Page 30 of Astarion

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He hadn’t been watching the sky, that was the problem. For his first twelve years of life, Astarion had known that if he could see the sky, his mother might be watching him, which had put something of a damper on his early experiments with masturbation. But over the last year, he’d fallen out of the habit, and he was watching Bajia’s hands to see which way she was about to strike—and then he feinted, and she dodged, and he lunged forward, trying to come up inside her guard—when, quite suddenly, there was a shriek, and a hawk was sandwiched between them, and he hit her on the side of the head with the pommel of the dagger and knocked her unconscious.

Bajia fell back with a curse. Astarion fell on his ass with a yelp. His mother just fell straight down, shimmered briefly, and turned back into an elf.

Astarion knew how fragile bird bones could be, and he’d felt something crunch. “Oh, Hells, I’ve killed her.”

He was really hoping that Bajia would say, “No, you haven’t,” but she didn’t. Instead, the human woman knelt on the packed earth of the practice yard and felt for his mother’s pulse. “She’s still breathing,” she said after a moment, and Astarion wiped away tears of relief. “Go get Wendin and tell him you need a healing potion.”

Astarion ran for the butler and finally found him cleaning silver in the pantry. “Gotta…gotta tell you…Bajia…need a…healing potion…”

Wendin was one of those fabulously competent individuals who can make other people feel less competent merely by standing in the same room. He set down a silver pie server, went to a cupboard, removed a vial, and said, “Now, lead the way, Master Astarion.”

His mother hadn’t moved. Astarion’s heart was in his throat, but Bajia took the potion, rubbed a palmful into the knot on Miriana’s head and another along her neck, then rolled her over and poured the rest between her lips.

Astarion’s mother came awake with a choking sputter, coughed, and sat up. “What…?” She looked around wildly. “Astarion!”

“Yes, Mother, I’m fi—oof!”

She flung herself into his arms, clutching at him. Astarion looked down at her, wondering, When did she get so short? He was as tall as she was now. She looked…small. Small and shabby, her hair standing out like a dandelion puff, her clothes not merely rough but worn, frayed at the hems, the tears never mended and likely never even noticed.

“Why were you attacking him?” she demanded, turning to glare at Bajia.

“Mother, she wasn’t attacking me. She was teaching me how to defend myself in case someone tries to attack me.”

She pulled back, eyes narrowing, but kept her grip on his arms. “And why would you ever need to know that?”

“Because we live in an uncertain world,” Lady Erikinia said. “We can’t all just turn into a bird and fly away.”

Mother and son turned. The ancient elven woman stood in the doorway, leaning partly on a tall staff and mostly on Wendin. She gazed at her granddaughter with an expression that Astarion had learned to read as exasperated fondness.

“It’s been a year,” Miriana said. “You said that he could come back after a year.”

Lady Erikinia raised one eyebrow, her parchment-thin skin sliding over her skull. “I said that he could go back if he chose.”

His mother turned on him, eyes wide and frantic. He took a step back involuntarily. “Astarion, listen to me. You can come home now.”

“What?”

“It is your choice, Astarion,” his great-grandmother said in her deep, rich voice. “Stay or leave.”

“I don’t want to leave,” he said.

His mother stiffened. She searched his face as if he were a stranger. “Truly? You want to stay here?”

He knew that he was hurting her, but he also knew that he would never, ever go back. “Truly.”

He expected her to weep or to rail at him, but she surprised him. She drew herself up, and for a moment he could see the family resemblance to the lady of the manor. “Very well,” she said. “My house is always open to you, my son. I love you, however far away your wings take you. Go well.”

She turned to Lady Erikinia and bowed. The ancient elf inclined her head in return.

And then Astarion’s mother was a falcon streaking across the sky, and Astarion never saw her again.

It was two days later that Astarion returned to Dalyria’s lab, hoping to make use of the light. The embroidery on one of his sleeves had begun to fray, and there was no sense in holding a grudge against Dalyria for forgetting other people existed. You might as well blame the sun for coming up—which presumably it still did on a regular basis, at least for other people. Besides, Astarion had so many grudges, lovingly polished and displayed to the best possible advantage, that he was loath to add any inferior specimens to his collection.

This led him down a pleasant avenue of thought wherein he dangled Violet by her ankles over running water, which proved so diverting that he did not pay close enough attention to the sound of voices from the lab. He opened the door just in time to hear Cazador say, “I know that it didn’t work, my dear. I want to know where you acquired it.”

Astarion froze, but it was too late. The master vampire swung toward him, and he caught a glimpse of Dalyria’s face, impassive except for the pleading in her eyes.