Page 47 of Astarion

The green light at the far end of the corridor offered just enough light for Astarion to make out colors, even if the colors were tinted green. His cellmate was a large man with pupilless white eyes and skin that was probably golden. There was a scabbed-over wound on his temple, and blood darkened the hair around it, but the rest gleamed like a newly minted coin—although, given the lighting, Astarion would be hard-pressed to guess the denomination. His face could have been stamped on the selfsame coin—square jaw, aquiline nose, chiseled cheekbones, ears that came to a rounded point. Also, he seemed to be…glowing?

Nine Hells, he is. A faint radiance surrounded him, barely visible unless you looked straight at it. It wasn’t strong enough to read by, but Astarion imagined it was useful for getting keys into keyholes in the dark. Probably no one would notice in broad daylight, but in a dark cell, it became obvious.

Aasimar. A child of celestial beings. The white eyes were a dead giveaway, and the glow only cemented it. Astarion’s gaze traveled down across broad shoulders that still bore the ragged remains of a tabard, chain-encased biceps, a breastplate scarred from innumerable battles but still somehow shiny…

“Oh Hells,” said Astarion. “You’re a paladin.”

—

“Yes?” the aasimar said, as if surprised he had to ask. He held out his hands as if to shake. “Hahn den Suriel, at your service.”

Astarion looked at the offered hand as if it were a dead flounder. “You tried to lay hands on me.”

“Yes,” den Suriel said, “and I can’t imagine why it didn’t work.” He stared at his hands again. “I wonder if the cult has managed to somehow block divine energies…but no, that’s not possible.” He nodded to himself. “The gods can always find us, no matter how dark the night or deep the hell.”

Oh, joy. I’m in a small cell with a religious fanatic. One who, judging by the size of those biceps, can break me over his knee. Astarion eyed the chain holding den Suriel to the wall. Can he reach me over here? I don’t think he can…The elf eased a little farther away.

“I am sorry,” the paladin said. “I can try to cast cure—”

“No!” Astarion cleared his throat. “Ah, that is to say, it’s quite all right. You should save your spells. Undoubtedly, you’ll need them before too long. The hospitality of our charming hosts leaves something to be desired.”

“Truth,” the paladin said. “They said something about an inquisitor.” That handsome golden face screwed up in a scowl. “Why is it always inquisitors?”

“Thank you,” Astarion said, with real feeling. “Surely there has to be some other religious vocation that strikes fear and terror into the hearts of the enemy and all that.”

“Nuns,” said the aasimar glumly. “I’d rather face twenty inquisitors than a single Mother Superior.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I once knew a pair of twins in service to Sune who were a lot of fun at parties.”

“Maybe Sune’s nuns.” The aasimar shuddered. “Ours…aren’t.”

Astarion craned his neck, studying the paladin’s breastplate. It was hard to make out the device, even with his superior darkvision. “Is that a silver weasel?”

“Argent Badger.” The paladin rubbed the emblem on his chest. “Have you heard of us?”

His voice rang with hope. Astarion took a certain amount of pleasure in squelching it. “No.”

The aasimar sighed. “No one ever has. You know the Order of the Radiant Heart?”

“I’ve heard of them,” Astarion said warily. Three junior paladins of the Order had once gotten into Szarr Palace, following a spectacularly ill-conceived effort by Violet to seduce one. It had taken days for the burns to heal and years for Astarion to stop bringing it up at dinner.

“We’re sort of like that.”

Astarion suspected that sort of was doing a lot of heavy lifting in that sentence. “Is that so?”

“Well…” The problem with paladins was that they were fundamentally honest. “There’s, um, fewer of us. And we’re more specialized.”

“Are you, now.”

“Oh, yes.” The paladin put his shoulders back, and the faint glow grew a hair stronger. “We specialize in hunting undead.”

“Of course you do.”

Astarion spent a few minutes silently cursing the goddess of misfortune in all her aspects. Really, Beshaba? Really? I toss a coin on your altar every time I’m in that part of town. I’ve never robbed your collection box, not even once. And this is the thanks I get?

For that matter, Tymora, where have you been for the last hundred and fifty-odd years?

The paladin was still talking. Astarion might have found this annoying, but he really did have a magnificent voice. Mind you, most paladins do seem to have the sort of voice you need to stand and declaim about the inherent goodness of people…and the sort of brain that doesn’t realize you’re spouting absolute nonsense.