James Lowder - Knight of the Black Rose

A flush of anger passed over the count’s face, and his dark eyes took on the character of burning embers, red-hot sparks. “You are a guest in my home and in my land,” he said with forced calm. “Let us assume you had good reason for attacking the gypsies. They have paid for whatever slight they may have given you. But do not think I will allow you to threaten me. Even with your curse, I am still your master in experience. Do not underestimate my wrath.”

Soth smiled inwardly at the count’s attitude. Had Strahd not taken offense, the death knight would have assumed him a fool or a weakling. Either conclusion would have precipitated an attack.

“My apologies, Count,” Lord Soth said, relaxing his hand. At last he returned Strahd’s courteous bow. “My journey to your land was quite unexpected and quite unwelcome. I desire now only to find my seneschal and travel back to my home.”

Strahd arched one jet-black eyebrow. “Seneschal? Do you mean the ghost who entered the land with you?”

“What news do you have of him? Is he here?”

“Alas, no,” the count replied. “He made it to this castle and attempted to enter without my permission. My home is protected by certain magical wards-quite ancient and deadly, even to the undead. This… seneschal of yours was destroyed utterly by one of those wards.” After a suitable pause, he added, “My condolences, Lord Soth. Were you close to the man?”

The death knight didn’t hear the count’s question. Caradoc destroyed? The notion was almost impossible to believe. Had he been robbed of his revenge against the traitorous ghost? And what about Kitiara? This would make finding her soul all the more difficult. Ah, the death knight cried inwardly, it would be worth almost anything to have had my revenge upon Caradoc. Frustration boiled within him, but something about the tale wasn’t quite right.

“How do you know he’s dead?” Soth asked.

Strahd shrugged as if the question wasn’t of the least importance. “As I said earlier, the wards that destroyed him were magical. While I did not witness his demise as it occurred, the enchantments on the castle are such that I can recreate almost any event that transpires on the grounds.”

“Then I, too, wish to see how Caradoc expired. Call upon your enchantments.”

“Now?” Strahd asked, incredulous at Soth’s audacity.

When Soth nodded, the count rubbed his chin. “I do this because you are my guest, Lord Soth, and because I wish to be open with you.”

With a slight gesture, Strahd called up a reduced image of the keep’s huge portcullis. The gate appeared faintly at the room’s center, and as Soth watched, Caradoc crept toward it. The ghost’s neck was broken, his gait slow and labored. There was no sound from the phantom scene, but the death knight guessed that something followed close on Caradoc’s heels; every few steps he looked back, his eyes wide with fear. He tried to pass through the portcullis, but a bolt of bright light struck him the moment he touched it. The grim result was over quickly. Caradoc stiffened under the violent lashings of the magical bolt, then opened his mouth to scream. Finally, he faded away, leaving no trace.

As the image faded, the count turned from his guest and studied the ruined frescos overhead. “This keep is well over four hundred years old. It’s hardly the luxurious place it once was, but-”

“You are obviously a mage.” Soth motioned toward the spot where Caradoc’s demise had played itself out. “Is that how you learned my name, how you kept track of my movement through the countryside-magic?”

Strahd sighed and faced the death knight once more. “I know a great deal about you, Lord Soth. More than you might imagine. As you have guessed already, the Vistani are but one source of information for me. However, it would hardly be prudent of me to reveal all my secrets to you. In time-”

At that instant Magda entered the room. A sleek floor-length gown of red silk flowed from her bare shoulders. The fabric hissed along the stone floor, stirring up dust. Magda’s bare feet peeked out from under the hem. “Thank you, Your Excellency,” she said. “It’s a beautiful gown, far more lovely than anything I’ve ever owned.”

The count watched her cross the floor, his attention ensnared by her beauty and simple grace. She had obviously found the pitcher of water he’d left out; the mud on her cheeks had been replaced by a rosy blush of modesty. She’d also put her hair up in a style that emphasized the curve of her neck. “A dress is a collection of cloth snippets sewn together. It is made lovely by the person who wears it.”

Magda curtsied in response, proud to wear the count’s gift and certain she had been given the gown as a reward for bringing Soth to the castle. Then her eyes spotted the death knight. She shuddered visibly. “Lord Soth,” the woman began. Her words trailed off into uncomfortable silence.

“The knight is still on edge from his journey,” Strahd said amiably. His eyes remained locked on the woman, on the soft white flesh of her shoulders. “Let us retire to the hall for a little food and some entertainment.”

“I do not require food,” Soth noted hollowly.

Strahd placed a hand on the death knight’s shoulder. “But the young lady does,” he said. “And I am certain you will find the entertainment to your liking.”

With a single, long stride, Soth stepped from the count’s grasp. The fact that the nobleman’s hand, though gloved, looked none the worse for its contact with his form did not escape the death knight. “I do not see the need, Count. I want information, not diversions.”

Magda froze, afraid to disturb the tense silence that settled on the room. Strahd and Soth remained a few feet apart, their gazes locked. Without raising his arm, the count secretly traced a pattern in the air with his fingertip. Neither the knight nor the Vistani noticed the casual movement.

A high keening rang out in the next room, the sound of a violin played masterfully. The music crept into the hall where Strahd and his guests still stood. “Ah, he’s started without us,” the count noted, feigning mild surprise.

As the mournful music continued, a look of puzzlement crossed Magda’s face. “There was no one else in there a moment ago… and there is no way into the room except through here.” She moved to the open door and peered into the massive hall where she had changed clothes.

Three crystal chandeliers of enormous size lit the room. Pillars of stone stood at attention along the white marble walls. The long wooden table dominating the hall was covered by a fine satin tablecloth, as spotlessly white as the ceiling and walls. The clothes Magda had tried on-and the rags she had discarded-covered the table close to the door; place settings for three, along with steaming dishes of meat, soups, and vegetables, lay at the opposite end.

The food and the dishes had not been there when Magda had changed clothes a few moments earlier, yet the Vistani barely noticed the roast or the red wine, even though her stomach was quite empty and her head light from eating so little during the day. No, her attention was riveted by the lone figure at the other end of the hall.

The musician stood before a massive pipe organ, framed by two mirrors that ran along the wall from the floor to the ceiling. A multicolored scarf covered his head, a black scarf protected his neck, and a sash girded his thin waist. His black pants were torn and dotted with blood, as was the billowing white shirt he wore. His head bowed, the man moved stiffly as he played his ancient violin, for all the world like a mechanical toy Magda had seen once in the village.

His song ended, the musician lifted his head. Magda screamed, “Andari!” then staggered a few steps forward.