To Sleep With Evil

  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 coat­ing 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, turn­ing 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 fas­cinating 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 clear­ing. 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 per­forming 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 blos­soms 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, grasp­ing 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 tem­pest 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 sec­ond, 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 sus­pended 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, how­ever, had not been invited to join them. She was a pas­senger—living cargo, nothing more.

  Arturi grunted something unintelligible to the driver of the second vardo. The Vistana, an older male, nod­ded 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 des­tined 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 hov­ered 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 bottom­less 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 with­drew 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 com­plete,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."
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  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 dri­vers 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 sil­ver bridle chain. A sleek black horse took shape, step­ping 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 com­pany of a stranger. Caution was warranted.