“Some of us don’t believe power should be flaunted and used to torment at every turn,” Dormongara said. “And I am the master of this place now.”
“They’re so afraid…” He slid a finger along Kessily’s lower lip, pulling it slightly out of place.
She spat at him, then writhed in her bonds. “Please.” She looked at Dormongara.
In some strange way, she thought, his brother might have helped her case. He was obviously a bit rattled, maybe even a tad embarrassed.
“I told you to release them,” Dormongara said, his voice measured but angry. “I command you to do it at once.”
“What a shame.” The dead brother lifted his hands, and the paralyzing cold abated. Just being able to move had never felt so wonderful, and it would have been far worse if she were a living person, struggling to expand her lungs to breathe. Kessily drew against Velsa, as if naturally gravitating toward the theoretical warmth of another person. She was shivering all over. Velsa put an arm around her.
The semblance of life that cloaked the dead spirit suddenly fell away, leaving only the dusty skeleton. With surprising strength in his bony hand, he shoved over the chair where his skeleton sat. “You’re pathetic,” he sneered, his voice seeming more ghastly coming from his white, creaking jaw. “Treating your own brother as the enemy instead of intruders who dare to knock you down and steal from you.”
“Oh, I’m not done with them.” Dormongara looked at Velsa and Kessily, his dark eyes flashing anger. “You selfish little thieves. You come to my castle, demand favors as if you are the only people in all the world, and knock me out when I don’t give you what you want—thus, now I have to contend with him.” He pointed the tip of his walking stick at them, inches from striking Velsa’s breastbone. “Go home. I’ll reckon with you later.”
“Wait,” Kessily said, though trembling.
“Go,” Dormongara repeated. “Take the body. The carriage will be waiting for you at the bottom of the hill. But don’t think you won’t pay for it later.”
Chapter 4
They rushed for the front door. No one stopped them now. Velsa could hardly believe that just outside the door was a blue sky, a bright morning sun.
They started clamoring down as quickly as they could, but Kessily trusted her wings and feet even less when she could see just how far she might tumble if she lost her hold. “If only I dared to fly,” she grunted.
“Don’t hurt yourself,” Velsa said, forcing herself to stay near Kessily, so she might offer a hand if she started to fall. “I just hope, whatever that was, we don’t have to deal with it again.”
“Families of sorcerers always have drama up to their ears,” Kessily said. “Like royals, but even worse, because they can throw spells at each other. And what is worse than twins?”
Velsa wondered if she had known a family of sorcerers before, or if this was just something she’d read or seen in a play.
Kessily added, “I don’t like the Ven-Diri one bit. Messing with the dead all the time. Some things ought to be buried.”
Kessily made it to the bottom unscathed. Velsa was the one who tore the skin of her own thigh on a rock. But the carriage was waiting for them, as promised. Velsa had to restrain herself from hugging the fuzzy brown horse out of relief. The corpse was stuffed in back, wrapped in cloth.
“Do you know how to drive a carriage?” Kessily asked. “I only know boats, not horses.”
“I do. When I met Grau, he had the sweetest of horses.”
Velsa took the reins, desperate to put space between them and the castle.
“Oh fates, Kessily, I come up with terrible plans,” Velsa said. “Now I’ve probably made an enemy of the most powerful sorcerer in the region.”
“Let’s try not to think about it.”
The fuzzy horse did not like to be rushed, but Velsa urged him on through the pounding in her temples. The pain that bloomed in the wake of using her telepathy was coming on strong. The entire week had been a blur of exertion and little sleep. It was hard to believe how recently they had left Nalim Ima.
They didn’t speak much on the way home, but returned to town among the comforting morning hustle and bustle of carts laden with vegetables and rosy-cheeked people feeding chickens. Dalaran was standing outside the healer’s ward to meet them.
“Back already?” He seemed surprised.
“You didn’t think we’d succeed?” Kessily retorted. “Smooth as butter on corn.”
“Do you have my dust?” he hissed.
“No,” Velsa said.
He gripped her arm. “I told you that dust enhances my sorcery.”
“Dormongara was not amenable. He said you were stupid to trust him anyway. Anyway, he had other matters to worry about. You didn’t tell us he had a twin brother.”
“He doesn’t.”
“He certainly does,” Kessily said. “Although he’s dead. Maybe it was before your time.”
“‘Smooth as butter on corn’, my ass—what happened up there?”
Kessily laughed raggedly. “Why don’t you get the body out of the back? Grau’s dying.”
Velsa couldn’t stand making any more conversation. She opened the door and ran down the hall, bursting to see Grau. She could feel that he was still alive, but she had to see him.
“Thank goodness you’re here,” she said, Sorla said, rising from a chair by his bedside. “It’s been so boring.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t put on a show,” Grau muttered.
“Better boring than awful,” Velsa said. Suddenly she felt so exhausted it was all she could do not to collapse into Grau’s arms. She crouched beside him and took his hand, freshly startled by how pale and cold he was. She felt as if he ought to look better.
“Bellora.” He cupped her cheek. His voice was the same as ever, at least. Then his eyes dropped to the stuffing tufting out of her thigh. “You tore your skin. I hope you didn’t have any trouble.”
“I’ll leave you two alone,” Sorla whispered, slipping out.
“I got the body,” Velsa said. “Dalaran’s coming in with it. But—oh, I did have trouble. I attacked the Keeper, and his evil brother awoke from the dead, and he shouted at us to go but he said he’d be back and…I’m scared. And also—Calban’s jewels were fake.” She gripped his hand tighter. “I’ve made a huge mess of things…a huge, huge mess. I don’t really know what I’m doing. I’m just flailing around and making mistakes.”
“Shh, well…we’ll see what happens.”
Dalaran came in then, with the corpse slung over his shoulder, still wrapped up. Rovi accompanied him, with a few potions in her hands.
“Okay,” Dalaran said. “This ain’t gonna be pretty so you might want to step outside.”
Grau looked a little nervous, which heightened Velsa’s nerves.
Their relationship was changing in more ways than one. Once, her powers were bound and he was the first sorcerer she had ever known; he had protected her and shielded her from the world. She was free now, and sometimes he was the one who needed her. She felt so inadequate to the task.
She kept control of her expression and gently kissed his lips. “It’ll be okay. I’ll keep in touch telepathically.”
“We don’t like it here very much…,” Sorla admitted, talking to Velsa in the front room of the healer’s ward.
“What makes you say that?”
Sorla shrugged. “This woman named Brin came around, asking me who I am and why I’m here. I guess she was a friend of Rovi’s, but she doesn’t like any of us. While she was here, I asked Rovi if there were any books I could read to Grau, to keep his mind off things, and Brin butted in and told me books don’t grow on trees. I told her they do. Paper is made from trees, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but there is a little more to it than that. Making the paper and the bindings and printing the letters…it takes time and equipment.”
“She sounded upset by the very idea of reading.”
“I don’t think the Miralem read as mu
ch as Daramons do. Our advanced printing methods are pretty recent. I’m not sure how many Miralem can read.”
“What will we do here, then?”
Velsa and Sorla had spent a lot of time reading back in Nalim Ima. The library was a short walk away, and its long halls possessed thousands of books, with stacks of new ones added by the week. “You didn’t read much when you were a slave, did you?”
“I couldn’t. I was supposed to pretend to be illiterate.”
“I guess that’s what we’ll do. Not pretend to be illiterate, of course, but we’ll work, and tell stories by the fire when we get home.”
“What home?”
“We’ll find a home.” But another wave of uneasiness came over Velsa. She and Grau never managed to stay anywhere for long. At first, it felt like home was anywhere that Grau was. But in Nalim Ima, this changed. While Grau went to work, Velsa and Sorla started to settle into their lives. They had money, a routine, the steady warmth of the cast-iron stove. It was over so quickly and it never felt secure, but she missed it too.
Kessily joined them, and Sorla went on for a bit, complaining about Brin and the way the town smelled and all sorts of things. Velsa supposed she should be happy that Sorla was complaining. Slaves didn't dare complain, but ordinary girls did.
Outside, in the direction of the square, a bell clanged five times. People rushed toward the center of town: from children and dogs dashing down the street to very old people moving a little stiffly. Velsa watched out the wavy glass windows. The commotion pricked her already-frayed nerves. Briefly, she saw in them not the townspeople, but soldiers running to escape gunfire or clouds of blinding potion. The horrors of war were still fresh in her mind.
“Maybe we should see what’s going on,” Velsa said. “I can stay connected to Grau telepathically.”
“I’ll wait here,” Kessily said. “I don’t want anyone staring at me.”
Velsa and Sorla joined parents with babies and travel-worn people who came out of the inn, all of whom clustered in the square where a woman stood on a raised bed of stone, ringing a smaller bell.
“News from the capital,” she called. “News from the capital!”
A century ago, the town crier was a familiar figure in every town, and Velsa still knew them from books, but in her homeland, newspapers had supplanted them. In the Miralem lands, where telepathy still transmitted messages faster than print could match, perhaps people didn’t see as much need for newspapers. The woman was dressed in a coat of robin’s-breast-red, with matching ribbons in her hair. She prowled the platform, pausing with bell in hand to see if more people were still joining the crowd.
A few hundred people crammed the square. Velsa and Sorla were on the small side of flesh and blood people and couldn’t see far, but the Miralem looked very common to Velsa’s eyes, many with crude features and simple wool clothing. Miralem didn’t place a high priority on beauty and style as the Daramons did. Even here, the Ven-Diri Daramons were obvious in the crowd, because they were more likely to have faces shape-shifted into uniform beauty.
Apparently satisfied by her audience, the crier began to speak. “Word has come from the capital about the recent battle. Unfortunately, the force from Laionesse was not successful in their mission. Many soldiers and two of the dragons were killed, as you may have already heard from Morgnar. The Nalim Imans had new weapons that no one expected, including a flying machine with rapid-fire guns, and some sort of long-range, targeted explosive.”
“Flying machines? Goddess protect us,” a man said.
“Their ships have acquired stronger guns, and the ground troops had guns that fire very quickly, sometimes killing dozens of our soldiers before they could properly target the gunners. However, they were not prepared for our clouds of blinding potion.”
Velsa thought even this was a generous description of the battle. She had seen some men fall victim to the blinding potions, but many of the Miralem had been killed before their boats hit the shore.
“The king would like to relay to you all to take heart and not be afraid. He reports that the survivors have extracted vital information.”
“When are the lists of dead coming?” one woman cried.
“They will come next, but—I’m afraid that if you know someone in one of those units, the chances are not favorable.”
The woman let out an awful wail. Most of the crowd didn’t seem to have such a personal connection, but they were incensed. “How could this be? Why can’t we take out their gunners?”
“It seems they simply outnumbered us,” another woman said, with an air of defeat.
“And they have the Halnari traitors on their side,” said a man with the apron and sweaty grime of a blacksmith, his accent so thick that it took Velsa a moment to process the words. “They couldn’t do any of this without those sowk.” He drew out the slur for an unforgivable person so it started deep in his chest and hissed through his teeth.
“And instruments of evil,” another man said. “They tear up the earth with their mining and refine her fruits into weapons of war.”
The crier clasped her hands. “The royal family urges calm and welcomes volunteers for military service in Laionesse.”
“The king urges calm?”
The crowd rumbled angrily. Miralem were not used to losing battles; all of the history books Velsa had read agreed on this. They were conquerors. The only thing that kept them from claiming the entire world was their slower population growth.
It gave Velsa an uneasy feeling. Of course, the Daramons had been the ones to create her and tell her from birth that she was fated to suffer. But it seemed hypocritical for the Miralem to blame them for creating weapons of war when the Daramons were never able to get an edge in past conflicts.
“Who are these strangers?” asked a young woman standing near Velsa, and another woman standing beside her said, “That’s what I was just going to ask.”
“Who was that injured man Morgnar brought in? Was he in the battle? He doesn’t have the blood cough, does he?”
“I’m not sure,” the crier said. “I only get reports from the capital.”
From every direction, the eyes of strangers turned their way. Velsa saw a Fanarlem man in the crowd, the first Fanarlem she had seen in this place. He was fairly well-constructed, but he looked small and remained very quiet, among the loud discussions of the flesh and blood people. His clothes were plain, and after a moment, he turned away.
A woman in a blue robe stepped onto the platform, holding up a hand to calm the people. “I spoke to Morgnar. The Daramons who have come to town turned against Kalan and aided the dragons. Although I can’t vouch for their personal morals, they are not enemies, and I am sure none of them have the blood cough.”
“Personal morals?” Velsa repeated, trying to decide if she should say something, but no one would have heard her anyway. Discussions were growing more heated.
Sorla spoke into her ear. “That’s Brin, the woman in blue. See what I mean about her?”
Velsa took Sorla’s hand and turned back to the side street. A path parted for them, whispers following in their wake.
“Are they upset that we came here?” Sorla asked.
“I suppose they’ll get used to us,” Velsa said, trying not to let it rattle her. “Fanarlem aren’t common here.”
Back in the healer’s ward, Velsa paced, hugging herself. Kessily told Sorla about Dormongara; they tried to draw Velsa into conversation, but she hardly heard them. She was connected with Grau while his mind was in a merciful sleep. She had to know he was living through it all.
He stirred. He felt her there. Velsa…? His mind called her name, and she sensed a horrific throb of pain.
Then, the presence of another mind broke the link. Rovi nudged him into unconsciousness again.
A moment later, she peered out the door. “Velsa? Please, I know you’re worried, but he’s in good hands. Trying to communicate with him disturbs his sleep, and we absolutely don’t want him to wake up.
Don’t make me send you back to the inn!”
Velsa glanced down in embarrassment. “Of course… I’m sorry, I just—”
“I would be tempted to do the same if it was my husband, even though I know better. But the pain will be terrible for him. You’ll be seeing him awake and whole by midnight, I’d say.”
“Ah,” Velsa said, trying not to look despairing.
If she couldn’t let her thoughts get too close to Grau, they would wander instead to Dormongara.
Midnight was a long way off.
Chapter 5
These long hours of waiting offered too much time for contemplation. Velsa’s mind walked the halls of the House of Perfumed Ribbons again, and heard Dalarsha’s gentle reprimands. Don’t speak out of turn, dear. Not too loud. Control your emotions—you must learn now, or you’ll be sorry after you’re bought. Usually the reprimands were not even directed at Velsa herself. She had learned early on to be quiet. But the words had been the backdrop of all her early years, as the teachers endlessly reminded the girls to be quiet and good and follow instructions.
It seemed so long ago, but it wasn’t. Not long ago at all, she never had her own choices to make. Maybe that was why she kept making stupid ones now. Sudden freedom had made her impulsive. If she hadn’t plotted to leave Nalim Ima and gotten Grau and herself separated, he might not be dying now. She might never have had to go to Dormongara’s castle, and she wouldn’t have had to manipulate him.
The front door opened. Velsa nearly jumped out of her boots before realizing it was just Brin. Hopefully she wasn’t here to cause trouble.
“Good afternoon,” she said. “Back, are you? I heard you went to see the Keeper of the Dead. How did that go?”
“Very well,” Velsa said, bowing politely. “You must be Brin.”
“Yes, indeed.” She carried a folded dress of rough wool dyed a dull pink. “I thought you might want something more suitable to wear,” she said, offering it with outstretched hands and a small sniff. “I don’t want our young people to get any ideas.”
The Sorcerer's Equal (The Telepath and the Sorcerer Book 3) Page 6
