Page 95 of Astarion

“Yes, sir,” Petras said, clearly trying to hide his disappointment. “A priestess of Quorlinn.”

“Respectable, if somewhat pedestrian.” He set the vial down, clearly dismissing it from contention. Astarion, despite being a bundle of nerves, took a moment to revel in the set of Petras’s lips. After all, if you can’t enjoy seeing your rivals humiliated, why even let them live?

“Now, Violet, what have you brought me?” Cazador lifted another crimson vial.

Violet shot a dagger-edged look at Astarion, then clapped her hands together in her best little-girl impression. “You’ll love it, Father, I’m sure.”

“An animal, I see.” Cazador sniffed. “Is that…bear? Owlbear, perhaps?” He frowned slightly and tasted it. “No, just bear.”

“But it’s a very special bear, Father. It had a moon on its chest, and it was kept in a very expensive menagerie.”

Cazador sighed. “I’m afraid that no matter how exotic it is, bear still tastes like bear, my dear.” He set the mostly full vial on Dufay’s tray.

Violet bared her teeth. “It would have been better, but Astarion wouldn’t work with me.”

“You dropped a thunderstone on my head. If that’s your idea of teamwork, it’s no wonder you were always picked last for games in school.” Astarion had no idea if that was true, but by the way Violet glowered at him, he knew he’d hit the mark. “Oh my. You were, weren’t you? Even after the children who couldn’t throw a ball and the ones who ate worms? How utterly unsurprising.”

“Children,” Cazador said, caressing the penultimate vial. “Don’t make me send you to your rooms.”

Astarion bowed slightly and moved away from Violet. Violet made a rude gesture at him when Cazador wasn’t looking.

Aurelia’s vial was red-gold, with brilliant highlights that seemed to drift beneath the glass. The tiefling stood, calm and silent, as Cazador unsealed it. The smell was subtle, and yet there was something familiar about it. Astarion inhaled, trying to place it. It reminded him of something…someone…a perfume, perhaps? No, don’t be absurd. Who wears blood as a perfume? Although if someone managed it, I suspect I’d take a second look. Probably a third, too. Though you’d also have carrion flies landing on you, and that would quite ruin the effect. “Oh, what a lovely figure, shame about the plague of insects.”

“Oh, this is marvelous.” Cazador sipped from the vial and closed his eyes in pleasure. “Full-bodied, vibrant, just a hint of acid. Dragon, is it? But what color?”

Aurelia bowed. “Copper, my lord.”

Astarion bit back the exclamation he might have made. There were many copper dragons in the world. There was no reason for him to think it might be the one he’d known, or to care if it was. Bajia had lied to him and then abandoned him. In more than a century, she’d never come back to see how he was doing. It would serve her right if she’d run into Aurelia in a dark alley.

He wondered where the hell Aurelia had gotten the dragon’s blood, and whether she would tell him if he asked.

“And that leaves you, Astarion. Last, and, it seems, least.” Cazador lifted the final vial and sat back in his chair. Oily blackness trembled in the bottom of the vial when he tapped the glass. “What have you brought me…or failed to bring me, as the case may be?”

“The living blood of a dying god,” Astarion said. “But it was full when I gave it to Dufay. Your daughter Dalyria stole it from your ritual room for her experiments.”

“I see.” Cazador’s gaze lingered on Dalyria, who flinched as if in expectation of a blow. “Daughter, is this true?”

She muttered something inaudible. Cazador’s eyes hardened.

The silence in the room thickened until it was almost visible, like smoke. The other spawn drifted away from Dalyria. Yousen flattened himself against the wall until he almost disappeared. Everyone knew what would happen next.

When the creak of the door broke the silence, it came as a painful relief, like a joint cracked back into the socket. Godey came in, bones rattling with every step, and executed a short bow to Cazador.

“See that our daughter understands why she does not steal from her father.”

“Of course, Master.” Godey started toward Violet, who skittered out of the way.

“Not me! Dalyria did it. Tell him, Father!”

“Huh,” Godey said when Cazador nodded. “Well, that’s a turn up for the books, and no mistake.” He closed skeletal fingers over Dalyria’s shoulder. “Come now, child, and let’s see what makes you sing, shall we?”

Dalyria’s eyes sought Astarion’s, so he turned away and studied the vial in Cazador’s hand until the door shut and the rattle of the torturer’s bones could no longer be heard.

“A pity,” murmured Cazador. “Hardly anything left worth tasting, is there? Still…” He unstoppered the vial and let three drops fall onto his tongue, the last drops of the blood shed by the dying god of shadows.

Astarion’s nails cut into his palms as he waited. Cazador had closed his eyes, but he made no sound, no pronouncements, as he had for the others. He did not so much as move.

Gods above, have I accidentally poisoned him? Idle fantasies about exploding aside, Astarion had never considered that the blood might harm Cazador in some way. He didn’t know whether that would be a good thing. If their master died, they would all be trapped forever as spawn, but their minds would be their own.