Chapter 17 – Close Quarters

Astarion wheeled about, both blades poised to kill before the last syllable had dropped. He may have been caught unawares but his reflexes were primed for moments precisely like this one. Two centuries of conditioning had long instilled in him an instinct that even if someone was capable of sneaking up on him, they wouldn't live to tell the tale afterwards. And as he turned, it didn't escape the notice of either man that one short sword was pointed directly at Olivet's abdomen, while the other sat across his neck. But though the rogue had him dead to rights, it took a second for Astarion to realize that Olivet's palm was resting flat on his chest, right over his heart. There was also then a curious heat to the contact… as if radiant, holy magics had already been primed to explode.

Lyric had warned him about this. Olivet was almost certainly an ecclesiastic of some kind, likely even a war priest if the signs has been interpreted correctly. The proverbial cleric with a stake, as he had once put it. Now, they stood at an impasse. Astarion could draw his blades through flesh in the blink of an eye but the power that currently crackled through said flesh had been lent by a god and would certainly reduce him to fiery ashes just as quickly. Or worse, turn him and expose his back to the inevitable hallowed strike.

"I have to say," Olivet commented in a casual tone. "She really does have a type, doesn't she?"

"Dashing villains of sharp wit and sharper tongues? Darling, please. We all know it's only me she's referring to."

Olivet actually smiled, partly in amusement, partly out of diplomatic habit. "Ah, there he is. The famous Astarion at last. I've been keeping my eye on you, you know? Ever since it became clear that Cazador had wildly underestimated the changes you'd experienced since your erstwhile disappearance. It's the arrogance you see. It always gets them in the end. I assure you that I won't be making that mistake."

His hand shifted, his thumb drawing up against Astarion's sternum in an almost sensuous movement that traced the juncture of his ribs near the dip in his collarbone. But it ended in a rounded gesture that the vampire recognized as being the precursor to a radiant bolt. Olivet was then forced to gasp slightly as the blade at his neck cut a thin red line of warning.

Now, Astarion smiled back. "Why, Olivet Ingen Ailil. If I didn't know better, I would say that you're asking me to dance."

The other man tilted his head thoughtfully, briefly recalling the scene in Cazador's ballroom and the feel of the elf-maiden in his arms once again. The thought of her lover, her adulterous illicit suitor, in the same position actually interested him. Not enough to change his plans, but he did have to admit that Astarion was just the kind of young man he would have welcomed into his own bed under other circumstances. Olivet raised his opposite hand, curling two fingers into a secondary somatic component. He was answered by the tip of Astarion's primary sword breaking through his layered clothing to pierce the soft skin above his hip.

"You lead." Astarion whispered, his eyes narrowing.

Olivet moved subtly backwards; Astarion countered by stepping into his right side. Olivet lowered his left hand and spread his fingers to break the threads of magic weaving over his arm; Astarion relaxed the point of his short sword and noted the small spot of blood seeping into the expensive fabrics. Olivet murmured a holy word; Astarion slid the razor's edge of his blade directly across the other man's larynx as it fell, cutting off the final sound.

Olivet turned his head to the side in order to slow the blade with thicker sinews; Astarion bared his fangs.

This was their dance. A slow bolero in the midst of an unconfirmed affair with the tango. Toe to toe, entangled in blessed radiance profaned with steel that followed footsteps marked by petal drops of red. The stakes, of course; life or death. More specifically, life to the dead and death to the living. Olivet felt a shiver run through him as he feinted left and caught Astarion unguarded with a thorn of holy retribution. He paid for it with a gash to his right flank that nearly slipped across the inside of his elbow. A grimace pulled at his lips. Losing his hand was not something he could afford at the moment.

He leaned back, gesturing vaguely towards the hatch. "Come now, Astarion." Olivet stated with an air of concern. "Let's be sensible here. I mean, look at us. This foolishness. Fighting over a woman. How gauche, don't you think?"

Astarion appeared visibly unconvinced and, to Olivet's irritation, slightly amused. "Oh, I concur, Lord Ailil. Orin is hardly the type of lady one brings home to mother. Unless, of course, your aim is to see that your mother becomes her own holiday decorations instead of blathering on endlessly about her impeccable taste."

The elder elf hissed. "I have no love for that Bhaal witch, any more than you do. I simply see no point in becoming her next suit of clothes."

"Oh, I think there's much more to it than that. You might be able to play Gortash for a fool, Olivet, but I know you better than you think."

"Ah, is that so? Tell me then, Astarion, what is it that you think you know?"

They shifted in unison again, Olivet's back to the shelves of jars and Astarion one foot forward onto the threshold of the ornate floorboards that lined his entry and his escape.

"It's simple." The vampire spawn replied. "The best plans always are. Three ambitious avatars of the Dead Three manage to spring the Crown of Karsus from the vaults of Mephistopheles. And while they are steepling their fingers and laughing in evil glee over their invasion plans with pools of tadpoles squirming across an elder brain, the Hells take notice. Raphael comes winging his way into the city with a fistful of contracts and Zariel starts pulling the strings on her own menagerie of waiting puppets. But everyone somehow conveniently forgets that Mephistopheles is truly the injured party here, having had his domain violated and a prize from his own vaults stolen. And why does everyone so conveniently forget all of this? Because The Mask makes sure of it."

Olivet turned his foot; Astarion shifted his weight to his right side.

"Go on."

"Mephistopheles, you see, has already made inroads into Baldur's Gate. In fact, he's been planning his own takeover for centuries. Through a contract carved into the backs of seven vampire spawn in the House of Szarr. The Black Mass of the Vampire Ascendant and the seven thousand and seven souls it would feed directly into the freezing depths of Cania. But the cool and calculating Lord of Cold is also the hot-headed Lord of Hellfire. A walking contradiction of a devil-wizard known for his dead-white eyes, his long, straight, black hair, and a dramatic, flowing cape as dark as the deepest void. A type indeed."

Olivet chuckled. "Are you suggesting that I am actually Mephistopheles in disguise. I'm flattered."

"Don't be." Astarion continued. "You're not him. The comparison in your countenance is merely further evidence of the devil's arrogance. And what was it you said about arrogance? It's what gets them in the end?"

"Get the point, spawn."

"Oh, yes. Where was I? Right, the contradiction. Well, there's only one foul creature we know of that is drawn to that specific kind of chaos. So, along comes The Mask, promising Mephistopheles the one thing that every master craves."

"Power?"

"The ability to never be found out." Astarion stepped forward again. Olivet stepped back. "Power, they have. Or can get in their own time. But what they don't have is the ability to go unnoticed while they do it. They're always vulnerable to being found out by someone worse."

"Is that who you are to me, Astarion? Someone worse?"

Astarion ignored the jab and stayed the course. "Even the ancient Bhaal temple already has an investigator and a Fist on its trail. And so, The Mask calls upon you. The war priest he had already elevated to Cazador's side to keep the disappearances of all those people imprisoned in the dungeons undetected. The one who taught him the Infernal incantations and helped him to perfect the script he would cut into his own children's flesh. And who did so without so much as a single devil flapping around the bat house to give the plan away."

Olivet chuckled. "Sure. Whatever you say. And maybe that explains your problems, oh little spawnling. But you've said nothing that explains what any of this has to do with anything."

"Well," Astarion answered, turning his wrist to reposition the lower blade towards Olivet's thigh. "That's the thing really. You see, what had me stumped for, I'll admit, quite a long time, was why the plan suddenly began to fall apart when I was kidnapped by the nautiloid. Granted, it meant that Cazador would be unable to finish his Black Mass until I was retrieved but it was obvious to me by then that the Ascendency was just a side benefit from the point of view of Mephistopheles. Turning Cazador into some kind of ultimate Vampire Lord was just his payment in the bargain, not the bargain itself."

"You know." Olivet stated, rather blithely. "You're a lot smarter than people give you credit for. I'm actually somewhat surprised. I honestly took you for a well-polished idiot."

"I'm aware. It's part of my charm. Now, that was when it occurred to me that, despairing as it is for me to admit it, it wasn't about me."

"Tragic."

"Very. Anyway, my kidnapping and infection with the mind flayer parasite was just a ridiculous coincidence. One that really didn't change Cazador's plans all that much for the fact that I was now missing in the wilderness. A cosmic delay, if nothing else. No. It was her. She was the one that The Mask couldn't predict. She was the one that threw all of your machinations into disarray. But for the longest time, I couldn't figure out why."

"But now that you've gotten to know Témalíre, all is revealed?"

To Olivet's consternation, Astarion actually let go of his lower short sword and left it to clang onto the floor. As he did, he darted his hand upwards and wrapped his palm around the back of the other man's neck, pulling him uncomfortably closer. "I only have one question for you, Ailil. One question, and then you and I are square in this." His lips were near to the other's ear and Olivet could feel the warmth of Astarion's breath against his skin.

He growled, unconsciously twisting in the domineering grip. "What question might that be?"

"The eight-pointed star you cut into her chest. The mutilation you wrought onto her body with such precision and intent. What's it for? You took her from my side, from my very bed, to ensure its completion. Why?"

Olivet laughed, though Astarion could still feel the struggle in his movements. "I knew you'd never understand it. No one would. Yet, as you said, it is all so simple. I am his priest, you see. But she was to be his Chosen. The perfect Chosen. One who would be made so that she could never be unmade. She could become anything and anyone he wanted or needed her to be. Perfectly, divinely changeable. Best of all, she wouldn't even know it. She'd see herself the pawn of powerful men, and yet she would control their fortunes with her every move. The slave of lords, whom she would wrap around her little finger for the tiniest taste. She'd never stop fighting against the very powers she herself would hold and thus, never win and never lose. That is why he would make of her my finest adversary and my ideal consort. The Pirate Queen, who's treachery is necessary to uphold the rule of law."

"But then, she ended up the fodder of the Absolute." Astarion rejoined. "A tadpoled thrall to the illithid empire's Grand Design."

Olivet chuffed. "Except not, as you can see. The Weave tightened its hold on destiny and brought each of your threads together so as to ensure that could not happen. The not-quite Sharran who had been sent to retrieve the Astral Prism, the daughter of Gith who would come to know its significance and defend it for the future of her people, the wizard of Waterdeep whose knowledge and defiance of Mystra would embroider the tale in Netherese runes and make it real, the son of Ravengard who would grant access to the heights of Baldur's Gate nobility, the warhound of Zariel who would carry the scrying eye of the Hells and answer to their commands, and the vampire spawn of Cazador Szarr who would return them all to his master, and to thus to me, at the appointed time. And then, flowing in as an ocean does to fill the cracks in the cliff wall, she would bind you all together. The fourth Chosen no one even knew was there. How else could she claim the Netherstones? How else could she touch them? Why, if not for this truth, would Bhaal demand that Orin take her specifically?"

Astarion withdrew his weapon from the war priest's throat but not his hand from the back of his neck. "And yet." He spoke now directly against Olivet's cheek, though still wary of the cleric's magic pressed against his heart. "It has not gone as your god wished, has it? Something still tears at you. Or you would have stepped in to ensure that Cazador's ascension to Mephistopheles' side had been a success. You would have made certain that he did not attempt to complete her sacrifice just to spite me."

Astarion could feel a strange tremble move through the other man's body. As if he were listening to more than one person at a time but could not completely discern which voice was which. His eyes looked almost lost, and his gaze dissolved into the middle distance. When he responded, his tone was flat. Distracted.

"The songs of the dead are the words to our fears, they laugh from the waves with beckoning cheers…" He sang the words softly, with an accent not typical of his usual speaking.

"My heart longs to join them. Oh, to be free. I remember so many who don't think of me." He then took a slow, painful, breath. "I used to hear that song, over and over in my mind. And when I heard it, I knew she was close to me. I could always find her, just with its rhymes. But then, it stopped. Do you understand that? It just…stopped. I call her name. I call her name to the day and to the night, and I hear nothing. Témalíre. My beautiful Témalíre, my song of the sea. My song-maker, as indelible as it is inborn to her very name. I sing, I'll go then to meet her on the shores of the sea, for our souls in the depths together will be. But she does not answer me."

With a chilling snarl, Astarion turned his lips to the other's ear and snapped. "Because, you clot-brained, shit-sucking, milksop, that's not her name."

Only later would Astarion recall the unholy scream that deafened him and the feeling of righteous fire burning his skin. There was also the sound of shattering glass everywhere around him, the smell of alcohol and preserving spirits, and the feeling of falling. He lashed out at the darkness but was met with what he could only describe as cold fury. Then, someone grabbed ahold of him, fingers cutting into his armor like they were tipped in adamantine. It was then that the real battle began.


Orin paced anxiously around the central dais beneath the grand skull of Bhaal, deep in her temple in the Undercity. Her initiates and devoted cultists gathered around her, but none dared get close enough to offer any actual comfort. It would be unwanted anyway and no one really felt like dying in service to the Chosen's off-hand aggravation.

"Why does he not come?" She asked to no one in particular. "He promised, he promised!"

But then, she spied a familiar figure stepping carefully through the gate-wall and onto the walkway above. Orin almost called out to him in justified anger until she saw that he was carrying something large draped over his shoulder.

As the Chosen of Bhaal watched, tittering brightly and with an insane gleam in her white eyes, Olivet Ingen Ailil made his way down the winding stairways, past the sentinels of Unholy Assassins and Blackguards, and onto the platform where her sacrificial table lay empty. She skittered forward looking upside down and clapping her hands together in malicious excitement.

"What is this? What is this?" She started to ask but Olivet took it to be rhetorical. Instead of describing the obvious, he simply heaved Astarion's unconscious body off of his shoulder and laid him down onto the large grey stone block now swarmed with Bhaalist worshippers. He then offered Orin a curt bow and gestured grandly to the prize that he had brought for her.

Pattering over to table with bare but bloody feet, Orin the Red leapt up onto the stone and knelt down over the unmoving form. "Oh, oh, oh…" she cooed. "Is this not the perfect hour of the perfect day! Olivet has brought me the vampling son of a desecrated sire! Astarion, most beloved of my own promised bounty! Yes, yes, she will come, and I will make a feast of your flesh before her eyes! I will cut you as even your maker could not fathom, until your blood washes my faithful clean. Then, oh then, I will see to it that she joins you here, under my father's eyes. I will make for him a tableau of lovers! Yes! YES! Forever will you both be entwined before him. Your flesh made one flesh!"

Olivet said nothing as he observed Orin dart out her tongue and lick a line from Astarion's chin to the collar of his ruined shirt. This she then tore open at the chest so that she could probe at his shoulders and stomach; searching out the best places to stab and slice.

After a moment, she looked up with a scowl. "What have you done, Scion of the Nightstar? This is pale flesh, pale meat. Barely a thimble-full of crimson slips through his veins. How am I to bathe his beloved with all the warmth of his body?"

"What do you expect from a vampire spawn?" He replied quickly, still partially shielding his face with his hood and holding out his hands as if to signal a hint of sarcasm.

The Bhaalspawn only frowned, the creases around her mouth deepening in thought as she wondered whether or not it would be a good idea to add Olivet's crimson to the sacrifice as well. After all, he was so ruddy that he must have plenty of it.

No, she finally decided. Olivet Ingen Ailil would be the last sacrifice on her altar. She wanted him to see the end of all their efforts and then to die knowing he would never revel in them.

Besides, the first lamb of the new year had yet to arrive. The fattest, the choicest. She must be offered before any others, Bhaal demanded it. And she was so close now. Orin could almost smell her.