Page 13 of Astarion

“It is,” she said, inclining her head.

“Miriana doesn’t like it.” Miriana was Astarion’s mother’s name.

“I am afraid that my lady is not concerned with that.”

“No,” his father said, “she wouldn’t be.” His eyes found Astarion and dismissed him. “Well, not as if any less work will get done around here.”

“Don’t say that!” his mother cried, suddenly dropping out of wild shape to land on the path. Astarion, who was used to his mother’s erratic comings and goings, didn’t flinch. The messenger did, then caught herself and rolled her eyes.

Astarion looked from his parents, in their shabby homespun, to the messenger, in her black-and-violet suede. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing!” Miriana put herself between the messenger and her son. “You, whoever you are, just go back and tell her we’re all very happy and we’re not coming.”

Astarion craned his neck to see over her shoulder. The messenger tapped her foot. “I am afraid, Lady Miriana, that is not an option. The terms of your arrangement are very clear.”

“But it’s too soon!”

The messenger met Astarion’s eyes where he peeked out from behind his mother. “How old are you, lad?”

“Twelve,” Astarion said, at the same time his mother said, “Nine!”

There was an exquisitely awkward moment while the lie hung in the air, and then his father said, “Astarion, go inside and pack for a trip.”

His mother let out a cry and turned into a swallow again, zipping frantically back and forth along the eaves. Astarion said, “But what—”

“Go,” his father said, in a voice that would have made a hardened veteran cower.

Astarion went.

—

The journey to Lady Erikinia’s home took four days, during which Astarion peppered the messenger, whose name was Bajia, with endless questions, and Astarion’s mother either fretted or flew, as the mood took her.

They were the best four days of Astarion’s life to date. The air was crisp, and the innkeepers were friendly, and he was on an adventure. He fell even more madly in love with Bajia than he had with his teacher back home. The teacher had been kind and beautiful and good, but Bajia carried a sword, and goodness simply could not compete. Granted, she was a good bit older than he was, but he was an elf, and she was a human, which meant that in twenty years or so, he would have caught up.

From Bajia, Astarion learned that the Lady Erikinia was his some-number-of-greats-grandmother, that she had an estate on the far side of Silverymoon and a townhouse in the city, and that she was a great lady, a high elf noble of the Ancunín family.

“Does that make me an Ancunín, too?”

“Possibly,” Bajia said.

Astarion considered this at great length. His surname had always been Ra’tchashar, the same as his father, which meant vine-keeper in some obscure Elvish dialect. Children at school occasionally called him “Rat Catcher,” but usually not for very long. He did not fight—was quick as a weasel at wriggling out of them, in fact—but he had an amazing natural gift for picking pockets. Where respect might have failed, bullies quickly learned that if they would like to keep their coppers, their chalk, and their homework, it was better not to get on Astarion’s bad side.

He liked Ancunín better than Rat Catcher.

What Bajia never said to him, but which he learned from what she said to his mother, was that there had been some kind of bargain. A bargain that involved Astarion.

When he tried asking her about it outright, Bajia clammed up. “It’s not for me to say.” Nor would any amount of wheedling pry it out of her. Eventually Astarion gave up—or, rather, filed it away to go after from another angle—and went back to asking her about the city.

This, at least, she was happy to talk about. In fact, she had been to more than one city, to Neverwinter and Baldur’s Gate and even Waterdeep, and she told him about the soaring temples and palaces of marble and the dark alleys and the docks where waves slapped endlessly against the pilings. He soaked up every word, building images in his head that were impossibly bright and colorful, full of people in silk moving among buildings that rose to touch the clouds.

On the last night before they reached the estate, they stayed at an inn. The innkeeper looked strangely at the regal messenger and the little blond boy in rough clothes but did not comment. They ate a meal that was better than anything Astarion could ever remember eating: fish coated in a sauce that held flavors he didn’t even have words to describe. He felt as if his tongue had suddenly learned to see in color. “This is amazing. This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten in my life.”

Bajia grinned and reached over to ruffle his hair. “Wait until you try dessert.”

When he went to his small room under the eaves, something rapped on the shutters. Astarion opened them, and his mother came flying through his window. She turned elven in midair, dropped onto the bed, and grabbed his shoulders. “Astarion, my dear, my love, you must listen to me. This is incredibly important.”

Astarion had never seen her in such a state. She was always flighty, always quicksilver swift, but it took the form of distraction, not terror. “I’m listening,” he assured her.