Page 91 of Astarion

Astarion’s immediate response was to refuse. He wanted to know exactly where the blood was at all times. But that meant that it was vulnerable, particularly if Violet came after him again.

She was not, however, allowed into Cazador’s ritual room. It was the safest place in the palace in that regard. Even if Violet cornered him and poured molten silver down his throat, the blood would be safe.

Dufay escorted him to the door of the ritual room and went inside, then returned with a small velvet-lined box. There were two other vials inside, and space for three more. Astarion set the god’s blood beside a vial that looked like perfectly ordinary blood and one that had an unpleasant greenish tinge.

“Can you tell me who brought those?”

“I cannot,” Dufay said. “Lord Cazador has instructed me not to divulge that information.”

Astarion hadn’t expected an answer anyway. “Ah, well.”

Dufay closed the box and shuffled back inside the room. When the chamberlain returned, he examined Astarion’s appearance—battered, bruised, bloodstained, and smelling vaguely of chip sauce—and said, without inflection, “Shall I arrange for a hot bath for you, Master Astarion?”

“Dufay, you are a gem among household staff.”

“Very good, sir.”

—

Astarion came out of his trance to find that there were still hours to fill before Cazador’s deadline arrived.

It was a little past noon, which made leaving the palace unwise. It would be the height of irony for Astarion to be on the cusp of becoming a vampire, only to accidentally go up in flames because he tripped on a flagstone and fell into a sunbeam.

That left him with the amusements available in Szarr Palace, most of which he had exhausted a century ago.

He took another luxuriant bath, this time with bubbles. Lifting a handful, he pictured den Suriel saying that Tyr and Lathander had been silent on the subject. It made him smile a little. He wondered what the paladin was doing now. Probably either brooding or tearing the city apart looking for me. I don’t think there’s any middle ground.

Astarion supposed that it was just barely possible that the aasimar would find his way to Szarr Palace. It would be a death sentence if he did. Not that Astarion cared if the man died, but…

Fine, I do care a little. The man is so perfectly what he is. There is so little beauty in the world that one hates to see it wasted.

He climbed out of the tub, water streaming over his dead white skin, and pulled on a dressing gown. The fabric was the same inferior silk damask as the one that den Suriel had loaned him. He’d had far better ones when he was still alive, but he did not wish to attract Cazador’s attention to his clothing. Even the cheap silk slid nicely under his fingertips as he belted it, though.

Speaking of clothing…there was something he could do while he waited. The clothes he’d worn into the Undercity were still at the Rat’s Run, but the outfit he’d worn during the confrontation with Violet had not come away unscathed. The laundry had managed to remove the bloodstains, but the cuffs had suffered from the flying glass.

He picked up the jacket and his sewing kit and went to Dalyria’s lab.

When he opened the door, his sister spawn spun around, her eyes wide. For a moment, Astarion thought that she had simply been startled, but she took a step back, then another, and her usually expressionless face held unexpected fear.

“Dalyria?”

“I needed it!” she cried. “You don’t understand!”

“What did you need?” he asked, even as his gut clenched. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t have.

The lab was usually neatly organized, but today, it was a mess. Glass flasks were scattered across the counters, powders were smeared on the wooden surfaces, and open books littered the room.

And on one particular counter, he saw one particular vial, empty except for a few black drops puddled at the bottom.

A serpent of ice thrashed inside Astarion’s rib cage and coiled around his heart.

“You stole the blood.” His voice was calm, profoundly calm, calm enough to shatter suns. He reached out and picked up the vial that held all that remained of the blood of a god. “You went into Cazador’s ritual room and stole it.” Of course Dalyria had access to it. She was so often the one to help with his rituals.

He’d been so busy thinking of Violet that he hadn’t even considered Dalyria would betray him.

He picked up the vial. Three drops, if that. Three drops could not possibly be enough. “I went through hell for this, and you took it.”

Dalyria was still backing up. “You wouldn’t have known it existed if I hadn’t told you.”