Lira sagged with relief beside Vaskel, her shoulder bumping his. "You have?"
"Oh yes. Not often, mind you. Soul binds are old magic, the kind most modern hellkins have forgotten. But in my years..." He waved a hand vaguely, unwilling as always to specify exactly how many years those were. "Let's say I've encountered my share of ancient curses."
"Can you break it?" Vaskel asked, hope and desperation warring in his voice.
Erindil leaned back, curling his willowy fingers over the gold armrests of his chair. “It will not be easy to sever the bind, but..." He paused dramatically, because of course he did, “I might be able to do it."
Vaskel's heart lurched. “Might?”
Erindil drummed his fingers rhythmically. “I’ve never done it before, of course. Should I remind you I’m no mage, and my powers don’t extend to infernal magic?” His stern expression relaxed into a hint of a smile. “Not that elvish enchantments are anything to sneeze at, and I’m more than willing to try. I will need use of the dear apothecary's workshop.”
"Anything you need," Lira said immediately. "I know Iris would say the same. She's been working on this for days."
"Excellent." Erindil's attention returned to Vaskel, and something in his gaze sharpened. "But first, dear boy, I must know how you came to be bound. The nature of the binding, the circumstances, the one who holds the other end—these details matter immensely."
Vaskel sighed. He'd told this story to Iris and to Lira, but if confession was the price of freedom, he'd tell it a hundred times more. He opened his mouth to begin when an ostrich shriek split the air.
Vaskel and Lira wrestled with the settee and each other as they struggled to get to their feet. The last time they’d heard Glen screech like that, a dragon had been circling overhead.
Twenty-Three
“Sweet, simmering cauldrons!”
Vaskel was first out of the tent, grateful he’d resumed carrying a blade. His fingers danced above the dagger’s hilt, but he was hesitant to brandish it before he scanned the camp for danger. His hand dropped when he realized that the only danger was Glen with his wings spread and his beady eyes locked onto something. That something was Rosie.
The gnome woman stood frozen mid-step, clutching a pair of glass jugs to her chest, her expression caught between confusion and irritation. A thick, blonde braid coiled around her head like a crown, and she wore a cheerful yellow apron.
It took only a moment to determine that the object of Glen’s hysteria wasn’t an intruder, but Rosie’s brandy.
“Bloody, brandy-stealing bird,” Rosie said, glaring at Glen with as much intensity as he was eyeing her brandy.
Erindil sighed as he stomped up to Glen, looking less like regal, centuries-old Elven royalty and more like a weary parent.“Remember what happened last time you got into Rosie's brandy?"
Glen's shriek morphed into what could only be described as a sulky warble. He tucked his wings back against his body but continued to eye the jug with unabashed longing.
Rosie shifted one of the glass containers onto her hip and shook a chubby finger at the ostrich. "Don't even think about it, you oversized chicken. This batch isn't for you." She turned to Lira, her round face breaking into a warm smile. “I was heading to the back door of the tavern to give these to you, but I might as well give them to you here."
Rosie and Rog’s wagon was permanently parked between the elf encampment and the stone bridge, which meant that the quickest way to the back entrance of The Tusk & Tail was through the cluster of elf tents.
Lira blinked, clearly still coming down from the momentary panic of expecting danger. "For me? I don’t think I can drink that much myself.”
"Not for now, you goose!" Rosie said between giggles. "For your wedding! I've made a special apple brandy filled with winter spices and a hint of plum. I’ve been working on the recipe for weeks."
Relief washed across Lira's face for a beat before her brow pinched with concern. “That’s so sweet, but you didn't have to make a special brandy just for us."
Rosie waved this off with the flap of one hand. "It's the wedding of the year! The decade! Two of Wayside's own getting married is the biggest thing to happen to this village since, well..." She paused and winked. "Since Rog and I arrived."
Vaskel noticed Lira’s cheeks pale as she nibbled her lower lip. He stepped forward and reached for the large glass jugs. “Why don’t I take those? I can store them behind the bar until the wedding.”
“Good man, hellkin, oh, you know,” Rosie said, grinning at him and traversing the brandy into his arms. “I’d better get back to the wagon.”
She ambled away, as Lira mumbled her own excuses and rushed toward the tavern’s back door.
Erindil followed his niece’s quick departure with one cocked, patrician eyebrow. “Should I…?”
“I’ll check on her,” Vaskel told him, already moving to the tavern. “I need to tuck these away, anyway.”
“Yes, yes.” Erindil slid his battle ostrich a quelling look. “Far away from prying ostrich eyes, if you please.” As he turned and led Glen back toward his tent, he held Vaskel’s gaze for a beat. “But find me later. I still want to know more about your soul bind.”
