Chapter Text
Dalyria wrung her hands. "Astarion," she hissed, "you have to stop this madness. Father will catch you."
Astarion refused to let his feathers be ruffled by his fretful sister. "He's busy dealing with Petras' latest mishap," he said as he continued stitching his costume.
Aurelia sat on her bunk, clawed hands in her lap. Her tail lashed back and forth. "If he finds out we didn't tell on you, it'll go badly for us."
Astarion said, "It'll go badly for you if you do tell on me, because then he'll be in a bad mood, and there's no one Father loves to shoot more than a messenger." Astarion had torn down some curtains in one of the seldom-used wings of the manor so that he would have sumptuous red velvet and white gossamer to work with. He was putting the finishing touches on a ghost costume. As a vampire spawn, he was already undead, so why not use his pallor to his advantage? The red curtains formed the trousers, vest, and frock coat of the ghost's outfit, while the gossamer formed the undershirt and white wisps of ephemera that trailed from the ghost's hands and collar. He had stolen a basic white masquerade mask from a novelty shop and had embellished it with pieces of red teardrop glass pulled off an old lamp to look like bloody tears. With ashes from the fireplace, he planned to color the trailing gossamer gray, as well as his lips and under his crimson eyes. He wouldn't have to do anything to his white hair. It would blend right in.
Dalyria noted, "He'll find out that the curtains are missing eventually. I'm not going to lie to protect you when he does."
"Nor will I," Aurelia said.
Violet, who had been laying on a top bunk looking over sheet music said, "I don't care what you do."
"Or what happens to you," added Yousen, who was tinkering with pieces of scrap metal and wires.
Aurelia said, "The best possible outcome is that Father will catch you and punish you. If you actually get to the ball and the Ravengards discover who you are..."
Astarion said, "I'm leaving before the unmasking. The whole point is that no one will know who I am."
Dalyria shook her head. "You're playing a dangerous game, Astarion. One of these days, you're going to learn you can't do that."
Astarion heard, in the corridor beyond the din of his sisters' nagging, a cold and steady gait he recognized as Cazador's. It was coming closer. With uncanny swiftness, he stuffed the costume into a burlap bag and stowed it under Yousen's bed. Then he climbed onto his own bunk just as Cazador Szarr stepped into the room.
Cazador Szarr was tall and slender with coal black hair swept back from his brow. It fell past his shoulders, sleek and straight. His eyes were the same chilling crimson as his children's though that is where the resemblance ended. He was not their father by birth but by circumstance. He had created them. Astarion would always remember the awful night Cazador had drunk him dry, and the next night when he had climbed out of his own grave. That's what Astarion saw when he looked at his sire. The evil bastard who had taken his life and exploited him for the past two centuries. Worse, Cazador manipulated his emotions, made him love him. Made him call him Father.
Cazador looked around as his children sat up straight and didn't fidget. They didn't dare. His gaze lit upon Astarion, and his colorless lips tugged into a small, crooked smile. "Tonight," he said, "is Duke Ravengard's Winter Ball. He has, as he does every year, spurned our House with a lack of invitations. But that is all right, my children. We will be the better men and women. We will, for example, offer his young son, Wyll Ravengard, an invitation to our Winter Ball this year. He has just come of age. What better way to let bygones be bygones between our families than to bury the hatchet? Preferably in the brat's heaving torso."
Astarion's stomach sank. He knew he shouldn't question his maker, but the words flew out of his mouth. "That'll cause a war between our Houses. Ulder Ravengard will stake us where we stand."
Cazador's gaze sharpened, and Astarion swallowed down the lump rising in his throat. The vampire lord said, "Let him come. If he kills you all, I'll make more of you. It's what you would have coming for being so weak you couldn't defeat one mortal duke."
Aurelia bowed her head and said, "But Father, what if he hurt you?"
Cazador turned his gaze from Astarion to his sister, and Astarion sagged in relief. Then he remembered himself and sat up straight again. Cazador said to Aurelia, "Finally asking the only important question. You have no need to fear for me, little one. No one knows where I lay my head each morning, not even you. Even if one of you wanted to betray me, you couldn't. Not on pain of hatred nor torture. And Ulder Ravengard's attack dogs will never sniff me out."
"We could never hate you, Father," Violet said.
Astarion bit his tongue.
Cazador said, "Ah, that is a lovely sentiment, Violet, but I know that not everyone has a pure heart and sweet disposition like you do." The vampire lord's gaze cut to Astarion. "And you, my most beautiful yet least favorite child. You would never betray your dear father, would you?"
Astarion lifted his gaze to meet Cazador, and he lied right into his eyes. "No, father. Never."
Cazador held Astarion's gaze for an uncomfortably long time. Then he looked away. "The city is unguarded tonight, my children. Most of the Flaming Fist are protecting the ducal palace. Go forth into the streets and bring me doomed souls upon which to feed. Do not come back until you have someone or dawn comes." With that, he turned and walked out.
When the door closed, the vampire spawn collectively sagged. Violet tucked away her sheet music and said, "I will go sing at the Elfsong Tavern and lure someone away with my voice."
Yousen put away his contraption and said, "I will go to one of the gnomish alehouses and court a barmaid."
Aurelia climbed down from her bunk and said, "I will club someone over the head and drag them back."
Dalyria said, "I will play the maiden in distress until some brute decides to rescue or ravish me."
Astarion pulled the burlap sack out from underneath Yousen's bed and said, "I will dance the night away."
Aurealia frowned. "He's going to be mad when you come back empty-handed."
Astarion said, "Then I shall have to make extra sure I have a good time."
. . .
Astarion climbed a trellis thorny with winter-dead rose vines, and he ended up on a second floor balcony attached to the ballroom. He was careful to unsnag all his trailing gossamer from the thorns, and he dusted himself off. The scent of woodsmoke clung to him from the ash with which he had adorned the wispy fabric, his lips, and under his eyes. He was proud of himself; he looked well and truly dead. He was barefoot. It was part of his costume, and also he couldn't find decent shoes to wear. He smoothed his jacket where it hung on his slender frame, and he went to walk into the ballroom.
He couldn't. An invisible force stopped him in the doorway. He groaned as he remembered the ducal palace was not a public place. He needed to be invited in. All this trouble -- and the potential for so much more trouble -- for nothing.
Well. Not nothing. He could still hear the music from within the ballroom, strings swelling with a grand overture while many costumed bodies twirled around the floor. There were so many lovely costumes: knights and princesses, an elegant swan, a scrappy blue jay, and a particularly eye-catching red devil. His mask was fearsome, and it had two magnificent black horns jutting from the brow. They swept over the dancer's black cornrows, which had red and gold beads at the ends. He was dressed in a magnificent red and blue doublet with matching trousers and shoes. On his back were pinned red bat-like wings and a slender tail with a flat spade on the end.
He danced with a pretty enough princess in a green ballgown. She was fair on the dancefloor, but he was amazing. He moved with a natural grace that captivated Astarion. Suddenly, it didn't matter if the vampire spawn couldn't go inside so long as he could watch the devil dance.
At least an hour passed, and that's all Astarion did. He kept to the shadows, and he watched wide-eyed as the devil made his rounds. He danced with a dozen people, lords and ladies alike. Each time one tried to capture him in conversation after the dance, he would slip away to find another partner lined up to dance. Astarion smiled to himself as he watched the effortless flirting, the way he moved his partners across the floor. Astarion didn't have mortal feelings, Father would never permit them, but if he did, he would have been quite infatuated.
To his dread and delight, after the song that was playing ended, the band took a break, and the devil in red walked right toward Astarion's balcony. Astarion darted away from the doorway and turned to lean against the rail, as though he had been gazing out over Baldur's Gate's Upper City the whole time. He felt the heat of the devil as soon as he stepped out, and he scented clean sweat and the musk of a fine cologne as the devil leaned on the rail next to him and said, "I saw you watching from the doorway."
Astarion ducked his head, the red teardrops on his mask clattering together. "There were a lot of dancers. They were quite diverting, saer."
The devil grinned. Astarion watched him from the corner of his eye. "And yet you do not dance," the man said.
Astarion shook his head. "I have no partner," he said. "I am, alas, a departed soul cursed to traverse the land of the living."
He froze as the devil looked him over. "You're rather pretty for a dead man."
Astarion laughed despite himself and said, "I get that a lot."
The devil continued to smile as he looked out over the city. "I'm not afraid of the dead," he said. "My family says I should be, but..."
Astarion tilted his head. "But what?"
The devil shrugged. "All people die, good and bad. Why assume the only ones who linger are the bad ones?"
Astarion thought about the question, and he replied delicately, "I think it's not so much that only the bad ones remain, but that remaining after death drives all of them insane, good or bad, and they can't help but become twisted monsters whose hatred and envy of the living blah blah blah etcetera etcetera."
The devil nodded. "Sure, sure. But it still assumes an awful lot. What if someone could remain good and virtuous despite all of that?"
Astarion watched the man's profile, what he could see of it. He had full, lush lips, dark brown skin, and a clean-shaven face. He looked young. As young as Astarion was -- in elf years at least -- when he was turned. "What if they had an evil master they had to obey?"
The devil gestured vaguely. "Anything the master compelled them to do wouldn't count. The dead person in question isn't acting under their own will."
Astarion said, "What if they could say no, but they don't because they'll be tortured or worse?"
The devil shook his head. "That's just another kind of compulsion."
Astarion smiled wickedly. "What if they're just bad?"
The devil glanced his way. "And are you? Bad?"
Astarion thought about that, then he shook his head. "No, darling, I'm practically angelic."
The devil offered him his hand. "Then dance with me."
Astarion recoiled. "I can't," he said.
The devil continued to hold out his hand. "Come on, you should get in out of the cold and let everyone see your clever costume."
Astarion bit his lip. He couldn't get into the ballroom. And he had to watch how much he opened his mouth lest anyone caught a glimpse of fangs. He'd had the presence of mind to cover up the scar on his neck from where Cazador had bitten him that fateful night, but his red eyes might give him away. There was a lot he really hadn't thought about that was only just occurring to him now. "I... I don't know how to dance," he lied.
The devil reached forward to take Astarion's icy hand. At least the vampire's lack of body heat could be waved off as having been outdoors on a cold night. "I'll teach you," the devil said. He led Astarion to the doorway, and Astarion felt the prohibition against crossing the threshold tighten in his gut as the devil added, "Come in."
"But you're not..." The words died on Astarion's lips as the twisting in his gut unraveled and he was able to step through the doorway without trouble."
The devil offered Astarion his arm properly. "Not what?"
A Ravengard. Only a Ravengard could have invited Astarion into the palace. This man, whoever he was, had Ravengard blood and lived in the palace. Maybe he was a distant cousin. It counted. Astarion smiled as he said, "Nothing, darling. I believe you were going to show me how to dance?"
. . .
Astarion not only lost track of the time, he didn't even try to keep track anymore. He danced the night away with the devil, who had stopped partner-hopping once he'd taken Astarion by the hand. They danced together through the courtly dances, through the new-fangled waltzes, fast or slow, it didn't matter. Astarion was certain the man had looked him in his red eyes and he hadn't said a word. Maybe he thought Astarion was albino. It happened sometimes. Astarion tried to hide his fangs when he laughed, but he wasn't sure how successful he had been, and he had done a lot of laughing. The devil was witty, charming, and an absolute master of the terrible pun.
After one particularly seductive waltz, the devil took Astarion's hand and led him out to the secluded balcony again. "We should get some air," he suggested.
Astarion, who didn't need to breathe, went along with him. "Oh, yes. I'm quite winded," he said.
There, out on the balcony, the devil took Astarion in his arms and said, "I didn't want to unmask inside. I wanted to see you for myself, alone. Will you forgive me for my selfishness?"
Astarion's eyes widened. "The unmasking?"
Just then, the city bells started chiming twelve. Astarion went cold inside. "I have to go!" he said. He scrabbled for the trellis.
The devil let him go, but he pleaded. "Before you leave, let me see your face. Let me know who has captivated me so."
Astarion paused. He planned to run anyway, and he was dying of curiosity to know who the man in the devil mask was. He paused, and he said, "All right." He took off his mask and shook out his white curls.
The man with the horns took off his mask, and none other than Wyll Ravengard stood before Astarion, his expression earnest, his puppy-dog eyes filled with desire. "You're Astarion Szarr," he murmured.
"Astarion Ancunín," Astarion said sharply. "I will never be a Szarr."
Wyll gathered Astarion in his arms and pulled him into a kiss. Astarion, startled, clasped the man's broad shoulders, then melted into the kiss. For all the time it took for the clock to ring twelve times, they tasted one another, their tongues teasing the other. Time drifted away. The bells stopped tolling, and still they kissed.
From inside the palace, a woman's voice called, "Wyll! Where are you!"
Wyll pulled away, and before he could finish asking, "When will I see you again?" Astarion was down the trellis and away, leaving only a wisp of ashen gossamer behind him.