The Sorcerer’s Equal
Jaclyn Dolamore
Contents
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Epilogue
Also in the Hidden Lands Series
About the Author
Also by Jaclyn Dolamore
Copyright © 2017 by Jaclyn Dolamore
Photo © LiaKoltyrina/Bigstock.com
Cover Layout © 2017 Jaclyn Dolamore and Dade Bell
http://bang-doll-ssi.deviantart.com/
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Chapter 1
The Miralem healer’s eyes glanced over Grau’s body as she held his hand. She was surely using her telepathy to evaluate him. She frowned slightly before turning to Velsa. “We’ll see what we can do.”
“Will he be all right?” Velsa asked.
“We won’t really know until we remove the dragon scales and get a good look at him.” The healer—who had introduced herself as Rovi—had a kind face and touch, at least. Her hair was in two long blonde braids that fell down her back, and a satchel was slung across her shoulder. “You should go to the inn and have something to eat. If you stay near, your concern may interfere with my work.”
Velsa wanted to protest, but then realized this was a Miralem land, where most everyone was telepathic. Velsa and Grau could sometimes feel each other’s thoughts over a distance, even though Grau wasn’t telepathic. The more she used her power to open their minds to each other, the more they seemed to share a bond that transcended miles. Perhaps this very bond could interfere with Rovi’s attempts to heal him.
“I’ll summon you the moment we’re ready,” Rovi said.
“I’ll walk you the inn, if you like. Scare off the rabble,” offered the local necromancer, a Daramon man clad in black, by the name of Dalaran. He wore a tight black velvet jacket with a starched white collar, had sharp eyes lined in black, and the fangish teeth characteristic of some northern Daramons, and said he was the local necromancer.
When Velsa landed in the square, riding in the foot of the dragon Morgnar, and called for the help of a healer, Rovi had come forward, followed closely by this man.
I know what necromancers are for, Velsa thought darkly. Speaking to the dead before they were too far gone into the spirit world. Bringing back the dead to the inferior life of a zombie. His presence was not reassuring.
“That’s all right,” she said. “I have my friends with me.”
In the front room of the healer’s ward, Kessily sat hunched in her cloak while Sorla looked out the window.
“It’ll be a little while before we know,” Velsa said. “She suggested we go to the inn for a meal.”
“I am hungry,” Kessily admitted. “Although I don’t love the idea of trying to eat in public with these wings.”
That, of course, could hardly be helped. Certainly they all had their worries. They had escaped Nalim Ima by the skin of their teeth—or the aid of a dragon, as the case was—but now they were in an unfamiliar land.
Velsa had always heard that the Miralem lands were a refuge for Fanarlem, because slavery was forbidden. Men and women were equal, too, and Velsa had seen that from the moment the dragon set foot in the town square, and some of the men gathering around curiously carried babies or small children. One would never, ever see a Daramon man carrying a baby for longer than a moment.
Dor-Temerna was called a ‘city’ in these parts, but to Velsa it looked like a mere town. The focal point of the town was a broad square, a green lawn with some market stalls and a few clumps of trees. They had landed there, and returned to it on their way to the inn. The finest buildings fronted the square, but they were nothing like the grand buildings in Nalim Ima. Few of them reached more than three stories, and most were made of wood, some with thatched roofs. The nicest had peaked wooden roofs with a bit of carved trim and a balcony on the second floor that overlooked the surroundings.
Streets branched off from the square, all of them narrow and dirty with the droppings of various animals. Some people in town kept chickens and pigs in tiny yards abutting their homes. The air must smell bad, but Fanarlem didn’t have to smell, so Velsa chose not to sample the aromas. The only paved street appeared to be the one where all the magical shops and services were located, the healer’s ward included. Obviously a sorcerer who could shape rock had made that one street nice, complete with a gutter for drainage.
When they reached the square, the townsfolk were still gathered around Morgnar. The dragon’s wings were somewhat lifted in a tense position, and he seemed to be communicating to the crowd with a mass telepathic signal. As Velsa drew close, she started to pick up on it.
He used a spell to protect me, and fought against his own kind, the dragon was saying. I don’t know if I would be here today or not without him. Do you think I would save a man who sympathized with Kalan?
He was defending Grau. The people had obviously been demanding to know why they should help a Daramon man who had been in the army of their enemy.
“Where are the other dragons who left with you?” called a woman in a leather dress.
They were not so lucky.
The woman spotted Velsa and her friends approaching. Her steely blue eyes roved over all of them and settled on Kessily. “And who are you? What terrible magic is this?” She pointed at Kessily’s bird feet. Her wings were mostly concealed by her cloak, although the shape was somewhat discernible. The rest of Kessily still looked like a human, even down to her calves, but her feet were quite a sight and there was no good way to hide them.
Kessily faltered. “I was—cursed,” she said. “By Kalan.” Close enough to the truth. “Grill me later if you must, but I’ve barely slept or eaten in days. I’m starving. No questions.” She pushed past the woman toward the inn, recognizable by the sign with a picture of a mug and a candle.
One would never know Kessily was unconscious for a decent part of the trip, after working water magic by boat all night without sleep, and then managing a few short flights with her unwanted wings.
“I don’t expect Grau and I will be very welcome here,” Kessily said. “I do see other Daramons in town, but they’re a very different sort of Daramon.”
“I thought this was supposed to be a good place,” Sorla said.
“I guess we can’t expect them to welcome us right away.” Velsa was trying to be an optimist. Coming here had mostly been her idea, although Kessily had to leave the Daramon lands anyway. Kalan’s soldiers were looking for her.
One reason they had been told to come to Dor-Temerna was because it was a Miralem city that contained a sizable population of Daramons. They were a certain sect of Daramons, the Ven-Diri, who worshipped their ancestors and didn’t share the belief of other Daramons that the High Sorcerer
communicated the will of fate to the people. The Ven-Diri had a dour appearance, wearing all black and sometimes even powdering their faces to look more pale, and often seemed like they worshiped death more so than their ancestors. Velsa also had her doubts about how well Grau would fit in here.
Sorla pushed open the heavy door of the inn. Velsa had to readjust to being in rooms without electric lights. Nalim Ima was bright all the time, everywhere you went.
Inside the doors, a fire crackled in the hearth which was the focal point of the room, casting a flickering glow on unadorned log walls. Just a few people occupied the inn’s dining room at this off-hour. The server was polishing glasses by the window. She was a slim, gloomy-eyed Daramon girl wearing a simple black dress and an apron, her hair in skinny black braids.
“Can I get you anything to eat?” the girl asked them. “The special today is pork and dandelion greens.”
“Bread and a drink,” Kessily said.
“Wine or ale?”
“Whichever’s cheaper.”
“None for us,” Velsa said.
“Have a seat,” the girl said. “I’ll bring it out.”
“I’ll have some bread, too,” Sorla said.
“Sorla, you don’t need to eat!” Velsa said as the girl walked away.
Everyone in the inn was staring at them as they claimed a corner table.
“I have a little of my own money,” Sorla said. “I wanted to see how it tasted.”
Sorla was passionate about cooking, so Velsa let it go. Of course she would wonder what bread was like in other countries.
Velsa wondered how Sorla would take to Dor-Temerna, more than the rest. Kessily would have a hard time anywhere, with her strange wings. Velsa and Grau would always have each other—He’ll make it through, she insisted to herself. But Sorla was thirteen, and had always been a slave. The path of her life was now free and unwritten, and just before leaving Nalim Ima, she had changed her face from the crude doll-like features of a common slave, to a proper face with spells placed upon it so she possessed a newfound beauty. Velsa knew the same soul lay underneath, but it made an entirely different person out of her; not a pitiable creature but a young woman with an impish smile and dark curls of real hair.
Sorla was more independent by nature than Velsa, since she had not been raised to be owned by a man, but had been brought up in a family as the servant of their two daughters, and taught to read. They cast her aside later, for reasons Velsa still didn’t fully know, and then she had been a slave for hire, working for different families every week, belonging to the rental shop.
When the girl brought out the bread, Sorla split her piece with Velsa.
“It’s awfully dense,” Sorla said, mouth half full. “But the flavor grows on you.”
It was a very strong sourdough and Velsa didn’t like it much at all, but she ate it just because it was something to do, and maybe they looked more normal if they were eating. The other patrons were still staring, though. So perhaps it was worse. In Grau’s hometown, everyone was shocked that Velsa could eat.
The inn door creaked open and a girl entered, around Sorla’s age. Accompanying her was a small dragon, the size of a young cat, with a skinny body and large wings. Its scales were silvery black with a red shimmer. It scurried underfoot, almost tripping the girl as she approached the bar while staring at Velsa, Kessily, and Sorla.
“What can I get you?” the server girl asked. “The special today is—“
“Cheese sandwich, hard cider. You ought to know by now, I’m not fancy.”
“You might surprise me someday,” the server girl said, with a lopsided grin. She seemed to like the girl with the dragon.
The small dragon lifted its head curiously toward Velsa’s table and then slunk over to them. It sniffed Kessily’s wings and then started rummaging in them with its small claws.
Kessily stood up, yanking her cloak around her. “Hey!”
“He likes you.” The girl leaned on the counter. She was wearing a cap and trousers with a short quilted jacket and sturdy, grubby boots. Her voice was matter-of-fact and a little low, her overall demeanor boyish and her fawn-colored hair cropped in short loose curls, but she was strikingly pretty.
“I see that!” Kessily said.
“He won’t hurt you. Maybe you have mites.”
“Mites?” All the color drained out of Kessily’s face.
“Maybe you should keep him for a few days, if you’re staying in town.” The girl took the mug of cider, which the server slid down the counter almost into her hand. “Or forever, if you ask me. Troublesome creature. How did you get those wings?”
“Magic.”
“Must’ve been some rough magic.”
“I’m hoping I can get rid of the spell.” She had dropped her cloak and was no longer trying to stop the dragon from grooming her feathers.
“Oof,” the girl said. “Well—I’m sure someone around here can figure it out. Maybe you could see the Keeper about it.”
“The Keeper?”
“Keeper of the Dead. He lives up on the mountain and I s’pose he knows more about magic than anyone in the city, although he isn’t much for granting favors.”
Sorla had left her chair to get a closer look at the dragon. She tentatively reached a hand toward it, which it immediately sniffed. “It’s so cute. Is it a baby?”
“It’s a wyvern. That’s as big as he gets. They’re not intelligence like dragons, but they’re smarter than dogs. Well, maybe it depends on the dog and the wyvern…”
“Do they breathe fire?” Kessily asked, still seeming wary of it.
“No, no. I mean it, keep him with you. They love to groom.”
“Oh, good, I was just wondering how I could attract even more attention,” Kessily muttered. “But—thank you. I mean—we’ve been on the road, so if we do have mites I’m sure it’s not our fault.”
“We don’t have mites!” Sorla cried.
The girl chuckled. She finished off her cider and picked up the cheese sandwich wrapped in paper which had been set before her. Then she walked to their table and handed a card to Sorla. “This is our farm, up the hill. When you’re done with the wyvern—his name is Tomato, by the way—you can bring him back, if he doesn’t head home on his own, which he very well might. But sometimes he’s pretty thick-headed. Aren’t you?”
The wyvern flapped his little wings and started flying around the table.
“No.” The girl snapped her fingers. “Not indoors. You know that.” She shrugged. “He’s young.”
“Thank you, miss,” Sorla said, glancing at the card.
“Mister. Call me Ruven.”
“Oh. Oh—Mr. Ruven—of course—I’m sorry.” Sorla drew back to her chair like she was seconds from collapse. Ruven walked out, leaving Kessily with the wyvern, who looked very interested in her bread.
“If it makes you feel any better, I absolutely thought he was a girl too,” Velsa said.
“He had boy clothes and a boy voice,” Kessily said, raising an eyebrow. “Although someone probably said the same thing about me when I was twelve.”
“Exactly,” Velsa said. “He seemed like a girl who acts like a boy. I guess this is how things are in the Miralem lands. If men are women are equal, maybe it doesn’t mean as much to dress or talk a certain way. That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”
Sorla was covering her face. “We’re the same age! It’ll be hard enough for me to make friends when everyone knows I used to be a slave, and now I look incredibly stupid.”
“Well…you don’t have to tell them you were a slave,” Velsa said. “If I rewrote my past, you can rewrite yours.”
“You mean, lie again? What would I say? Aren't all Fanarlem slaves to start? I mean—you claimed you were born flesh, but I’m not sure I want to lie that much.”
“I don’t know. Maybe you could say that you were a slave with your very first family. And then Grau and I adopted you. We had to do it under the auspices of you being our slave for leg
al reasons, but we treated you just like a daughter. That doesn’t come with so much baggage, and maybe people won’t ask you many questions since it isn’t a juicy story.”
Sorla drew up, no longer looking like she wanted to die of embarrassment. “Like your daughter?”
“I mean…maybe.”
Velsa could tell that her suspicions were right. This was what Sorla wanted. She wanted to be able to say, in some concrete way, that Velsa and Grau were her family, close as blood.
“You’re not old enough to be my parents,” Sorla said.
“It might not be a bad thing to say we’re a little older than we are,” Velsa said, already thinking of the disdainful looks some of the townspeople gave her. If Velsa admitted she was only eighteen, that would probably make matters worse.
“Should I call you Mom and Dad?” Sorla furrowed her brows.
“That would be strange. But let me talk to Grau about it.”
The wyvern kept diligently grooming Kessily’s wings as they chatted. But the mood of the other people in the inn had subtly shifted away from them after Ruven came in, as if the newcomers had received the stamp of approval from one of their own.
“People just get wary of strangers around here,” their waitress said, as she came to clear the plates. “Bandits come through here now and then.”
“Oh, yes, I’m sure it’s hard to tell the difference between us and the bandits,” Kessily said.
“Well, maybe you don’t look like bandits. But then, there’s also a lot of people who just don’t trust anything that comes from Kalan’s territory. It goes against their goddess.” She spoke softly now, clearly not wanting to insult the goddess within earshot of the patrons.
The inn door opened once more, and Dalaran walked in, looking every bit the bearer of bad news. Velsa stood. She felt heavy inside, and not just from the jewels stuffed inside her rib cage, stolen from the Peacock General.
“He wants to see you, Velsa,” Dalaran said.
“Is he all right?”
He waved for her to come outside—drawing out the horrible suspense.
The Sorcerer's Equal (The Telepath and the Sorcerer Book 3) Page 1
