Chapter 7

Syreilla climbed a tree for the night and settled in. That was probably the last she’d see of Vezar. She hoped that the barman would eventually come up to collect Kaddal. The morning startled her awake with the sound of a horse and cart. The light was blinding before she remembered to take off the circlet.

A sharp featured, dark-haired man had managed to navigate a one horse cart up the track. She climbed down the tree curiously. He was wearing peasant clothes but the smug look he fixed her with said he thought more highly of himself than that.

“Syreilla, you look surprised. I told you I would return.”

She blinked and grinned. “Vezar?” 

Having learned from and worked for mages, she’d heard rumors of spells that could give you your youth back at a high cost to others. Mages were sharp, and old mages were cunning. Sticking around to see what she could learn from him seemed like an idea she could live with.

The man grinned in return and it was still somehow unsettling, as if his lips pulled back farther than they should. “I hope you will forgive me.” He offered her knife back but it had been broken in half.

Her grin faded. “There’s nothing to forgive. I’m glad you were able to defend yourself, even if my knife broke in the process.”

Vezar looked pleased, climbing from the driver’s seat and into the back of the cart. “I brought a box for your friend and food for our travels. I hope I’ve brought enough.”

“If you haven’t we can make stops along the way, you look a lot better now. Not like walking kindling at all.” 

Syreilla’s playfully prodding jab earned her an imperious frown. “You sound like an elf when you mock me.” 

Widening her eyes and opening her mouth, Syreilla thrust her forearm up in a rude gesture. “That’s a low blow, Vezar!”

The man looked offended and amused. “What was that gesture?” 

She did it again with a grin and he imitated it. “Can you guess the meaning or do you need me to get explicit?” 

His eyes narrowed and he made the gesture again more forcefully. “I think I understand it clearly.”

Laughing, she nodded, “I don’t know if it’s because you’ve been tucked away for so long or if it’s something else, but you carry yourself,” she tilted her head looking at him pensively, “strangely. A little coarsening up wouldn’t hurt you.”

The rich laughter that came from him was a far cry from the rasping sound he’d made before. “Coarseness was never something I was told I lacked.” 

His gaze made her a little uncomfortable. Syreilla’d seen that look on men’s faces before, it usually ended with her boot on their throats. Older mages didn’t usually have much of an interest in that sort of thing.

“Don’t be giving me the glad eye, Vezar. I’m not the type.” She warned him dryly.

“Come help me with the box, Syreilla.” The sly smile on his face told her he wasn’t the listening type. Perhaps he hadn’t been that old of a mage when he’d been locked away.

Rounding the cart, she helped him pull the sturdy wooden box down and bring it closer to the remains. Syreilla tried to pick up a piece to put in the box but she gagged as she touched it. The smell, and the way Kaddal looked was just too much. She was dry heaving into the trees for a few moments before she collected herself enough to try again. To her surprise, Vezar had been industriously putting the pieces into the box.

Coming tentatively closer, she realized he’d even tried to put them in their proper places, more or less. Kaddal looked like a horrifying puzzle. Vezar laid the destroyed axe on top and moved to close the box as she watched. He nailed it shut and looked up at her as if he was going to mock her for her squeamishness.

“Thank you. The smell,” she shuddered, “it was worse when I tried to pick up…” Her stomach threatened to turn again.

“Elves and half-elves have keen senses.” He almost sounded envious.

“I’d trade my sense of smell for the ability to do what you just did.” She inclined her head respectfully. “I truly appreciate it, Vezar. Thank you.”

Vezar’s eyes widened giving a slightly surprised look to his suddenly unreadable face. “I’ve rarely been thanked. And never so earnestly.” 

Syreilla let a wry smile crack across her face, “Don’t get used to it, Batran says I’m an ungrateful child.” 

An answering smile broke across Vezar’s face, “Elves usually are.”

She opened her mouth in exaggerated offense and the man began to laugh. “Keep it up, see what it gets you.” Shaking her head, she was unable to hide her amusement.

They loaded the box of remains back onto the cart, with the top nailed closed and the wind blowing gently in the other direction, Syreilla’s stomach settled enough to have a bite to eat. He’d brought dried sausages, bread and cheese, as well as a few bottles of mead and wine.

“They just gave you all this or…” She looked at him thoughtfully trying again to circuitously prod him to speak of his miraculous transformation. Some mages didn’t respond well to directness.

“The dead seldom argue when you raid their stores.” Vezar eyed her curiously as if he hadn’t expected her to ask.

“True enough.” Syreilla took a bite of sausage. That was one question answered.

“Says the grave robber.” She nearly choked on the mouthful of meat as the elvish voice startled her.

Syr eyed them warily as they dismounted. “Didn't expect the two of you back. Is the lich lurking nearby as well?”

“We don't associate with such filth.” The nearer elf spoke coldly drawing an elvish blade. It glowed faintly.

“You seemed almost cozy with him when I was going into the Nameless.” She smiled mirthlessly, internally cursing Vezar for having broken her knife.

“Getting close enough to kill him only. Unlike you.” The look he gave her was disdainful. “To serve one of them, and now two.” His eyes shifted to Vezar.

“Vezar doesn’t have that” Syreilla made a gesture as if she were feeling something in her hand, “mucky, nasty feeling about him the lich did. And his voice doesn’t make my ears feel like they’ve had a snake’s tongue in them. I’m pretty certain he’s not a lich.”

Both elves looked at her in horror. “Vezar?” One spoke breathlessly, and the other followed suit. “Vezar Edra? The King Undying?”

“That would explain the crown.” She patted her bulging satchel. “Are you sure you killed the lich? Business and what not, you understand. I’d hate to sell the amulet he sent me in for and have him turn up looking for it.”

“How? It shouldn’t have been possible for anyone much less a-a,” the elf looked at her aghast searching for the words.

“Mongrel?” Syreilla offered helpfully with a vicious smile. “Why did you come back? You were planning to have a look around inside yourselves? I’m pretty sure I already liberated the good stuff, but please feel free to go in and look around.” 

Vezar began to laugh softly. “My dear Syreilla, I have a better use for them.”

“You won’t find us as easy to murder as those you used to replenish yourself, Vezar the Undying Evil.” Both elves began to advance with weapons drawn. 

Syreilla picked up the hammer from the back of the cart. This was going to be ugly. She didn’t want to tip her hand to the mage and make him think she was a threat. Showing him the nasty wards she’d learned from Zylius was a good way to get killed if what she could do was too far beneath his level. 

No, this was going to be a brawl and while she was quick elves were quicker. Batran always said the best way to fight an elf was to get their blade lodged anywhere you could and then beat them to death while they tried to get it out. Holding her other arm out as if she held a shield, she hoped the bones in her forearm would do.

“Step away, Syreilla. Leave them to me.” Vezar sounded almost exhilarated, but Syreilla knew better than to take her eyes off of the elves to look at him.

She cautioned him, “Elves are quick and f*****g cunning, Vezar. I’d rather you didn’t get put back in your box yet, I’m enjoying your company.” Two elves could take a mage down with speed and if they had any skill in magic… He should be aware of that.

Both elves focused on her with looks of revulsion. “You should have been put down at birth.” 

The closest leapt forward and Syreilla was ready, moving her arm to intercept his blade. She barely felt it as the razor sharp blade slid between the bones but twisting her arm was agony as she kept him from pulling it back, striking out at his head with the hammer. The elf sprang away as if he’d seen this trick before, however, he hadn’t paid attention to where Vezar had moved. Vezar grabbed the elf by the face, his fingers gouging into the elf’s eyes.

Panting, Syreilla watched the second elf turn on his heel and flee instead of staying to save his shrieking friend. She sent the hammer sailing at the back of his head and struck her mark stunning him as if he were a hare. The elf wouldn’t be down for long.

Carefully holding her arm, she moved toward the elf and picked up his sword. 

“Wait, Syreilla.” She put her foot on the elf’s neck and looked over at Vezar. The man had changed. His hair had lightened and his features had become more refined, almost elvish. The elf in his grasp looked as though he’d been badly burned and when he finally released him the elf was unmistakably dead. Vezar came closer studying her, “I had not wanted you to see yet.”

Syreilla tilted her head, she hadn’t heard a single mutter of a spell. “What…”

“Step back and I will show you.” He looked at the elf hungrily. “I can change myself, change my face and body. My senses.” Vezar lifted his gaze with an arch smile, “For a time. All I require is,” he paused, “prey is the word most often used.”

She watched as his features changed even more until he looked slightly more elven than she did. His hair was the same golden brown as hers and his eyes were now a very similar pale blue-grey. 

“You’re a thief, you just steal a little bit more dramatically than I do.” Syreilla couldn’t help but marvel at the transformation. He wasn’t a mage, not exactly. Or at least that wasn’t a spell as she knew it.

Vezar smiled and inclined his head. “I once killed a man for calling me a thief.”

“He probably didn’t mean it as a compliment.” She grinned at him. Whatever else Vezar might be, he was interesting.

“No, he did not.” His mouth split in a vicious grin before his eyes fell on her arm. “Can you heal that wound?”

“Not without something to draw power from.” Syreilla answered with a grimace, he must have guessed she had some background in magic when she wasn’t baffled or horrified. “I’m not looking forward to pulling this thing out either.”

“Give me your arm.” With his hand still touching the back of the elf’s bloodied head he reached for her arm.

“You can heal it?” She asked curiously.

“My dear Syreilla, I can heal it without so much as a scar.” Vezar smiled warmly as she let him take hold of her hand. “Can you pull the blade out yourself?”

Giving a curt nod, she dropped the second sword and took hold of the one in her arm. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply pulling the blade free. There was pain, but not as much as she’d expected. Opening her eyes, Syreilla realized Vezar had been healing her as she’d pulled. Her arm was knitting itself together and she watched in fascination. Without a murmur he was healing her as cleanly as if he were using a spell backed with impressive power. He finished, releasing her hand and Syreilla raised her arm, turning it to stare in amazement.

“Vezar, that…” she looked down at him and his self-satisfied smile in awe, “that’s…”

He began to laugh and even that had taken on silvery elven tones. “When you find your tongue again, perhaps you can help me choose another name. I was disappointed when you didn't recognize mine, but being recognized was more troublesome than it was gratifying.”

Syreilla grinned and looked at him carefully, “You look like you could be my brother. My mother once said she’d have named me Thesolas if I’d been a boy.”

Vezar grimaced. “I knew a Thesolas, a loathsome man.” 

She frowned, thinking for a few moments, “What about Syvilas?” It wasn’t uncommon for siblings to have similar names and keeping him close would be wise.

“Syvilas. I would need a family name.” He looked at her expectantly.

“Hammersworn isn’t one I can give you, that’s true.” Syreilla gave him an annoyed look and he grinned at her. “Acharnion is the surname my mother gave me, you’re welcome to it.”

“Syvilas Acharnion.” Vezar gave a florid bow, “Brother of Syreilla Hammersworn.”

With a sigh she shook her head and added, “Son of Tirnel Acharnion. You’ll have to come up with your own mother’s name.” 

His eyes lit in recognition, “Tirnel. You are of Olthon Camaenion’s line. I was told you would be.” 

“You’ll have to tell me about that on our way to Delver’s Deep, Syvilas.”