He made no secret of his opinion that my own chambers in Castle Ravenloft were wholly inadequate to the task. If his purpose was to annoy me he did not succeed. I came to expect the worst from him at all times, therefore he was hard-pressed to surprise me with such petty complaints. Besides, I had the idea that much of his criticism was derived from some deeply hidden pang of inadequacy within. Caviling away on this point or that was probably how he made himself feel better, irksome for me to listen to, but if that was part of the price of my freedom, then so be it.

The one thing he could not find fault with was my library. In two centuries I'd amassed a respectable number of books on the Art, many of which he'd never heard, so the flow of disparaging comment stopped the moment he entered the room. His silence as he surveyed the ranks of volumes was compliment enough.

Out of necessity I gave him the run of the library. He needed all the knowledge at my disposal to help him understand the nature of the magic (or whatever it was) that brought him to Barovia. His initial interest had to do with how the Mists had come about in the beginning, though I was loath to give him the full and true story. I referred him to the public record of that night for the time being, hoping its dry wordage would encourage him to seek information from actual observation of the Mists rather than simply reading about them. It was more preferable to me that he should- with his current superior ability in the Art-devise an escape without having to know the sad business of my Tatyana's death.

There were a few select tomes he did not come into contact with, which I hid elsewhere in the castle-like the book with the black pages Alek Gwilym had brought. Just because the thing was no longer forthcoming with information for me did not mean it would be the same for another. I was not about to take the chance. I also denied him the knowledge of the existence of my private journals. Though they contained many important details on Barovia's history and my own magical observations, they were my personal records, holding thoughts sacred to myself that I would share with no one. Not that he noticed any of this or was ever given a hint of a chance to do so.

With a portion of the recently collected taxes to finance the project, I arranged for the hiring of workers to begin massive repairs to the manor house. Azalin had some very specific changes to make to the structure, including the complete gutting of one wing and the use of its foundation to support a large circular tower.

The shape of it was not lost on me; the image I'd seen in Ilka's crystal ball was yet fresh in my mind. I wondered just how far in the future that event might be.

Azalin required that the tower be massively reinforced, and I first thought it was also meant to serve as a keep until a talk with the engineers and master builders cleared my suspicions. The stress points in the construction were designed to withstand force from within and keep it contained rather than assaults from without. I either had taken on an insane dreamer as a guest or he was indeed some sort of genius when it came to applied spell work.

The short summer months progressed, and the future rapidly became the present as the walls went up, course by course. By the end of autumn the tower was finished, other outside repairs were complete, the roof solid, and the walls intact. Interior modifications could proceed when the winter weather abated enough to allow the carpenters to travel. Azalin supervised much of the work himself, and I made frequent visits, presenting him with many questions about the dimensions and purpose of his design.

"The exact placement of the stones in this pattern is necessary to maintain the integrity and power of the spells," he said rather haughtily, as if I should know this fact. "Your own facilities lack this; I'm surprised you've accomplished as much as you have."

"It is not as though any of it is especially difficult for me," I murmured.

"Because the spells you have are not especially difficult."

"They tend toward action, not reaction, as would seem to be your intent with this project."

"The reaction we'll achieve here will be greater than any you've known before."

"One would hope so, considering the effort involved."

To this he gave out with a snort bordering on contempt, this implication being that what I viewed as effort, he thought of as trivial. Fortunately-and far too often-I practiced the habit of shrugging off my personal reactions to his slights, for it would seem a shame to begin a war based solely on my losing patience with his bad manners.

He had overlooked-or rather left out-the fact that my kind of spell work was quite different from his own, relying less on props and cumbersome constructions and more on verbal commands to summon and manipulate power. Not that he lacked in knowledge of that particular school, this was only his grating boorishness showing.

Most of the time he was not such trying company, which was fortunate when winter set in, effectively restricting him within the castle walls as the snow drifts smothered the mountain roads for weeks at a time. Then would he-in keeping with our pact-impart to me detailed instruction in the Art. I was glad to have had the wisdom to persuade him to abide by the sacred custom of host and guest else things might have gone badly for me. In a very short while I came to see his magical skills were vastly superior to mine. Without our agreement I would have come to a swift end, for he was of a type to be bold enough to take advantage of a convenient opportunity. The rule of Barovia-and my subsequent removal as a threat-must have certainly tempted him.

Beyond that, though, he was an excellent teacher and I became his apt student. Once past personal animosities and entrenched in the intricacies of the Art he was a transformed personality. There we found common ground based on a fascination for the successful weaving of spells. My self-taught ways had barely been adequate to the task, now did I begin to truly fulfill my potential. After a few months under his tutelage I tripled my learning, taking myself to new heights I hadn't dreamed myself capable of reaching before.

All my waking time I devoted to the practice and perfection of what he imparted, discovering as I mastered each new casting that my proficiency over the spells I already knew increased by that much more in effectiveness and surety. So far did I pursue my knowledge that more and more I delved into the realms of devising and developing new magicks. They were often based on the spells learned from him, but carrying them a few steps beyond what he gave me. He was not adverse to this and watched my work closely, but was strangely reluctant to experiment as well, even with those that he designed himself. He would pass the experiment to me to run for him.

"Why not test it yourself?" I once asked when he gave me a sheet of fine vellum, the new spell he had composed inscribed on it in gold lettering. I was to follow its instruction and see if it succeeded.

"Is it too complicated for you to learn?" he snapped back.

"Hardly, but I have never heard of any master of the Art who was so willing to give his work to another to try."

In all the dissertations in the treatises I'd read and according to the few people I'd spoken with on the subject, such deference was comparable to having someone substitute for you on your wedding night. Most spell-casters are bluntly penurious about sharing their secrets with any but their chosen apprentices and even then are careful over how much they are willing to bestow when it comes to new castings, but Azalin seemed unconcerned with such restraints.

"I am busy enough with other projects," he said. "I have taken it this far, now it is your turn to convey it to completion or to failure. Execute the spell and then report to me the results, but until then bother me not with your idle questions."