Page 51 of Astarion

He took a last look over the balcony. The sun was setting, dyeing the towers a hundred shades of orange and gold. The view, too, felt like a friend. He could feel anger begin to burn away his shock, rising like bile in his throat.

He had friends and a living and a life. How dare someone take those things away? And not even because of something he’d done, but because his great-grandmother was going to die and was so far gone that she’d made him her heir.

He couldn’t even really blame her, much as he wanted to blame someone. Without her, he would still be scrabbling miserably in the dirt.

Astarion had never expected the world to be fair, but he had at least expected it to be just. Why even have gods and laws and governments otherwise? What was the point?

He turned on his heel and stalked toward the door. “Come on, then,” he said, feeling as if he were sinking into darkness, as if his words should echo from the depths. “Let’s be out of here before the jackals arrive.”

“Now, before I set you free,” Astarion said, tapping the lockpick against his fingertips, “I am going to need you to promise me something.”

Den Suriel’s eyebrows went up. “Oh?”

“Yes. You see, I’m actually here to steal some of that blood they’re worshipping.” Astarion pointed the wire at him. “Swear to me that we are allies until the blood is stolen and we’ve escaped.”

The aasimar frowned. “What do you intend to do with the blood?”

It would have been very nice to be sure that the paladin couldn’t sense lies. He hadn’t said anything about Astarion calling himself Petras, but perhaps he expected people to give false names, at least when they were in a jail cell. Hells, what can I say that’s at least partly true? “Without getting into too many details, I can promise you that it will be destroyed.”

Den Suriel studied him for a long moment. Under other circumstances, Astarion would have assumed that a gaze that intense was a prelude to a proposition and preened a little. As it was, he attempted to look trustworthy.

“Are you attempting to bring back the god Mask?” den Suriel asked.

“What?” Astarion was so startled that he nearly choked. “Bring back—is that even possible? I’m pretty sure he’s dead. At least, as dead as gods get. If he wasn’t, I imagine this crew would have brought him back by now.”

The aasimar smiled slightly. “If you’re a fanatical zealot in his service, you’re hiding it well.”

“My dear paladin, the only thing that I am a zealot in service to is my own self-interest.”

Den Suriel looked slightly disappointed by this, but that was paladins for you. Most of the world was disappointing by their standards. “Very well,” he said. “If you free me, then we are allies until we have escaped and the blood is…ah…dealt with.”

“Swear it on your oath as a paladin.”

Full lips pulled down in a frown. “That seems a trifle extreme.”

“Darling, I’m a thief who came to steal something you came to destroy. I don’t think a little extra insurance is a bad idea.”

The aasimar’s eyes narrowed. Astarion concentrated on the fact that he was telling the exact truth. Hells, I wish I knew if I had to keep doing this. The best lies may be true, but it’s helpful to have some falsehoods around the edges.

Whatever those blank white eyes were searching for, they either found it or didn’t. “Very well.” Den Suriel straightened, and the slight glow around him intensified a fraction. His voice rang out like the tolling of a bell. “I swear on the oath I serve to Lathander that we are allies until then, that I will protect you with my life and soul, by Tyr and Ilmater and all the just gods, upon my honor as a knight of the Argent Badger.”

That was all rather impressive until he reached the bit with the badger. I wasn’t expecting the part about life and soul, though. That certainly may come in handy.

Aloud, all he said was, “Thank you. Now, roll over and let me get at this lock on the back of your ankles.”

The manacles were the easy part, as it turned out. The door lock was much larger, and while big locks tended to give you more maneuvering room, the tumblers were heavy enough to snap lockpicks. Astarion spent more time bending and twisting wire than he did actually picking the lock.

When the door creaked open, den Suriel was through it immediately, one arm raised instinctively in front of him as if it still bore a shield. Astarion rolled his eyes. “May I suggest that you wait back here and allow me to reconnoiter?”

“Ah…yes. I suppose that might be a good idea.” The aasimar had the grace to look embarrassed. “I don’t suppose you saw my weapons on the way in?”

“No, but I’ll keep an eye out.” There was a good chance that said weapons were with Astarion’s daggers, which he would very much like back.

He glided down the hallway, moving lightly on the balls of his feet. It intersected another hallway, and Astarion glanced in both directions before turning down one. Despite the lack of obvious enemies, his back felt exposed.

The hall was very short and dead-ended at what had probably once been a prison cell but was now filled by some kind of waist-high concrete box. Astarion could make out writing that looked vaguely familiar, though he couldn’t quite place it. He reached out a hand, then drew it back before he could touch the surface. Cold radiated off the box so intensely that he could easily imagine the skin of his palm sticking to it.

The opposite hall held a nearly identical structure. Astarion made his way back to den Suriel, who frowned. “Let me take a look.”