Page 9 of Astarion

Astarion did not flinch. He so obviously did not flinch that he suspected Dalyria could read it as clearly as if he had. The mausoleum was the worst thing that had happened to him—worse than pain, worse than Cazador’s mind games. His mind had broken there in the darkness, day after day, clawing at the door with nails that cracked and broke, leaving trails of blood across the stone. Wondering if he would be there forever, wondering how long it would take him to starve to death, until hunger eventually overcame even terror and he became nothing but starving skin and bone.

He wouldn’t say that the experience had left him unscarred. But Dalyria wasn’t entirely wrong. Once the door had finally opened and he had fallen out onto his knees in the cool night air, once that terrible hunger was sated, his mind had begun knitting itself back together. He had been making sardonic remarks before his fingers had even healed.

It had been more than a hundred years ago. He wondered how she’d heard about it.

“Ah, the mausoleum,” he drawled. “Quite restful. I finally caught up on my sleep.”

Dalyria, who had seen him not-flinch, said nothing. After a moment, Astarion bent his head back over his work, and his sister spawn went back to crushing beetles for their master.

—

When he had finished sewing up his jacket to his satisfaction, he pulled it back on and rolled his shoulders a few times. He hadn’t had the right color to match the embroidery perfectly, but it was close enough that no one would notice unless they had their nose mashed against his hip. Which, life—or, in this case, death—being what it was, he couldn’t rule out, but at least it would be unusual.

He slipped out of the laboratory and made his way toward the great hall. It was not quite midnight; while the spawn were expected to present themselves there for the master’s pleasure, there was always a chance that Cazador would have retired to his bedchamber early. Failing that, the old man might be tormenting someone else, and Astarion could slip into the hall and take up a position in one of the various nooks. If you kept the proper expression of servile interest on your face, Cazador’s gaze sometimes slid right over you.

If Astarion was lucky, Cazador wouldn’t notice him at all.

His luck was out. His luck was always out. He was starting to think that he’d somehow offended the goddess Tymora. Cazador was in the corridor that led to the great hall, wearing an abstracted expression and a truly fine pair of boots. Astarion weighed the options. A compliment might sweeten the vampire lord’s mood, or it might simply draw his attention. Though even that might be worthwhile if it meant that he bored of tormenting Astarion early and focused on someone else for the later part of the evening. Cazador was rarely truly inventive until well after midnight.

“Those are most excellent boots, Father,” Astarion said, letting genuine admiration color his voice. Cazador looked up and smiled.

“Are they not?” He extended one foot, showing where the black leather of the calf had been cut as delicately as lace, revealing gray suede underneath. A hundred and fifty years earlier, Astarion would have been wild to know the name of the maker. Now he was careful not to ask, for fear that Cazador would display one of his peculiar fits of jealousy and send Astarion out to collect them.

And to sacrifice an artisan of that skill to sate a temporary hunger would be very nearly criminal.

Cazador admired his footwear for a moment, then said, “You may polish them, if you like.”

Astarion suppressed a sigh. He had thrown the dice, and as usual, it had come up snake eyes. “Of course, Father,” he said, going to his knees.

The slick leather was sour on his tongue. It was tanned in the new fashion, thank all the gods, soaked with oak leaves and bark until the tannins penetrated the leather. Cheap leather was still done the old way, with salt and urine and treated with fish oil. Licking those boots had been an experience that Astarion wasn’t eager to repeat.

The problem, of course, was that if you refused or even didn’t seem sufficiently enthusiastic, Cazador’s will would tighten around you like a gloved fist. And then you would want to do it. You’d be eager. You’d beg him for the privilege and weep with gratitude when he granted it, even as the taste of rancid fish and old piss made you gag.

And meanwhile, somewhere deep inside, the real you would scream and scream and scream…

Astarion had learned long ago not to give his master an excuse to break his will. All you could do was avoid pain and feel as little as possible.

The irony, of course, is that the boots are a lot less polished by the time we’re done slobbering on them. Not that he cares. He may live in a mansion, but he’s only pretending to have good taste. Someone else must have suggested the boots.

Astarion’s mouth was as dry as sandpaper by the time he’d dragged his tongue thoroughly across both boots. He sat back with an appropriately servile expression on his face, wishing for water or wine, anything to wash the taste out. Not blood, though. It would be a crime to taint good blood with that aftertaste.

“Very good, Astarion,” Cazador said, leaning on his staff. “What an obedient child you are becoming.”

The words made him angry, as they were supposed to. Astarion throttled the feeling ruthlessly, his eyes heavy-lidded to hide any spark of defiance. Go somewhere else for your entertainment, old man. I won’t play into your hands tonight.

After a moment, Cazador smiled and turned away. Astarion fell into step behind him, the taste of leather burning on his tongue.

—

A glass of wine cleared the taste of boot leather, if not the anger. Really, it was a shame to waste a good Lathander’s Red that way. Astarion knew that it should be rich and full-bodied, with a hint of black currant and clove, but he couldn’t really enjoy it until the sourness had left his tongue.

I wonder if there’s a wine that goes well with boot leather. Perhaps I could convince the old man to lay in a stock of it.

The usual array of foods were laid out on the banquet table—meat and cheese and whatever fruits were in season. There were plums today, but also strawberries, which probably meant that the old man had had a craving. The strawberries were perfectly ripe but had the almost infinitesimal stiffness that indicated they’d been in stasis. Food wasn’t actually essential to vampires or vampire spawn, but it was something of a habit by now. Astarion liked to dip the strawberries in blood occasionally.

Astarion ate quickly, then took up position on a couch in one of the nooks, partly hidden behind a decorative column. Cazador took it into his head to redecorate the hall every thirty or forty years, and while the current incarnation was as tastelessly overdone as all the rest—all faux sandstone and lapis velvet, in a cheap imitation of the Mulhorand style—it at least had a number of ornamental columns that provided cover. Even if they were painted with giant lotuses.

Strahd probably doesn’t have giant lotuses everywhere. I was clearly born on the wrong plane of existence. Then again, all anyone ever heard about the legendary vampire lord were increasingly tall tales, so he might not even exist. Or if he does, for all I know, he loves lotuses.