Page 10 of Astarion

The trick was to find a spot where it didn’t look like you were trying to hide. Anything that looked like stealth would draw the old man’s attention like a hawk spotting a mouse. You sat somewhere that just happened to be slightly out of his line of sight, and you did something boring to watch, like reading a book, and didn’t make any large gestures. You spoke quietly but didn’t whisper. If you got up to fetch more wine, you didn’t skulk, and you moved deliberately, not quickly. And you never, ever laughed out loud.

Astarion found a novel on a shelf carved with what were either vultures done well or hawks done badly, and he settled in. He’d enjoyed reading when he was alive. As a child, his mother had been proud of how precocious his reading skills were, and his father had been irritated that he was reading instead of working. When he began studying the law, he’d been buried in books on legal theory and had stopped reading for pleasure. Being immortal had finally allowed him to catch up on the backlog. It was just a shame that Cazador’s taste in fiction was as terrible as his taste in décor.

It was, thankfully, a fairly dull night. Cazador was reading a book of his own, winding a dark lock of hair around his finger. Petras sat on the floor beside the throne, receiving the occasional pat, as if he were a favored hunting dog. Dalyria was still in her laboratory, presumably continuing to crush beetles. Yousen sat on a couch opposite Astarion, head in his hands, looking either exhausted or bereaved or both. Aurelia occupied a corner, drawing in a sketchbook, and simply ignored Violet’s attempts to goad her.

By the time the pillar candles had burned down an inch, Violet had had enough. She stalked over to Cazador, draped herself over the arm of the throne, and said, in a childish whine, “Father, I’m bored.”

As a tactic, it was revolting but effective. Cazador claimed to think of his spawn as his children, and he could often be cajoled by Violet’s little-girl act. Tonight, however, his book was clearly holding his interest, so all he said was, “Only boring people are bored, dear.”

She pouted. “Astarion stabbed me earlier.”

“Did he, now?” Cazador turned a page. “I’m sure you deserved it.”

She stuck out her lower lip. Astarion rolled his eyes. Cazador didn’t glance up. “Petras, play with your sister.”

Petras looked at Violet with distaste. “Yes, sir.”

Violet clapped her hands together with girlish glee. “Let’s see how much flesh I can carve off you before you faint from blood loss!”

“Or we could play dragonchess.”

“Dragonchess is boring. Father—”

“Yes, yes,” said Petras hastily. “Why don’t we play dragonchess, and if you win, you get to stab me?”

Violet paused, clearly torn. “What if you win?”

“I get to stab you.”

Violet scowled. “If I win, I want to stab you and Yousen.”

The gnome looked up, hearing his name. “What?”

“Fine by me,” Petras said. He extracted a board and pieces from a nearby bookcase.

“You can’t just decide that Violet gets to stab me!”

“Don’t worry your little gnome head,” Petras said, shuffling. “I don’t plan to lose.”

Aurelia turned slightly so that she could sketch the players. Astarion abandoned his book and drifted closer to watch the game. Violet was arguably cleverer than Petras—not a difficult feat—but she was also more impulsive. The human was an arrogant sod, but he was good at dragonchess.

I suppose everyone’s good at something. The gods know that it isn’t sex. Astarion had bedded Petras once, not long after he’d been turned, and once had been more than enough. He’d been one of those sorts who assumed that he was doing you a favor by allowing you to warm his bed. Astarion had been mildly surprised Petras hadn’t shouted his own name when he came.

“When I win, I think I’ll put out one of your eyes,” Violet said cheerfully.

“When I win, I think I’ll cut your hair.”

Violet’s eyes narrowed to ruby slits. “Don’t even think about it.”

“Then I suggest you pay closer attention to the board.”

Halfway through the game, Cazador abruptly got to his feet, book still in hand, and left the room. The spawn stared after him, then at one another. Astarion could practically hear his siblings thinking—Is that it? Is he gone for the night?

Two or three minutes dragged by during which no one spoke. Then Aurelia got to her feet and said, to no one in particular, “I’ll check.”

She left the hall. Yousen drummed his fingers nervously on the edge of the couch until Astarion wanted to stab the gnome himself.

When Aurelia returned, Dalyria was with her. The elf went straight for the meal laid out on the table. “He’s gone to his ritual room,” she said around bites of cheese.