Page 18 of Astarion

Inside, the ceiling soared upward, at least three stories, and the roof was made of glass. A live tree grew in the center of the foyer, ringed by blue tiles, and an immense staircase rose up behind it, the railings so deeply carved that they looked in danger of falling apart at a touch.

“If you will follow me,” the man named Wendin said with another bow.

“I know the way,” Astarion’s mother muttered, but she turned to follow him, reaching for Astarion’s hand. He avoided it. I’m not a baby, he thought resentfully, even if the size of the house made him feel very small.

Wendin led them through a series of halls and doorways. The first hallway was light and airy, the windows open to the breeze. The second hallway, though, was wallpapered in deep red, and the tile floor gave way to carpet so thick that their footsteps were swallowed up without a sound. The air smelled of incense, though not one he recognized from the little chapel in the village.

Astarion glanced over his shoulder and saw Bajia bringing up the rear. She winked at him, and the flicker of alarm he’d been feeling died away.

The third doorway opened into a long room, lit by lamps on chains hung from the ceiling. The windows were tightly shuttered, and the smell of incense was thicker here. Despite the lamps, he had the impression of an underground lair, the sort of place where a dragon might curl up and dream of treasure.

At the far end, on a chair that wasn’t quite a throne but also wasn’t not a throne, a figure waited.

Wendin closed the door behind them. Astarion’s mother took a deep breath and struck out across the expanse of carpet toward the figure. Bajia tapped him lightly on the shoulder, and Astarion started, then followed her.

As he grew closer, he saw the figure more clearly. Lady Erikinia—it had to be her—was the oldest elf he had ever seen in his life, her skin sagging from her skull into jowls and a deeply furrowed neck. She wore some kind of headdress with fluttering black scarves hanging from it, and gems gleamed in her pointed ears. She was wrapped in a dressing gown made of rich scarlet brocade that gleamed in the lamplight, and her long, spidery fingers were wrapped around a steaming mug.

“Granddaughter,” she said.

Her voice was a revelation. Someone that old should have a thin, frail voice, either high and whispery or cracking when she spoke. But Lady Erikinia’s voice was rich and buttery, and it wrapped around the listener like a comforting hug.

Astarion’s mother squared her shoulders, looking not at all comforted. “Grandmother,” she said grimly.

“You certainly did not make yourself easy to find. Bajia spent months figuring out where you ended up.”

His mother said nothing.

“And this must be young Astarion. Come here, young man, and let an old woman look at you.”

He took a few steps forward and made his clumsy bow. “It’s nice to meet you, Great-Grandmother.”

Lady Erikinia smiled like a skull. “And you, Great-Grandson. Though something must be done about that accent…and those clothes! Dear me, Miriana, if you were in such straits, you should have written. I know that we have not always seen eye to eye, but I would not have begrudged a copper of it, if I had known.”

“I did not want your money then, and I do not want it now,” Astarion’s mother said through her teeth.

“For yourself, perhaps not, but for your son…Here, young man, no need to stand. Come sit here.” She gestured to a small table beside her that was adorned with a silver jug. “Do you like chocolate?”

Astarion had never heard of it before, but Wendin pulled out one of the chairs, and Astarion sat. The man poured a mug of something brown and steaming that smelled like heaven and passed it to him.

He missed the next few minutes of conversation as he discovered that he liked chocolate very much indeed. He could not believe that it had existed all this time and no one had ever thought to mention it. It was as if someone had taken the smell of freshly turned earth and mixed it with butter and dipped it in honey, only this was better and richer and utterly divine.

He surfaced from the chocolate only because his mother shouted, and she never shouted. He looked up, startled, in time to hear his great-grandmother say, “You’ve had over a decade to ruin the boy. That was the bargain.”

“He belongs with his family!”

“I am also his family,” Lady Erikinia said, tapping one long finger on the arm of her chair. Rings winked in the lamplight.

His mother drew breath for another impassioned defense, but the old woman cut her off. “Enough of this. Let the boy answer for himself.” She turned toward Astarion. “Has your mother explained the bargain to you, then?”

“Errr…no?” He set the empty chocolate mug down, not without some reluctance. “What bargain?”

“Miriana, really?” She clucked her tongue. “Well, I suppose you always did prefer to ignore anything unpleasant if you had the chance to fly away from it.”

This was such a staggering insight that Astarion felt as if the world had shifted around him. He would have liked a moment to consider it, but his great-grandmother had turned to speak to him. “Your mother did not enjoy the life of an elvish noblewoman and chose to remove herself from it. She had every right to do so, but as head of the family, I did not feel that she had the right to remove her children without consulting them first.” Lady Erikinia gestured in his direction, as if there were any doubt about whom she was referring to. “So, she agreed that her children would be given a choice as to whether they wished to explore their noble heritage or continue as…ah…common folk.”

Astarion had the feeling that she had meant to use another word there and changed it out of politeness. His mother was standing on the toes of one foot, the way she did when she was about to launch herself into bird shape.

“I always meant to tell you,” she said, not meeting his eyes. “I just…well, you were so happy at the vineyard, and I didn’t want to take that away.”