he, indeed, soon to be at her command? Of course, he might be more than just a servant to

Donskoy—his clothes and his manners suggested as much. She decided to climb the stair anyway, but to

wait for Ekhart at the top.

The steps were narrow and awkwardly spaced. Each had been worn smooth by the not-so-gentle

caress of countless feet. Marguerite tried to picture those who had passed before—loyal soldiers, lords

and ladies, a swarm of hunched and hairy monstrosities prepared to batter the door above. For some

reason it was easier to imagine a departure; in her mind's eye, men tumbled from the maw above like

broken teeth. She grew dizzy with each step she took. She began to count them— thirty, thirty-one—but

soon lost track.

When she reached the top, Marguerite fe!t disori-ented and weak. Perspiration had glued fine wisps of

reddish-gold hair to her forehead. Ahead lay the door, at the end of the short and gloomy passage

embraced by the flanking towers. The door's wooden planks stretched to twice her height and were

bound in rusty iron, The surrounding stones had been carved into an ornate relief of twisting vines;

clawed, grasping hands; and ghoulish faces with gaping sharp-toothed maws. The faces were pitted and

half the fingers had fallen away, as if claimed by leprosy.

Marguerite stepped forward, hesitantly. The doors were parted slightly, with the right side leaning

inward. A thin, dark shadow bled between them. Without thinking, Marguerite called out "Hail," then

added, "Is anyone there?" The voice did not seem like her own.

The doors parted farther, groaning on their hinges like a wounded warrior stirring on a field of dead. A

musty breeze caressed Marguerite's face. Suddenly her head felt even lighter, her footing unsure. She

swayed backward.

A stiff hand gripped her elbow. It was Ekhart She had failed to notice his ascent.

"You were to wait," he said sharply. His fingers bit into her skin, and she turned to look at him in pain.

He eased his grip. Apologetically, he added, "Excuse my impertinence, miss. But it is not for my sake

alone that I ask your cooperation—I am carrying out Lord Donskoy's instructions. Please heed what I

say. I am to escort you."

"I'm sorry," she replied. "I was growing so cold and tired. I was afraid if I stood still too long I might

not be able to move again."

He brushed past her and pulled the door open another foot. "You may come in now," he said evenly,

then passed through.

Marguerite did as she was told, slipping between the doors into the cavernous room beyond. It was

dark and dank. Marguerite imagined she could hear the sound of running water. She began to step

forward.

"Not that way," said Ekhart. "Never that way. You must turn, and rise again."

"What lies that way?" asked Marguerite.

"An impatient fool's demise," Ekhart replied dryly. He was standing in an open doorway to the left. A

nar-row staircase curved upward behind him. "Just a few yards across from the door, a pit plunges deep

into the ground. It is a defensive structure, designed by whoever constructed this keep. Invading hordes

were expected to rush straight on and plummet to their deaths. To follow suit would be ... suicidal. And

most unfortunate for one so young."

"Thank you for the warning," said Marguerite quietly.

The wall behind Ekhart was lit by a torch; it gut-tered En the breeze. When he was sure she was

follow-ing, he turned and ascended the stair.

The passage led to a large, torch-lit foyer that was almost completely barren. The dark stone floor had

^een strewn with herbs. Their scent was strange and exotic—a mixture of deep, grassy notes and a

sweet, earthy smell that Marguerite could not identify. They crunched beneath her suede boots.

Somewhere to right, Marguerite could hear a man and a woman speaking. The woman laughed.

Mar-guerite paused to listen further.

Ekhart clucked his tongue. "This way, Miss de Boche," he said. "I will show you to your chamber."

"My chamber?" asked Marguerite. "Does Lord Donskoy know I'm here?"

Ekhart stretched the dry skin at the corners of his mouth into something resembling a smile. "Lord

Don-skoy will receive you this afternoon, in the meantime, I would suggest you take this opportunity to

refresh yourself. Surely you would like to make a good impression. Perhaps you should nap. I mean no

insult, of course, but the journey has left you looking rather worn and tired."

Reluctantly, she nodded. She was, indeed, exhausted. The sickly sweet smell of the herbs had a

dizzying effect. She followed him to the next level, growing wearier with each step, It was as if the whole

castle were a soporific drug.

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ToSleepWithEvilRavenloftAndriaCardarelleForTroyAcknowledgementsThankstothemembersofTSR'sgamedesignkargat,especiallyBruceNesmith,forshapingthemysteriousmistswiththeirtenuousislandsofterror;BillConnors,forintroducingJacquelineMontarritotheRavenloft®campaignsetting;andDavidWise,whoauthoredVanRichten'sG...

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Andria Cardarelle - Ravenloft - To Sleep With Evil

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