Silverlock is probably one of my favorite original characters ever. I'm a little sad that I never really write anything for his actual story; he just gets cameos in Stella Matin and does his best to make Theron's life miserable.
And Radrezhaean accents really do sound silly. They all talk like they've got marbles stuffed in their cheeks; everyone else calls them Radrezians (long "e" sound). Silverlock, in addition to teaching Theron all he needs to know about blood play and being evil, has made it his goal to get the boy to talk properly.
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"Anzani."
"What?" Theron glanced up from the Weaving he held between his hands, brow furrowed in concentration. "Can't you save your distractions until after I've finished with this?"
"That would hardly be any fun." Silverlock traced his finger through the blood puddled on Theron's work table. "You're working in messy conditions. Very sloppy."
"It's messy work," Theron grated out. He pulled a few more glittering strands of aether and the quasi-elemental stuff that felt like life and tasted like death from the blood. They clung to his fingers like spider silk.
"Hence my suggestion: anzani." The necromancer drew patterns on the table with his bloody finger. "It will help you a great deal if you take it to heart. Of course, you could continue on as you are, and still receive satisfactory results- but I've never felt that the ends justify the means. The process of magic is as much an art as the product. Sometimes I feel that you forget that."
Several threads snapped under tension, and the Weaving dissolved into thrashing strands between Theron's hands. "You're a bastard, D'Alestri." The loosened strands had lacerated his palms; more blood dripped down his wrists.
"You should pay more attention to your work when I distract you, that's all." Silver took one of Theron's hands in his and wiped away the blood with the edge of his sleeve. "Anzani. Nothing more, nothing less. It's roots are Shrivish, making it a very old word, indeed."
"Anzhanyi," Theron repeated. He wrenched his hand out of Silverlock's grip. "Fine, I get it."
"Your accent is one of the most frightful things I've ever heard. Do all Radrezians all talk like that?" He licked Theron's blood from his fingers with the air of a connosieur.
"You're one to talk about accents," Theron muttered. He glowered at his still-bloody hands. "Radrezian." He mimicked Silverlock's nasal pronunciation of the word. "It's Radrezhaean."
Silverlock waved his hand negligently. "You're so poorly educated, it's no wonder you can't even keep the name of your homeland straight."
"Some day, old man, I will kill you."
"You know you enjoy the abuse," Silver breathed, reaching across the table to stroke an exceptionally long fingernail down the side of Theron's face. "Now, anzani."
The terrified revulsion on Theron's face was delicious for all that it lasted only briefly. He brought his face and his emotions under control quickly. "Nothing more, nothing less," he said. His voice wavered only slightly. "Fine. What's it supposed to mean?"
"Now he asks questions." Silverlock rolled his eyes and let out an exaggerated sigh. "You're an ungrateful brat and an idiot, my dear. But I'll explain it to you in simple terms because you're pretty. Anzani is a form of perfection, a sort of elegance. An economy of thought and movement and deed. Perfect it, and you perfect all things. Your magic is creative, but it's also very sloppy."
He stood in a swirl of magic and expensive cloth. "Think on it, and report your thoughts to me at dinner. Be prompt, please. I'm in no mood to wait for your temper." The mage disappeared with a controlled lack of noise, leaving behind a seething teenager.
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