Page 62 of Astarion

Astarion’s anger sustained him on the journey to his great-grandmother’s deathbed. Strangely, it did not occur to him to worry that she would not last until his arrival. Lady Erikinia had been sustained by pure will for nearly a century. She would endure for as long as was needed to die with a proper audience.

Bajia, who had known him longer than anyone else, tried once or twice to charm him out of his current mood with stories of her travels in far-off places. On the surface, he allowed himself to be charmed, but only on the surface, and she knew it, and eventually she lapsed into silence.

The manor house had slid further into disrepair in Astarion’s absence. They left their horses tied out front because no stable boy came to take them.

The front door was ajar. Inside, the great tree was still alive, but lichen had crawled up its trunk, and the leaves that had fallen onto the marble floor had not been swept away. The hallway that led to his grandmother’s rooms was cold and smelled of mildew instead of incense.

Wendin opened the last door for them, naked relief showing on his face. “Bajia. Master Astarion. Thank all the gods you’re here.”

It was a sign of his despair that he did not bother to close the door after them but hurried back to his mistress’s side.

Lady Erikinia lay on white sheets that served only to emphasize the sallowness of her skin. Her face had already been skull-like with age, but now the skin drew so tight across her bones that Astarion half expected it to split and peel away from her cheekbones when she moved.

“Lady,” Bajia said. “We’re here.”

Erikinia’s eyes opened. The right one had gone milky with cataracts, but the left still burned with the old fire. Her hand stirred on the coverlet and moved an inch, and Bajia took it tenderly in her own.

“The boy?” she croaked, her voice a thin imitation of its former richness.

“He’s here.”

Astarion cleared his throat. “I’m here,” he said. He marveled at how calm he sounded. He was still so angry that it felt as if there were a live coal beneath his breastbone, but he knew there was no point in giving vent to it. His great-grandmother had burned brightly for a long time, but the last spark was guttering and going out.

The ancient elf’s fingers twitched in Bajia’s hands. “Go back to your people, my dear. The game has ended.”

Bajia made a small choked sound, then passed the old woman’s hand carefully to Astarion.

Her fingers were as fragile as burnt twigs. When they tightened on his hand, he half expected them to break. “Astarion,” she whispered.

“I’m here,” he said again.

She swallowed, a dry rasp like snake scales over stone. “It’s yours now.”

A hard laugh clawed at his throat. He swallowed it down for Bajia’s and Wendin’s sakes.

“Always been an Ancunín here…Promise me. Take care of it.”

“I promise,” he lied.

“You’re a good child,” she breathed.

She didn’t breathe again. Wendin gave a single harsh sob and reached out to close her eyes.

When he straightened up again, his face was wet, but his expression was as calm as ever. “Go,” he said. “Both of you. Go now. They will have felt her death across the realms.”

Astarion went. Leaves were falling from the great tree to lie golden across the floor. He was already mounted when Bajia emerged from the house, her face twisted in a frown. “He won’t come with us,” she said grimly. “Says he’ll see her buried. He’s going to get himself killed.”

“That is his choice,” said Astarion, who had seen such things even in his short time practicing the law.

Bajia searched his face for a moment, then nodded once, almost angrily, and flung herself into the saddle. “Come, then,” she said. “I’ll see you to Baldur’s Gate.”

“Perhaps we should have waited to have our little heart-to-heart,” Astarion said, eyeing the forces arrayed against them.

“Hindsight is always perfect,” den Suriel said, drawing his sword.

“The Inquisitor’s not real happy,” the mummy said. “Says he wants to talk to both of you. Now.”

The dozen or so skeletons surrounding him said nothing, but that wasn’t a surprise.