The Sorcerer's Equal (The Telepath and the Sorcerer Book 3)

by Jaclyn Dolamore

  “Are my legs corrupting the town?” Velsa said, sure this was not an offering of kindness.

  Surprise and discomfort briefly registered on Brin’s face. Clearly, she had not expected Velsa to snap. “Only the goddess Vallamir can judge,” Brin said. “I just know that southern Daramons live very differently.”

  “We came here because we didn’t agree with the way southern Daramons live,” Velsa said.

  “Then, we shall have no trouble.”

  “I hope not,” Brin said. “Is Rovi busy healing, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll come back some other time.”

  Sorla stuck out her tongue as it closed and then whispered loudly, “See what I mean?”

  The dress unfolded in Velsa’s hands to a simple sack of a dress, in that ghastly color, like a cat had vomited up a salmon.

  Velsa pulled her head through the collar. The fabric was itchy and coarse, but it actually fit her, besides covering the ripped seam of her thigh and protecting her skin from further damage. Even concubines, who were meant to be objects of display, typically wore long-sleeved robes over short tunics with thigh-high stockings to protect their skin. It showed the Peacock General’s wealth that he dressed his concubines in scanty clothing. Although not in real jewels.

  “How do I look?” Velsa asked dubiously.

  “Still more fashionable than I ever was,” Kessily said.

  As promised, near midnight, Dalaran walked out, with an air of finality that put her on instant alert.

  “It’s done,” Dalaran said. “He’s still asleep, but you can wake him up now if you like.”

  “He’s all right?”

  “He will be.”

  Velsa beamed, in a rush of relief, and Dalaran ventured a small smile. She bowed to him gratefully and then ran into the room, light on her toes.

  Rovi was bundling up blood-stained cloth. The corpse must have been taken out the back door; it was nowhere to be seen. “He must keep still for a while yet,” she said. “But hopefully, he will heal completely.”

  “Thank you so much.”

  “I’m glad I could save him. You can come home with me tonight, unless you have someplace to stay.”

  “We don’t. That would be so kind of you.”

  Rovi’s generosity was matter-of-fact, freely given. It did wonders for Velsa’s mood. She took Grau’s hand and found the suggestion of heat beginning to touch him. More importantly, she placed a hand over his heart and felt it beat strong.

  His long hair, black and fine, was loose. She almost never saw him with his hair unbound from his braid. It softened the rugged edges of his face and gave him a noble aspect; in stories only the lords and princes wore their hair free, although his wild bangs disturbed the image a little. Still, she yearned to plait his hair and put him back to himself again. She wasn’t used to seeing Grau in bed. Although he wasn’t physically restless like his sister, he was not one for sleeping or being idle. If he was still and quiet, it was usually because he was deep in concentration.

  She unfastened a few clasps of his tunic and slipped her fingers under the edge of his collar, now skin to skin. Her fingers traced muscle and bone. She undid his tunic to the waist now, to see the wounds. They were neatly bandaged.

  “You going to have your way with me while I’m unconscious?” he murmured.

  “I think it’s more fun when you’re awake.”

  “Oof. Might be a while before either of us have our way with each other.”

  “Are you in much pain?”

  “It’s potion-dulled, but pervasive.” He reached for her. “I’m so happy to see your face.”

  He hit a sore spot for her. “Pin’s face,” she said, before she could help herself.

  “But it looks better on you, bellora. I swear it does. Whatever you look like, you’re still very you-ish.” He touched her cheek, and she tried to believe him.

  “What are you wearing?” he asked.

  “Oh—Brin gave me this dress. She’s the town busybody, I believe.”

  “Wants to cover you up in a pink sack, eh? And the itchiest wool known to man, besides,” he said, rubbing his hand along her back, urging her closer. “You’re still wearing that little thing underneath, though?”

  “I’ll wait for you to take it off.” She whispered, “And you’d better make it good. I want to know we’re both alive.” Making these plans made her feel like he’d make it through. She gave him a sly smile.

  “When don’t I make it good?”

  “Well, sometimes you treat me more delicately than I require.”

  “I’m a gentleman.”

  “I’d like to think we’ve gotten to a point where I can ask you to have your way with me at night and in the morning I can still remind you to make your side of the bed.”

  He looked wicked. “I’ll think on it. But I still don’t see the point of making the bed.”

  “So spiders don’t crawl into the sheets.”

  “They won’t.”

  “They do!”

  “They can’t even bite you,” he said.

  “They could climb inside my torn leg.” She shuddered. He couldn’t convince her to like spiders, no matter what he said.

  She settled into the little space next to him on the bed, face to face. Even as he winced, he shifted position to gather her a little closer still, and gently tugged on one of the locks of hair that fell in front of her ears, kissing her. Her return kisses grew eager; she was hungrier for him than ever while his life was in question. But she barely closed her eyes. She needed to see him. She was shaky with relief.

  His eyes were brown, with a faint sheen of gold up close, tender but assessing. He studied her, and she felt sure he was recalibrating her features in his memory, still getting used to the change, maybe trying to remember what was different.

  She bit her lip.

  His eyes stopped darting and instead came to rest on hers. “Thank you,” he said. “All of this can’t have been easy for you. I know you’re not used to taking charge and handling tricky business on your own.”

  “It wasn’t that hard. Well, it was. But it had to be done, so I didn’t think about it.”

  She dropped her head to his chest and told him about the suspicion of the people in the square.

  “We’ll leave town and find somewhere quiet to live,” he said. “The timing is good. The planting season has barely begun. I should be able to grow enough food for myself. If Kessily comes with us, her sorcery could be helpful too.”

  “We’d be farmers?”

  “Not farmers. Just living off the land, minding our own business. The way I wish we could have lived, in my marshes, but…this will have to do.”

  Homesickness swept over her in a wave, knowing that their new life would lack the comforts and pleasures she had known in Nalim Ima. They wouldn’t have books or a stove, much less the delights of phonographs and motorcars. But no one would think of her as a slave ever again. She would have her little family. “Yes,” she murmured. “And someday, horses.”

  “And an orangerie.”

  They had already planned it out, when Grau was in patrol camp, and now the vision began to take a new shape in her mind. A charming forest home, with Velsa sewing their clothes by a warm fire, Grau coming in with dirt under his nails and a basket of vegetables, and Sorla eagerly turning them into stew.

  Kessily—well, she’d fit in somewhere. With wings? No…we must find a way to cure her.

  She heard a sudden hubbub of doors opening and shutting and voices. And then, footsteps coming close, Dalaran murmuring something nervously.

  The door burst open.

  Dormongara entered the room, and Velsa didn’t know whether to leap to her feet or hide.

  She thought he might be less intimidating, removed from his gloomy castle.

  No, he was terrifying here. Sunlight spilled into the room in window-shaped squares, and one of them fell upon him, but his robe remained liquid darkness. He seemed taller, and beside hi
m Dalaran was nervous, his black-rimmed eyes failing to hide that he was still quite a young man. Dormongara was a god of shadows.

  When he spoke, his voice was soft with menace. “Day after day, year after year, they march to my castle. Strangers, pounding on my door, demanding things from me. Bodies. Spells. Communication with the dead. Half the time, the things they want are things I am not even capable of. You are no more deserving than the rest.”

  Grau struggled into a sitting position, which must have been painful for him—it took him a moment to speak, even though he obviously wanted to. “Please forgive my wife. She’s young; she has no training in telepathy, not even its moral codes. She did it to save my life and if anyone now owes you a debt, it’s me.”

  “I don’t want your debt,” Dormongara said. “A Fanarlem girl, an injured Daramon boy from some distant little corner of the world? You aren’t useful to me. But the people of this land would never do such a thing to me. I have to punish you. You were fated to die in Nalim Ima. Maybe I should make it happen.”

  Velsa put herself between Grau and Dormongara. “Please! Please, I—I knew as soon as I did it that I shouldn’t have, but—”

  “You knew before you did it. Anyone would. I don’t care about being trained in moral codes. It’s common sense.”

  “I know.” She lowered her head. “But please—”

  Dormongara looked toward Dalaran. “Leave us alone for a moment, would you?”

  Dalaran nodded and slipped out.

  “You used telepathy to get inside my mind and knock me unconscious.” His tone was no longer so forceful, but instead threateningly soft. “You know this is unacceptable.”

  “Yes. I do know. What do you want from us now?”

  “For starters, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone what happened up there with my brother.”

  “I already told Dalaran…,” Velsa said.

  His face twisted from anger to annoyance. Velsa wasn’t sure if this was better or worse. In this case, probably worse.

  “Of course you did.” He opened the door. “Dalaran, come here.”

  Dalaran edged into the room. “Yes, Lord Gara?”

  “Did you tell anyone about my brother?”

  “No…”

  Dormongara took a bottle from his pocket and moved to Rovi’s cabinet, finding a few clean spoons. “You must all take a spell of silence. You see, when we were born, my parents only took one of us to town at a time, so no one was aware that they had more than one heir. Their secrecy, which seemed so paranoid at the time, is what saved my life when my family was attacked. But—now that my brother is dead, I still don’t want anyone to know he existed. He is a dangerous man and there are sorcerers who specialize in summoning wicked, hungry spirits. I will send you a gram of that dust you’re looking for, in exchange.”

  “Well…I need a little more than that,” Dalaran said.

  “More than a gram? What spells could you possibly be trying to work?”

  “I sort of owe it to someone.”

  Dormongara sighed with sudden understanding. “Well, you will have to find someone else to give you that. You're lucky I’m offering you anything at all. My trouble is your gain. As for you, Velsa…you have nothing to offer me. I can’t be satisfied until I know that you suffer for what you’ve done to me. I won’t have anyone ever say of the Keeper of the Dead that he is soft. I suppose I could throw you in the dungeons.”

  Kessily and Sorla slipped in the door. Velsa felt sure that they must have been listening outside, and she could see the words on Kessily’s lips. She was going to sacrifice herself for Velsa. Velsa would have to protest, but they were approaching an impasse. Dungeons? Was he actually serious?

  Grau clutched her close. “Velsa did it for me. The debt lies with me. Could I offer any spells to you? I’m not a sorcerer of great power yet, but I am very patient, and the greatest spells come from patience moreso than from power. I could lace a stone with layers of spellwork for you.”

  “A sorcerer?” Dalaran’s attention pricked. “Lord Gara, I would be willing to help him create a worthy spell…for a little more dust.”

  Dormongara looked annoyed. “This is not a market swap.”

  Kessily drew back against the wall, with Tomato at her feet. He started poking at the head of a nail that stood up from the floor, trying to pry it out.

  “A single, common spell is too small of a price to pay for a man’s life,” Dormongara said. “I want a year of your labors, every drop of power you can expend. Twelve stones containing twelve potent spells. I have given you your entire life, so it’s only fair that you give a percentage back to me.”

  “A year?” Velsa cried.

  “I’ll accept it,” Grau said. “It is a small price to pay for my life.”

  Kessily looked at the ground.

  He poured out a dose of the silence spell and held the spoon up to her. “Open up.”

  She must have already been listening outside the door because she didn’t ask what it was. “Why me first?”

  “Why not?”

  “How do I know that spell does exactly what you say it does?”

  “What other spell would I want to waste on you lot?”

  She took the spoon and he briskly administered spoonfuls to Grau and Dalaran. Velsa had to have a drop placed in each of her eyes; this was the only way potions worked on Fanarlem. He did the same to Sorla, for good measure. He probably realized she also might have been listening at the door.

  “I command you not to speak of my brother,” he said, and put the bottle away. “Now, Dalaran, if you want your dust, you can help him with those spells. In exchange, I will give you your dust, one gram each month. Don’t skimp on me. In one month’s time I am going to test you both and weigh the first spell against your powers.”

  “Could I get six grams advanced to me?” Dalaran asked. “I’d be happy to do it if I could have six grams up front.”

  “Good day to you all,” Dormongara said with finality, and shut the door.

  Chapter 6

  Grau recuperated in Rovi’s house, which was cramped but warm and cheerful, with her burly and gregarious husband offering Grau food and drink every moment, and her two adorable blonde children playing games with Sorla. It was easy to forget the entire encounter with Dormongara, as well as the battle that had led to Grau’s injuries.

  But there was a unpleasant consequence to consider. If Grau had to spend an entire year making spells for Dormongara, they couldn’t rely on him for income. Kessily certainly couldn’t work, so that left Velsa and Sorla to support the household.

  Grau did have some money, so the first matter of business was finding a place to live. Rovi helped Velsa view some available apartments, her youngest child in tow, but options were few and everything seemed hopelessly primitive compared to the world they had known. By the end of the day, Velsa had paid an elderly gent to rent a tiny cottage, with a single room on the main floor and a loft above. It came with a weedy, abandoned garden plot that he said they were free to reclaim.

  Conveniently, it was already furnished with a table and chairs, a rope bed with straw-stuffed mattress, rag rug, basic kitchen implements, and a tub for washing.

  “This is nice,” Rovi said. “Wooden floors. Glass in the windows.”

  Sorla was glancing around with a sullen, dubious expression. “There’s mouse poop everywhere.”

  “We can clean that up,” Rovi said, grabbing the twig broom in the corner, ready to get right to work.

  “And I’m sure we won’t see more, with Tomato around,” Velsa said.

  Rovi attacked the spiderwebs and mouse droppings then and there, finishing her sweeping and then bringing in water from the well to scrub.

  Velsa offered to help, but Rovi brushed her off. “You’ve all had a trial. Let me get this place in order for you.”

  Privately, Velsa was glad she didn’t have to tackle poop, and tried not to let selfish thoughts creep into her mind as she watched Rovi wring out a
dirty rag. Velsa had always expected a life of wealth. Concubines weren’t cheap. Velsa would have been happy to be poor with Grau if they were alone somewhere beautiful and wild. She had not imagined life in a stinking city, in debt to an ornery necromancer, faced with the task of finding work among people who seemed suspicious of her.

  Stop, Velsa. You’re being an absolute princess. It’s likely that none of the girls you grew up with have the privilege of being loved and free.

  “There!” Rovi put a hand on her hip, glancing around with satisfaction. “I know Daramons aren’t much for blessings, but I would love to call one upon your new home.”

  “Please do,” Velsa said. “We’ll need all the help we can get.”

  After securing some additional mattresses and blankets, they were able to move in. Grau insisted he was well enough to climb the ladder to the loft, although Velsa was quite skeptical since he couldn’t even seem to walk without suddenly stiffening or making slow breaths like he was dealing with a wave of pain.

  “Don’t mistake pain for inability,” he said. “Daramons are tough.”

  Velsa went to buy bread, but the old people running the nearby bakery gave her nasty looks and muttered about whether Fanarlem could eat. No bread for them, then.

  Sorla made stew bones and shriveled storage vegetables from the market square taste passable with an ample amount of herbs that still survived the messy garden, although only Kessily ate much. Grau had no appetite, and only drank broth when Velsa insisted. Tomato seemed to enjoy his meal more than anyone; he killed three mice that very first night and crunched their bones in the corner while Sorla plugged her ears.

  The little wyvern was certainly trying to be helpful. In the morning, Kessily came downstairs laughing, with her hair in a tangled mess. “I think he was trying to braid my hair, after he’s watched you do it!”

  “Aw.” Sorla tried to pet him. He scurried out of her reach but then flopped on the floor and let her stroke his belly. Grau tried to play with him by tossing nuts across the floor. Tomato gathered each one up and put it back on the table. After a few, he went over to Grau and started squawking like he was telling him to stop making a mess.