Tales of Ravenloft

Dark Tryst

Marielle circled the campfire in slow, liquid steps, idly fanning her skirts as she moved. At the far side of the fire she let the strength dissolve from her legs and sank to the ground, alone. The low flames formed a curtain that separated her from the others of her Vistana tribe, those few who still lingered, not yet ready to surrender to sleep. No one paid her any heed. The dancing had ended, and the last strains of the fiddle had faded, drifting into the night sky like missive spirits sent from the fiddler's hand to a distant realm. The youngest gypsies had already succumbed to the music's spell; toddlers now snoozed in their mothers'vardos, while the older children lay haphazardly in the shallow sleeping pit lined with moss and blankets, sheltered by the circle of gypsy wagons. Marielle could hear one of the old dogs snoring beside them.

It was a queer autumn night. The leaves of the bonewhite birches ringing the camp had already paled and begun their death rattle, yet the air was warm and moist. It reminded Marielle of a story her elder sister had once told. The land was like a creature, Magda had said, a slumbering fiend, breathing long and languid breaths. In summer, the beast exhaled, spreading forth the heat of its abyssal fires. In winter, it drew back its breath, draining warmth from the world. Marielle wondered what event had stoked the furnace for this brief autumnal surge.

Restless, she picked up a stick and stabbed at the campfire. A fountain of sparks erupted, dancing ever higher into the night sky until at last they blinked and went out amongst the blanket of stars.

She turned her gaze to the others of her tribe. It was as if she were observing them from a great distance — as if they were real, but she, like the sparks from the fire, were somehow temporal and fleeting. Sergio, the tribe's eldest male, had spread his broad haunches across the rear step of his wagon. His billowing white shirt was open to the waist, exposing a sweaty mat of peppered gray hair. Three other men sat beside him on log stumps, whittling sticks and puffing on pipes. They murmured in deep bass tones so as not to disturb those who slumbered, occasionally chuckling at some private joke.

Annelise and her mother huddled beside a wagon nearby while Annelise nursed her newborn. Their faces were round and golden, forming the perfect trinity of mother and child, child and mother, mother and child. The tiny creature suckling hungrily was the only baby born to the tribe that year, but it was Annelise's third. Marielle wondered if she herself might ever know this joy. But there was no suitor in the tribe she fancied. Nor did anyone fancy her.

No twist or hump rendered her form imperfect; no angry marks marred her luminous skin. She was sinewy and smooth, with bewitching black eyes and long raven hair. But any desire she kindled among her cousins was tempered by fear or superstition. Dark, lovely Marielle. Better to look but not touch.

She had already killed once, some said, though none called it murder. Sergio had bespoken her to a cousin, a self-important simpleton whom Marielle despised. Before a fortnight had passed, the boy had died in his sleep. Sergio proclaimed that Marielle had inadvertently cast the evil eye upon him. No one dared to want her thereafter. Only Magda's threat of a curse had protected Marielle from harm.

But now Magda was dead. Marielle's last direct blood tie with the tribe had been severed. Magda's lover, a half-blooded Vistana named Scan, had been cast out of the tribe upon her death. Marielle wondered how long it would be before she suffered the same fate, before fear of her own wrath subsided and was overshadowed by Sergio's growing contempt.

Her tribe was small and insular compared to others in the land. By choice, they lived austerely. They formed few alliances and crept like shadows through the forests, struggling to escape the notice of malevolent forces. Magic such as Magda's drew unwanted attention, claimed Sergio. She had been more than a gifted seer. She knew how to draw upon the powers of the moon and could use it to weave spells upon those who wronged her. Marielle bore the same blood; the same power lurked in her veins. It was only a matter of time, said Sergio, before her presence would bring misfortune to them all.

Marielle moved closer to the fire. Her flesh grew hot, yet she did not move away. The flames offered the only comfort against the cold she felt within. She drew her skirts above her knee, first the gauzy red apron, then the green silk below, revealing a sleek and graceful limb. Her skin gleamed. She closed her eyes against the flickering light and imagined that her entire body began to melt into the fire.

Without warning, the vision took a path of its own. Her lashes fluttered apart. The scene around her had faded to black; her tribe and the wagons were gone. The fire still blazed as she sat before it. A single flame lapped gently toward her. It became a man's arm, white and cold. The arm lashed out, and the hand grasped her ankle, freezing her in place. Upon one smoke-white finger was a silver ring with a large ebony stone, flashing white, then black as the hand softened its grip and began to caress her skin, rising toward her thigh.

Marielle shut her eyes hard. When she opened them, slowly, her tribe and its wagons had reappeared. She gasped and sprang away from the fire, staring at the flames in disbelief.

A woman's voice called out to her softly. "Did you burn yourself, Marielle?"

It was Annelise, ever patient and kind. She alone gracefully tolerated Marielle's presence.

Marielle shook her head dumbly. She looked up and met Sergio's disapproving gaze. His companions stared too, eyes aglow in the night. They blinked in unison, unflinching.

"Just startled by a spark," Marielle lied. "I fell asleep. It's time to retire."

The others nodded, then turned their attentions to themselves. Marielle walked to her vardo and slipped through the back door, closing it gently behind her.

The tiny chamber was pitch black. She lit the lamp hanging in the corner, flooding the vardo with its amber glow. The wagon's opulence belied Marielle's low stature, for it had been Magda's before she died. A small portal was cut into each sidewall, one a mosaic of indigo and scarlet, the other leaded and clear. The arched ceiling had been painted to look like the night sky, with a smattering of bright yellow stars spread between three gilded and carved beams that spanned the roof like ribs.

A small mirror hung on every wall, not for vanity's sake, but for reassurance — to confirm to Marielle that she truly existed. She sat upon the narrow padded bench that doubled as her bed, examining her leg. It ached, but bore no mark.

Marielle spread a thin blanket across the bed and peeled off her clothes, then put out the light and lay down. Shadows played across the tiny windows overhead, echoing the dance of clouds across the moon. For more than an hour she lay there, listening to the sound of her own breathing. Her heart raced. Sleep was impossible.

Finally, she gathered the courage to recreate the vision, to imagine it once more so that she might come to understand its meaning. Magda's powers of inner sight had been uncanny; at times she could detect the remotest sign and discern its portent. In contrast, Marielle's skill was raw and undeveloped. Even when she unraveled an image and found its truth, she might not know whether it was a guidepost to the future or a glimmer of something past.

Marielle pulled the blanket away from her body. The moonlight shone through the leaded window, flickering upon her skin like an ivory fire. Slowly, she closed her eyes.

The white hand slid up from the vardo's floor to the edge of the bed — an albino python, forearm snaking behind. The skin was smooth and hairless, gleaming like translucent marble. The nails were hard and pale gray, like steel.

For a moment, the fingers touched her ankle tentatively, probing, exploring. Then they drew tight like a noose. Upon the ring finger was the ebony stone. In her mind's eye Marielle stared into the gem. It was a black pool, calling, drawing her beneath its surface to the mysteries below. Marielle felt herself slipping into its cool depths. She drank in the liquid. A silver heat flared in her lungs, then spread to the surface, rolling across her breasts and belly in a wave that came suddenly, then disappeared.

The hand moved, so slowly at first that she failed to notice its progress. The fingers slid like silk along her leg. When she pulled her focus from the ebony pool, she saw that the ring and the hand had reached her knee. The fingers were spread wide. The arm was now draped along her calf. The hand inched forward like a spider, drawing the arm behind it.

A chiseled shoulder appeared, then a man's dark and shining mane. The shadows on the floor shifted and changed, and she saw a masculine figure crouched beside her bed, completely unadorned. His head was bowed, concealing his face. The hand continued to snake across her leg, rising to her thigh, drawing the man to his knees. A storm of black hair slipped across her ankle. Hot breath caressed her calf, and she felt the brush of his lips. The hand crept onward.

Marielle caught sight of a mirror upon the wall. It flashed red, as if afire. Mirror to the soul, she thought. The hollow cold within her had waned, staved off by the ever-building heat.

Then the night gained a voice.

"Damius. ."

The hoarse whisper came not from the man, but from every corner of the vardo, echoing softly.

In the whirlpool of shadows above her, a shape ap- peared, the barest outline of a face. The darkness slowly relinquished its hold, and a pair of steel-gray eyes emerged, shadowed by a dark, heavy brow. Features took shape around them — pale, chiseled, and strong. It was his face, of that she was sure. Deep within the eyes, a flame began to burn. The lips parted, wide and pale.

"Say my name," he whispered," and make me real."

She did not have to answer; the night did it for her. Once more, a whisper echoed throughout the vardo, rising from every corner, vibrating through her.

"Damius. ."

Her lips silently mouthed the word. The face lowered to her own. Her lids sank lazily as his lips brushed hers. When she opened her eyes, the vision was gone. It was as if a lifeline had been cast out to her from the darkness, then pulled away as soon as she dared to grasp it.

For a moment she simply lay there, contemplating the dream. Who was the man? Was he even a man, or merely some message in a man's guise?

The moonlight pulsed upon her skin. Marielle knew the heavenly orb was nearly full, swelling with power. On such a night, Magda had told her, certain herbs could be gathered to make a brew. When drunk, the concoction would sharpen and guide a Vistana's inner sight. Sergio, of course, would not approve of such a harvest. It was bad enough that Marielle held such powerful magic within her, but to enhance it — to perform the rites that summoned spirits who wove tales of moments future and past — that he had forbidden since Magda's demise. Of course, Marielle had disobeyed him before. He did not have to know it this time.

She rose and drew on her clothes, wrapping a red silk shawl around her shoulders. Then she slipped out into the night.

Yuri sat by the embers of the fire, ostensibly keeping watch. But his head was bowed in half-slumber, and Marielle's footsteps were too swift and soft to rouse him. As she crept past the sleeping pit, the ancient yellow hound shifted and moaned. Marielle put a finger to her lips, and the dog sighed, then went silent. In three swift and fluid strides, she was free of them all. The forest closed in around her.

Beyond the tangle of birch and brush lay a deep stand of pines, an army of tall black sentries. The wind surged through the heavy, feathered branches, sighing. The scent of the pine was intoxicating, and she drank it in like wine. Her senses blurred. Yet, without question, she heard the trees whisper her name: "Marielle. ."

Swiftly she moved onward, bare feet padding across the dense carpet of needles. She knew the pines would not hold the treasures she sought; their fallen needles kept all other flora at bay.

Soon the pines gave way to oak, and the forest floor was cloaked with moss and rotting leaves. She scanned the ground for the precious herbs. For a moment, she felt someone watching her and paused to search the shadows for the source. Perhaps she merely hoped it was true. Both the herbs and the watcher eluded her.

She descended a slope into a low, damp valley where the wood thinned and was dotted with clearings. A warm mist filled the hollows, rising like steam from the soil. The vapors snaked round her ankles as she walked, swirling softly. Marielle paused to remove the shawl from her shoulders, wrapping it around her waist. Then she continued her search.

At last, she spied a patch of the rare plant she sought most: the moonflower. Each tiny white blossom formed a cup, bent upward to drink in the light. Marielle removed the shawl and spread it upon the ground, then tied the ends to form a pouch. Carefully, she began to gather her treasures. In all, there were fewer than ten.

Again, she felt the eyes upon her. Fear danced along her spine, mingled with anticipation. She rose slowly and turned.

The man from her vision was standing before her, but a few paces distant, his back against a tree. He was the embodiment of midnight. The white, chiseled face shone like the moon itself, framed by the wild mane of shiny blue-black hair. His clothing was fine and foreign in appearance — a white silk tunic billowing across the broad shoulders, a black sash at the narrow waist, black trousers tucked into shining black boots upon his long, slender limbs. Tendrils of mist floated around his body like faithful servants.

For an eternity, neither soul moved. Then Marielle dared to speak.

"Who are you?" she asked quietly, as if afraid another might overhear their conversation.

"I believe you already know," he replied. He smiled, revealing a glimmer of white teeth.

Inside Marielle, a spark flared. He was toying with her, a cat with a mouse, and she sensed she was no match.

"Damius," she whispered.

He nodded. Suddenly, he stood behind her left shoulder, his breath upon her ear.

"Yes — Damius," he whispered.

She froze, staring forward, not daring to turn. The space between them was palpable.

"What do you want?" she asked.

"What you want," he murmured. "I am your slave. Did you not summon me? "

"No," she replied.

Without warning, he had shifted. Now he stood to the other side. She did not move.

"No, then," he answered slyly. "As you would have it."

"You were in my dream. I did not invite you," Marielle protested gently.

"Nor did I invite you into mine," he whispered, words flowing as easily as the mist. "Yet here you are."

She started. The fog swirled around them. Was she really a part of his dream, or was he merely toying with her?

"Are you not real?" she asked.

His hand reached out to stroke her cheek. The softness of his touch was agony.

"What do you think?" he asked in turn.

"That you are danger itself."

"Perhaps to some. Never to you," he replied.

The distance between them narrowed. Only inches before, it was now no deeper than a layer of skin. Still, it felt like a chasm to Marielle. Pressure rose in the void.

"What do you want from me?" Marielle repeated.

"It is I who must ask that of you," he said.

Marielle paused. "And if I want you to leave me?" she asked.

"Then I would go. If that is truly your desire. "Again, his breath pulsed upon her neck. "But I think it is otherwise."

She did not, could not, answer. He moved closer, and she felt him against her. One arm came round her waist in a gentle caress. Involuntarily, she pressed herself back into his embrace.

"Shall I go then?" he asked, mocking her.

A voice within her struggled to say yes, but it was too distant, too faint. A storm had begun to rage through every tissue in Marielle's body, and its fury drowned all reason. Hot tears spilled from her eyes.

"No," she answered.

She felt her clothes slip to the ground, piece by piece, trailed by a tiny snowstorm of white blossoms. More than mere flesh had been exposed. But she did not care.

At dawn, Marielle was awakened by the cock's crow. She lay in her vardo. Her memory of the return was faint, clouded by the intensity with which she recalled the sensations that had preceded it. A ray of sun pierced the white window and fell upon her face. Instinctively, she rolled away from the light. Her legs and arms felt weak, her body heavy with exhaustion. She had no wish to rise anyway; her dreams held more interest than the day. In moments, she slept again. The dreams did not come.

When next she awoke, someone was rapping on the door. A woman called out.

"Marielle?"

It was Annelise. Without waiting for a response, the young woman opened the door and stepped inside.

Marielle groaned.

"Are you ill, Marielle?" Annelise asked, standing beside her. "It's well past midday. We assumed you were off wandering or gathering wood, but when you didn't reappear, I decided to check on you. Sergio will be wondering why you haven't risen."

Marielle drew the blanket over her head. "I'm fine."

"Then why not get up?" Annelise persisted, mildly annoyed.

"All right, because I'm ill," said Marielle. "Or I was. I'm better now. I'll be up in a moment."

"I'd help you dress," said Annelise," but I've got to get back to my baby. "She paused. "It looks like you did burn yourself last night, Marielle. Your leg has a mark."

Marielle opened one eye, following the gesture of Annelise's hand. Sure enough, a red streak lay upon her thigh.

"It's nothing," she said.

"Well, it's not bad, but you should be more careful," Annelise chided. "I don't suppose you will, though."

Marielle sighed. The woman was tedious. "No, I don't suppose I will."

Annelise did not hear her reply. She had already stepped through the door and closed it behind her.

Marielle rose and pulled on her clothes, then stepped out into the daylight, squinting. The sun was not bright, despite her reaction. Gray clouds hung low in the sky, promising a heavy rain. Three boys were playing with a stick and ball while a dog bounded beside them, yapping. The sound hammered through Marielle's head.

"You don't look well, Marielle. "It was Annelise, back again. This time, she held her baby to her breast. Her concern was genuine, if not deep.

"Perhaps I'm not," replied Marielle. She gazed around the camp. She could not bear the thought of remaining there through the day, and hungered for the night to return. "I think I'll go for a walk. It might refresh me."

"Now I know you're ill," said Annelise. "Can't you see a storm is coming? The weather is about to break. It'll hardly do you good to be soaked to the skin."

"I won't be gone long," Marielle answered. Without looking at her companion, she turned and walked into the woods, thinking that perhaps she might never return.

If she found him, she thought. If the previous night had not been a dream after all. She hurried through the pines and down into the valley, seeking out the spot in which they had met, in which they had lain together. He had promised he would return. Rain began to fall softly, and she broke into a run.

When she reached their trysting place, water was pouring from the heavens. The sky was black, relieved only by brilliant lightning, which tore across it like a jagged blade. Thunder filled her ears. She pressed herself against a tree. With each stroke of lightning, she scanned the clearing, desperately seeking any sign of her lover. He did not come. In time her legs collapsed, and she slid to the wet ground, huddled against her knees. So she remained for hours, tears diluted by rain. Still, he did not come.

Finally, Marielle rose, calling out his name. Perhaps he was lost in the tempest, she thought. Lost, just as she. She stumbled into the forest. The earth turned to deep, gluey mud. In the darkness she misstepped. The mire closed in around her, pulling her downward, swallowing her to the waist.

Again, she called out, then three times more. The mud rose to her chest. She flailed desperately, clutching at nothing. Her face and shoulders sank into the mire, and the mud muffled her screams. Then a hand clamped hard on her wrist, drawing her from the grave just as the world faded to black.

When Marielle regained consciousness, she found herself in a great cavern, lying on the ground beside a campfire. A black, scratchy blanket covered her body. She rose quickly, then hastily pulled the blanket around her. She was nude, and not alone.

Around the fire sat a dozen gypsies. All had blueblack hair and skin as pale as the moon, like Damius. In their ebony clothing they resembled mourners, while she herself played the role of the dead. They gazed at her calmly, unblinking, with eyes the color of steel. A young woman beside her touched her arm. Marielle flinched. The cold fingers stung her like frozen metal upon bare, wet skin.

"You have nothing to fear," murmured the woman, white teeth flashing. "Nothing at all."

Her words brought no comfort. Marielle looked about the cavern, searching for Damius. The chamber was immense, with corners draped in shadow. She could barely make out two passages, though where they led, she could not see. A smoke-filled alcove lay on the opposite side of the cavern, and within it another small fire glowed. A trio of elders sat around the fire. Only their stooped posture and their silvery hair described their age, for their white skin appeared smooth and unlined. The pale hair glowed against their black robes; in the dim haze, it was as ethereal as the smoke. One of them turned and met her stare. The eyes flashed yellow, then looked away.

A knot of fear took root in Marielle's stomach. By instinct, she pulled her legs close and clutched the blanket more tightly, withdrawing into a fragile, futile shell.

"Where is Damius?" she asked quietly.

"Very close," said the woman at her side. "But you are safe here with us. Is that not true, Niro? Play a little music to soothe her while we wait for Damius to return."

She nodded to a man opposite the fire, and he drew a shining black fiddle to his chin. Ghostly strains issued forth, filling the cavern. Marielle felt the music piercing her soul, and indeed, it put her at ease. Such beauty was not to be feared.

The woman beside her hummed the melody softly for a moment, calming Marielle further. "Damius told us you were near death when he drew you from the mire," she said. "Your body is weak. Drink this, and you shall mend."

She offered a cup filled with dark, bitter tea. Marielle drank it down dutifully, then set the vessel aside. The white faces swam before her, smiling faintly, each a copy of the other. She sank limply to the ground, twisted like a rag doll in lazy repose.

The roof of the cavern swirled overhead. Wet, glistening red lichen covered the stone, pulsing in the firelight like a living organ. Stalactites hung from the ceiling. Tendrils of smoke and mist caressed each glittering and jagged point, unhurried as they sought their escape through some hidden chimney in the rock.

"Yes, rest," said the girl. "I am Lizette, sister to Damius. He will come to you soon."

"Damius," Marielle echoed, tasting the name upon her tongue. Her eyelids sank, unable to bear their own weight. She heard a shuffling beside her, as if a small crowd were drawing near.

When Marielle opened her eyes, Damius sat at her side, stoking the fire. He turned and smiled, sensing her gaze. The white teeth shone like pearls.

Marielle struggled to cast off the vestiges of sleep. Damius reached out and stroked her face, tracing her jaw, brushing her lips. His fingers conjured a thin line of heat upon her skin, a tiny snake of sensation that wriggled down her neck and across her body even after his hand had lifted. Her strength slowly began to return.

"I'm sorry I was not here when you first awoke," he said. "I was gathering more wood to ensure your warmth."

Your touch alone is enough, thought Marielle, but she didn't say it. The rest of his tribe still looked on, as quiet as ghosts.

She rose to her elbow, pulling the blanket close.

"Where are we?" she asked.

"At my family's camp," he replied. "Our vardos are outside. We take shelter in this cavern when the storms come."

Marielle looked at the faces gathered round. Half were male, the others female. Their resemblance to Damius, and each other, was uncanny. A few, like Lizette, appeared young, perhaps no more than twenty, though Lizette herself was no longer among them. The others seemed roughly the same age as Damius, which was indistinct, somewhere past thirty, yet still prime. There were no elders among them; the silver-haired gypsies in the alcove had vanished. Nor were there any children. Perhaps the young and old had left the cavern and retired to their wagons.

Lizette reappeared, carrying Marielle's clothes. "They are dry now," she said. "I washed out the mud."

Marielle thanked her and took the bundle, then looked around for a place to dress.

"Shall I go outside?" she asked. "The storm seems to have lifted."

Lizette and Damius exchanged glances and smiled faintly.

"It has not yet gone," said Damius. "We are very sheltered here, and the sounds of the heavens can be difficult to discern. You can dress in the shadows. "He motioned toward the alcove where the elders had sat. "Lizette will stand before you, if you have decided to be modest."

Marielle rose and crossed the cavern. The elders' campfire had faded to ash and glowing embers, but its acrid smoke still filled the small chamber. Marielle turned her back toward the others. Lizette took a position behind her, watching as she pulled on her skirts and then her blouse.

"You are very lovely," said Lizette. "You needn't be shy among us."

The remark made Marielle uneasy. She quickly tied her shawl around her hips and returned to Damius. He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and kissed her neck.

"Let's go out into the woods," she whispered.

He smiled. "We will break away later when the storm has fully passed. But for now, my tribe would like to welcome you. We do not have many visitors. And one so special as you is rare indeed."

Lizette stood beside them.

"Damius," she said softly. "You must ask her."

"Not yet," he replied. "Soon."

"Ask me what?" said Marielle.

"It is not important now," he answered. "It can wait until after the dance."

The fiddler once again lifted his instrument to his chin and began to play, spawning a dark, hypnotic melody. The five women beside the fire rose and formed a circle. Each held a black silk scarf in her hand, tracing circles in the air.

Lizette stepped into the shadows, then returned with a small bundle. She unveiled its contents slowly: a drum with a livid hide, a pair of slender white sticks, and a string of tiny silver bells. She passed the instrument to the man seated beside the fiddler, then tied the bells around her ankle. When she had finished, she stepped into the circle of dancers.

The women began to move slowly with the music, hips swaying, arms writhing like charmed white serpents to the fiddler's dark tune and the drummer's sensual beat. Their black skirts swirled in the shadows, layer upon layer of silk and gauze fluttering about them like crows'wings.

Lizette left the group and approached Marielle. "Come and dance with us," she said, extending her pale hand. Her eyes were lowered seductively, and a faint smile played on her lips. "Come and dance with me."

Marielle hesitated. Damius's arm slipped from her shoulder, and he leaned in close. "Yes, join her," he urged softly.

The fiddler picked up the pace. The women opened their circle, and Marielle stepped to the center. A tempest of arms and silks whirled around her. Each body entangled her for a moment, then set her free as another took its place. Lizette joined her in the vortex and grasped her hands. They began to spin as one, turning round and round until Marielle grew dizzy and her legs felt weak. The music reached a crescendo, then stopped abruptly. Marielle and Lizette collapsed to the ground, exhausted. The dance was done. The five women nodded at Marielle and disappeared into the shadows, leaving only Lizette and Damius beside her.

Damius stood. "I must see whether the storm has lifted," he said. "I will return shortly. "He bent and kissed Marielle on the cheek. "I enjoyed the dance," he whispered. "I hope it pleased you as well."

Marielle started to rise and follow, but dizziness overcame her.

"Stay with Lizette," said Damius. "And keep her company. "When Marielle turned her head, he was gone.

"Yes, stay with me," said Lizette, lying at Marielle's side. She leaned over and kissed Marielle on the knee. "Damius has kept much about you hidden. Tell me about your tribe."

"There is little to tell," Marielle replied, withdrawing her leg. "I'm sure it would bore you."

"Not at all," said Lizette. "We meet so few others when we travel."

"My tribe also keeps to itself."

"Are there many of you?" asked Lizette casually.

"Twenty-seven," Marielle answered. "Twenty-eight with the new baby."

Lizette paused. "The baby. . "she said softly. "Such a gift. If it is healthy. ."

"It's quite so," Marielle replied.

"And so it should be," said Lizette. "Tell me, how old is this child? "

"Not yet a month."

"So sweet," murmured Lizette. "Is the mother young? "

"Just seventeen. But already she has three children."

"That must be very nice for her," Lizette said evenly. "And is the father handsome, like Damius? "

"Handsome," Marielle replied. "But not like Damius."

"No, of course," added Lizette. "Not like Damius. Are there no other babies but this one? "

"No. Only one child was born to us this year. Why does this subject interest you so? "

"Surely you must have noticed that we have no children ourselves," Lizette replied.

"I thought perhaps they were simply sleeping."

"No, not sleeping," said Lizette softly. "Gone from our midst. Ours is not a fortunate tribe, Marielle. We have been cursed with barrenness. But perhaps, you yourself might change that, should you decide to remain with Damius."

"He has yet to ask," Marielle replied.

"But he will," said Lizette, rising to her feet. "And you will say yes, won't you?"

Marielle did not answer.

"Of course you will," said Lizette. "It was meant to be." Damius returned and announced that the storm had ended. Lizette said good-bye to them both, disappearing in the shadows.

Damius took Marielle by the hand and drew her to her feet. Then he led her into the passage from which he had come. As their path rose, so too did the mists, until Marielle could see nothing around her. Damius gripped her hand tightly and bade her not to let go. They walked for what seemed an eternity. Marielle heard a strange sighing all around her. Then the fog grew less heavy. Trees took shape. They were in the forest, at the clearing in which they had met the night before.

Damius drew her close and kissed her fiercely on the mouth. Desire flared within her as if she were nothing but dry tinder and he the spark. She slid her hand beneath his tunic.

"Tomorrow," he whispered. She felt him press an object into her hand: the ebony ring.

"I must ask something of you, Marielle," he said. "And your answer will seal our fate. "He took the ring and placed it on her finger. At once, the silver band contracted, fitting her snugly. For the first time, she noticed the small white stones encircling the ebony gem. No longer beautiful, the ring appeared to be a mouth. Damius stroked the side of the gem three times. A tiny barb rose from the center, forming a sharp and eager tongue.

Marielle gasped.

"Lizette told you of our plight, did she not?" Damius said. "We are childless. It is a curse that you alone can lift. Draw a drop of blood from the baby in your tribe tonight, and bring it to me here. No one must see you draw the blood, else your efforts will be spoiled. It is a small thing we ask. Yet it means everything to my tribe, and to us both."

Marielle began to protest, but he raised a finger to her lips. Then he pulled her tight against his chest and whispered into her ear. "Do this for me, Marielle, and I will come to you tomorrow night and always. Fail, and I can never return. "Before she could answer, he stepped away and disappeared into the mists.

Marielle stood in the clearing, dazed and alone. She stared at the strange ring upon her hand. The barb had withdrawn. The white stones had vanished. Damius's words echoed through her mind: Fail, and I can never return.

She tugged at the ring. To her relief, it slipped off with ease. For a moment, she thought of throwing it into the brush. Then, tears welling, she tucked it into a small pocket within her skirt and began the walk back to camp. Morning broke, turning the woods from black to dull gray. By the time the familiar vardos came into view, the sun had begun to burn away the mist. The women in the camp were stirring, building a fire and preparing the kettles.

Marielle walked toward her wagon. Annelise intervened, a phantom from nowhere. Marielle brushed past her, but the phantom followed behind.

"You look dreadful," chattered Annelise. "What happened to you?"

Marielle cringed at the sound. She did not want this attention, nor could she bear this concern.

"I took shelter in a cave during the storm," she replied. It was, after all, the truth.

"I warned you not to leave when the sky was so threatening," chided Annelise.

"So you did," replied Marielle. "But I am all right, as you can see."

"Even Sergio was wondering where you were. If you had not come back soon, we might have begun a search."

"Sergio has not bothered himself with my whereabouts before," said Marielle wearily.

"That's not true, Marielle. But in any case, we are leaving soon. Sergio has decided to break camp tomorrow. I thought you'd like to know."

Marielle did not answer. Annelise clucked her tongue and walked away.

The hours of the day passed slowly, as if in a dream. Marielle completed her chores by reflex. All the while, she watched Annelise and the baby, and thought of the task Damius had set before her.

Sweet, unsuspecting Annelise. Marielle could simply ask to hold the baby, she knew, and Annelise would comply. Then the deed would be easy. Still, Marielle hesitated. It was only a drop of blood, a tiny prick, she told herself. But she sensed it meant more. How could she do this thing that Damius asked? Yet how could she not?

The afternoon faded. Marielle thought of Damius, and an unbearable longing took shape within her. It fed on her strength like a parasite, pressed hard against her chest, twisted around her heart.

As the sun sank past the trees, she seized her chance. Annelise was seated at the rear of her wagon with her baby while her toddling young sons wrestled before her. The middle child stumbled and fell, then began to cry. At once, Annelise went to his side and examined the damage. Blood streamed from a rip in his trousers.

"Let me help you," Marielle offered. "I can take the baby while you see to Nicolai."

She extended her arms. Annelise thanked her and presented the baby, completely absorbed in her injured son's plight.

Marielle stepped away. Then she drew the ring from her pocket and slipped it onto her finger. At once, it tightened to fit. She stroked the side three times, just as Damius had done. The barb sprang forth, and the stones at the edge of the ring appeared, a circle of tiny teeth, forming a macabre grin.

Marielle pulled the white blanket away from the baby's smooth, chubby leg. She had to choose the site of the wound carefully; otherwise Annelise might see it. She probed the cocoa-brown folds of flesh just behind its knee. Then she inserted the barb. The baby shrieked.

"What now?" asked Annelise, her voice rising with irritation. "No sooner do I get one son settled when the next begins to cry."

"I'm not sure," Marielle replied, struggling to remain calm. "You know I haven't got your touch, Annelise. Perhaps he just misses you."

Annelise patted Nicolai on the head, then turned to Marielle and held out her arms. Marielle released the writhing bundle to its mother, who cradled the baby and began to coo. Still, the creature wailed.

"This is strange," said Annelise. "Surely you must have noticed something."

"I did see a black fly," Marielle replied. "Perhaps it stung him."

"Oh, my poor, poor dear," said Annelise soothingly, searching the baby's limbs for signs of a bite. She spied a red mark behind the baby's knee and kissed it. "That nasty fly. Mama will make it better."

To Marielle's relief, the baby quieted.

She tucked the ring back into her pocket. The deed was done. Now, she need only wait until after dark. Just a few hours. Then she would slip away, never to return.

The hours dragged. The baby slept peacefully. Finally, Marielle bid the others good night and climbed into her vardo. She gathered her treasures — a few pieces of jewelry, a carving made by her father, a miniature portrait of Magda, crafted by an artisan years ago. Then she placed them in a makeshift sack. When she was certain only Yuri remained by the fire, she slipped out and entered the forest.

Damius was waiting at the trysting place, surrounded by mist. He held out his hand.

"The ring," he commanded. His voice was deep and calm.

Marielle pulled it from her skirt and presented it. He smiled faintly as he took the ring and laid it before a large granite rock in the clearing. Then he drew her into his arms.

"Say my name," he whispered.

"Damius," she murmured, drunk with anticipation.

Marielle felt her clothing melt away, one piece at a time, just as it had when she met him before. Then Damius too was naked, a pale statue carved from stone. A yellow flame burned deep within his eyes, mirroring her own internal fire. He pulled her to the ground.

The mist grew heavy and wet. White hands slithered across her body, leaving a trail of searing heat wherever they passed. The cool mist melted upon her flesh and formed tiny streams that raced toward the ground. Damius's pale skin merged with the fog, blurring, until only his shiny blue-black hair remained distinct, sliding across her torso. Marielle sank her fingers into the silken mane. She was delirious, adrift upon an undulating sea of moss.

Then she heard a woman's laughter nearby, soft and faint. She turned her head toward the sound and glimpsed a ghostly figure. Lizette was crouched before a granite rock. She was naked and white, with a mass of gleaming black snakes for hair. Marielle tried to call out, but the words caught in her mouth. Damius groaned above her.

Lizette lifted a tiny object from the ground and held it aloft in the moonlight. It flashed white, then black. She clutched it toward her breast, and it became a small, squirming creature, wrapped in a glowing white shroud. Lizette laid the bundle upon the rock. The mists swirled, consuming the form. When the fog parted, the offering had vanished. Damius, too, was gone.

Lizette stood in the clearing, smiling slyly. "Marielle," she intoned. "I say thy name, and make thee ours."

Then she too departed, drifting away into the night upon the sound of her own laughter.

Marielle was alone and cold as the dead. She lifted her hands toward her face. The fingers had turned black. Though she had never seen this sign before, she knew its meaning. Black hands marked those who had wronged the Vistani.

Then the screaming began, distant and faint. She rose, drawing her garments around her. The screams grew louder. They seemed to emanate from within her own head, yet she knew the voice belonged to Annelise. An image took root in Marielle's mind. She raced back toward the camp. She had to know if her vision was true.

When Marielle reached the tribe, Annelise stood by the fire, her face twisted and red with grief. In her hands lay a bloody shroud. The other members of the tribe stood around her. As Marielle approached, Annelise turned and held out the bundle. A tiny arm fell away from the cloth — limp, shriveled, and black.

"Devil!" rasped Annelise.

The other members of the tribe formed a line beside her. Annelise's mother stooped to the ground and picked up a stone, then flung it with all her might. Marielle felt a sharp blow against her forehead. Blood flowed down the side of her face. Another rock struck. And then another. Marielle did not lift her arms to protect herself. Warm blood filled her eyes, shutting out the mob before her. When the fourth stone crashed against her skull, she sank to her knees and cried out in agony.

She could not see the mists as they rose up from the soil to envelop her battered form. Yet somehow she felt them within, as they transformed her to nothingness and lifted her in their ethereal embrace. When at last they drained away from her body, the scene around her had changed. Her tribe was gone. So too were the stains upon her skin. She was pale and unmarred, glowing white like the swollen moon overhead.

Before her lay the mouth of a great cavern. Its walls were red and glistening. In her mind Marielle heard the faint cry of a baby. She passed her hands over her hard, warm stomach, and knew that the curse had been lifted. From deep within the cavern came the ghostly strains of a fiddle, summoning her forth. She walked toward the sound, ready to greet her new tribe.