Sometimes I scream until my throat is raw and I am overwhelmed with despair.
Of course, this is what he desires. He plays a cruel game, always anticipating the methods in which I may thwart him. Every small comfort I managed to wrestle from this cursed existence he has quashed.
The most brutal of all his punishments is that I am no longer visited by his Brides. At one time, my greatest pleasure was derived from the Brides spending cherished hours at my side. I miss Ariana’s laughter, Elina’s dark humor, and Cneajna’s sweet touch. I do not know how long it has been since I last beheld the beauty of Cneajna’s face. I miss her profoundly, but Vlad will keep her far away to punish me.
The red-haired Bride, Lady Glynis from England, only visited a few times. She was lovely, strong, and rebellious. When I gazed into her eyes, I predicted she would break Vlad if he attempted to recreate the love he once shared with me with her. Her hatred for him was far deeper and stronger than mine could ever be and he would misjudge her fury for passion. I would have adored her if she had survived him. It is a pity that he has once more destroyed a woman that dared to stand against him.
It is because of Lady Glynis that I am utterly alone. He feared that she would divulge where he had hidden me to his enemies and cast a spell to move the mausoleum far from the castle. In all my years trapped in this place, this is the closest I have teetered to losing this battle of wits. I am surrendered to the truth that I am mostly mad and only experience bouts of sanity.
It is raining again. The water seeping through the crack in the roof has left me sodden. Water trickles off the edges of the bier. The smell of mold and wet stone has finally driven out the reek of burning flesh. The torches are long extinguished and darkness enfolds me.
For several nights I have not experienced the overwhelming tug to return to the past and been free of the excursions that venture deep into my memories. Instead, I have laid here imagining all sorts of vengeance on Vlad, for I must gird myself with anger to prevent myself from weakening when he does return. I am so desperate to escape this place that there are moments when I consider subjugating my will to his power so I can be liberated from this suffering. But I cannot. No matter how much I love him and how much I desire release from this wretched stake, I cannot allow myself to be his slave. It would be a betrayal of those I love and of my own dark soul.
Yet, my misery tempts me to succumb to Vlad. I am famished. My flesh is shriveling upon my bones. My swollen tongue presses against my sharp teeth, yearning to lap up blood. Thunder cracks overhead. I pray to a God who does not hear me for some weary traveler to take refuge in my mausoleum so I might feed.
Will I ever be free of this place?
Will any of those who love me ever find me?
The strange vision of Ágota being lifted away by the manifestation of Vlad’s ward bedevils me. It must be a creation of my imagination and I rebuff its false hope. I was witness to Ágota’s fate at Vlad’s hands and remember her last words to me. It is foolhardy to even entertain the thought of her reaching through the Veil to touch my thoughts. It has been a hundred years since I lost her.
I am mad.
Simply mad.
“No, you are not. I am. Mama always said so,” Ágota answers.
“You are not here,” I whisper, closing my eyes, hoping to evade yet another vision.
Ignoring me, she continues, “You are the sensible one. The one destined for the life of a noblewoman.”
A vast green field lined with thick woods emerges from the darkness behind my eyelids. The endless blue sky is clear and birds soar high on the wind currents. The mountain summits looming over us are a hazy deep blue. The breeze is cool against my heated flesh and ruffles the wildflowers around me. Insects dart about the meadow, buzzing loudly.
Ágota strides through the sea of tall grass, the fingers on her right hand lightly skimming over the green blades that reach her waist. In her other hand is a black raven’s feather that she twirls about by the quill. It is spelled to reveal any dangers lurking nearby and I am glad to see it fluttering in the wind. Her long hair ripples about her shoulders like a cape, and for the first time, I can see shades of our mother’s beauty in her face. The heavy embroidered bag she claimed from our garden bounces against her hip as she walks. Along our journey, she’s traded the precious objects our mother had stored in the bag for food, ale, and heavy cloaks for us to wear. No matter what she adds to it, the bag never bulges.
I trod along beside her, my fingers gripping a walking stick Ágota made for me. At the top is a knot in the wood that always faces in the direction of our destination no matter how many times I spin it around. I fancy it is some sort of magical eye and keep waiting for it to open. The black feather and the staff are the only magic Ágota’s permitted in Styria. The White Woman of the Wood allowed us to pay passage across her territory but forbade Ágota to cast spells. My sister agreed, much to my consternation.
I do not like walking great distances.
I would much rather fly.
“If I am a noblewoman, will I have a carriage?”
“Most certainly. Pulled by the most beautiful of horses.”
“Will I live in a fine house?”
“Oh, yes! And you will have servants to do your bidding!”
I smile with delight at the thought of not having chores. “Will I have fine dresses?”
Ágota hesitates, the feather stilling. Staring off into some far distant place, she says, “I see you in a beautiful crimson dress covered in gold embroidery. Around your throat is a gold necklace with sparkling rubies. Yes, I see you as a very fine noblewoman.”
“I do like that!”
“I thought you would. The closer we draw to the Kingdom of Hungary, the more vivid your future becomes. I do not see all of it, of course. Your choices may alter your path, but the future before you right now is very lovely.”
“Will I like Hungary?” I ask.