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

by Jaclyn Dolamore

  At first, he didn’t even look at her, although she looked at him. His eyes were closed, almost wincing. A few strands of hair clung to his brow. Then his eyes opened, and she let her mouth fall open slightly, an invitation to kiss her.

  He forced her mouth open wider with his own tongue, not that she needed provocation. He locked his mouth to hers in a deep kiss and loosened his grip on her legs a bit, still keeping her knees spread wide. He caressed her knees lightly; they were almost ticklish.

  Again and again, he drew almost out of her and then cut deep and relentless, piercing her to the quick with exquisite pleasure and a little pain, and she relished every moment of it.

  Stars above, she hoped Sorla was sleeping.

  He was in quite a bit of pain, though. She felt that if she shifted even a little of her focus to his sensations instead of her own.

  “Grau, please, don’t hurt yourself.”

  “Let me just do this.”

  She surrendered again—happily. It might be the brainwashing of her youth stirring; maybe in these primal moments she could never shake that, but she relished feeling small and conquered by him more than she would ever admit. This was the very feeling she had once feared, and it made her feel powerful to embrace it—only because she knew she could trust him. Sometimes her mind still wanted to cast back to the other concubines in her group. Who had bought Nraya and Lasia? Was Amleisa treated well? Amleisa had sworn that no nice man would ever buy a concubine.

  Maybe Grau was the only one. But she hoped Amleisa was wrong.

  If this pain was what he wanted to feel, she certainly wouldn’t stop him. But maybe she could take a little of it away, bring it to her own resilient body, where it seemed to float away.

  For a moment, she had transcended raw physical sensation, and went somewhere else—somewhere lighter than air, relishing the closeness of their souls as much as their bodies.

  She felt the hot warmth of his climax hit her before she reached her own. It was the feel of him that dragged her back down into her body, building her joy to a peak. Sparks exploded like fireworks, from her core to her spine to the vision of his face that briefly blurred in her eyes.

  There was something in his expression, almost like grief, like he had come undone, before he squinted and managed a smile.

  As he finished his release, he now moved her legs to wrap around him, and—understanding—she let her arms follow. The urgency drained out of him in a rush, replaced with a sort of desperate, sweet yearning.

  “Hold me, Velsa,” he said, but she already was, as he was holding her.

  “I’m here,” she whispered, smoothing damp strands of hair off his forehead.

  He got a look of resolve. “How close I was to losing you.”

  “I know. But you didn’t. You’re here.”

  “I never feared death as a kid. I briefly considered dabbling in necromancy once, when I watched a mother bird die in my hand, leaving her nest behind. But it went against my soul. Nature has a place for death, but not one for undeath. I was never afraid. But—”

  “You really think nature has a place for me?” she asked. “Maybe that’s why I can never feel at home. Maybe I’m not meant to.”

  “Ridiculous,” he said. “Surely we wouldn’t be able to create artificial life if it wasn’t meant to exist.”

  “I hope that’s true.”

  “Your soul was meant for this world. Your body would be nothing without you in it. And your face is always your face, with your eyes shining at me. You’re meant to be here with me, as you are now. I’m sure of it.”

  “I hope so. I’m afraid no one here will want to hire me.”

  “I’m sure it won’t be as bad as you think. You just need to find the Rovis and the Myrinis of this town, not the rest.”

  He lifted himself off her, getting his clothes back in order and shoving his hair out of his eyes. Then he moved to the corner of the attic and lifted one of the floorboards. He took out a parcel, wrapped in paper, with some new clothes.

  He unfolded a new pair of stockings, dyed a very dark blue, with red ribbons.

  “I hope you didn’t spend too much,” she said. “Those look nice.”

  “Not too much,” he said. “But if I can only afford to buy you one outfit, it might as well be a good one, and besides, you’ve already torn your skin. You need better clothing to protect you before you turn to patchwork.”

  She let him pull the stockings onto her legs and button them in place, before she patted his cheek with her foot. “What about you, Grau? Are you really all right? I know you didn’t want to live in the city and now we’re stuck here for a year.”

  “I’m very all right, now. I didn’t know how much I’ve needed that. I’ve been spending too much time in my own head, thinking about my family and the war, wondering if I’ll ever see the marshes again…”

  “You will,” she said, but it was hard to imagine how they would ever get there. She knew how much he loved the place where his elemental powers had been born from those blurred lines between water and land, that misty place of grasses and reeds.

  He gave her a new chemise, plain white and fairly unromantic, but probably the best that could be had around here, and a pretty outfit in the local style, dove gray cotton with a lining of blue that showed at the cuffs of the sleeves, and an apron of patterned red fabric that buttoned to the bodice and around the waist like a belt. The sleeves were detachable and the bodice, skirt, and apron were all separate pieces; quite convenient for washing. It fit her perfectly so she guessed Sorla had probably altered it since their bodies were the same size.

  He handed her some matching red ribbons to tie above her ears.

  “You think of everything,” she said.

  “Thank Preya for that. She taught me never to forget a lady’s hair.”

  Velsa felt another pang of regret at the mention of Grau’s sister. She was starting to worry they might never see her again. “Have you written Preya since we arrived?”

  “It was the first thing I did. But the mail is very slow, in this part of the world.”

  “Speaking of Preya—well—I should tell you something.”

  “Yes?” He looked curious and a little wary.

  “When Preya was telling me that she liked women, she asked me about concubines. When we’re created, how do they know we like men and not women? And sometimes…well…Preya spoke to me so intimately about these matters.” She bit her lip. “The thing is, no one ever asked me, and in Nalim Ima…sometimes I felt sort of attracted to Irik. And when I was at the Peacock General’s house, I kissed her. Or maybe she kissed me. It’s hard to even remember now, I was so flustered. I love you, but I felt like I should tell you because it was sort of like cheating.”

  “You’re attracted to girls?”

  “I—I don’t really know for sure. Maybe I just wanted to…to experiment. Or maybe I do. You know, it’s so hard to tell because—I was never allowed to make choices for myself.”

  “I don’t think that’s cheating,” he said.

  “If you kissed another man—I don’t know. I’m not sure I’d like that.”

  He laughed. “Well, no worries there. But I understand. Attraction is attraction and we’re committed to each other, but it’s unfair on your end. Besides, Irik isn’t here now, so I won’t worry. These peasants probably aren’t your type.”

  “How snobbish,” she said, raising her brows, but she smiled a little.

  “Aren’t I right?”

  She nodded.

  “But, if you were, I get it. Attraction is just a fleeting thing, not like a marriage, right? I’ll confess…Parsons was kind of hot.”

  “Parsons?” She gave him a gentle slap on the cheek. “Maybe you are a kinky son of a bitch after all.”

  “I told you.” He tugged on her ribbons. “Go get to work before I embarrass myself anymore. I need to get over to Dalaran’s.”

  “You could work in any shop,” Sorla said as they walked to the center of town. Their h
ouse was tucked on one of the side streets, among other small but neatly kept residences, but not far away were well-trafficked businesses. “You don’t need any training for that and it helps to be pretty.”

  “I don’t know if people here find me all that pretty,” Velsa said. “Beauty is cultural. Dennis could hardly stand to look at me because he had never seen Fanarlem before. I’m not sure it’s much better here.”

  “Maybe a bookkeeper or transcriber or secretary…,” Sorla continued. “You’re educated. Try the larger businesses.”

  “You don’t seem nervous,” Velsa said.

  “Because you brought me up so well, Meirin.” Sorla laughed. “It’s an acquired skill. When I first became a rental slave, no one hired me for a month straight. I was supposed to tout my skills to passersby, but instead I hid behind the other slaves. But then one of the other slaves told me, if no one ever hired me, I’d be sold off to the mines.”

  “Dear me,” Velsa said. “That’s some severe motivation.”

  “But it worked.” Sorla looked at Velsa and smiled again. “Don’t look so sad. I made it through.”

  “I’m sorry,” Velsa said. “I just realize how fortunate I am… Sometimes it’s a wonder to me that you can be so cheerful after all that.”

  “I think all souls must adjust their standards of what makes for a good life,” Sorla said. “I cried myself to sleep so many times, and I never stopped having bad dreams about my first family, but…the days weren’t so hard. I had work to do, and I found little things to make me happy. Most people never realized I could eat, so I nicked a lot of food from kitchens or abandoned plates I was cleaning. Can you imagine, leaving behind half a slice of cake? But rich people do. The other slaves were nice, too, because I was the youngest, and we all yearned for families. The older women liked to mother me.”

  Velsa squirmed at the idea of Sorla managing cheer in such circumstances. “You deserved better,” she said.

  “I know. But I didn’t have better.”

  They walked carefully, avoiding the leavings of all the animals; horses, dogs, livestock herded to market. The center of town was bustling with farmers selling produce, eggs, and flowers. A small boy was shouting at the top of his lungs about his freshly caught fish.

  “Maybe you should start here,” Sorla said, pointing at one of the larger buildings in town, three-story brick with glass windows tilted open to the fresh spring air. It had a proper printed sign and not just a picture. This was “The Lumera Siblings, purveyors of Fine Furniture, Window Glass and Adornments for the Home”.

  “I’ll bet they need salespeople and bookkeepers,” Sorla said.

  The building seemed so large, an edifice of industry among its more primitive neighbors, but it reminded Velsa of home, and in the space of a second she spun a vision of herself penning sales receipts in her tidy hand, a real and proper working girl. “I’ll try it,” she said.

  “Are you all right by yourself?” Sorla’s brows lifted with concern, one the tiniest bit higher than the other.

  “I should hope so. I’m your mother.”

  “Uh-huh, that’s what I thought. I’m going back to that other bakery we passed, then,” Sorla said. “Best of luck.”

  “You too.”

  Velsa hesitated in front of the display windows, which showed some of the furniture: simple but graceful wooden chairs and chests of drawers. The shop seemed quiet. The furniture was probably expensive, not the sort of thing that people bought all the time. Already, she doubted whether they wanted to hire her.

  She glanced at Sorla, walking away, head held high. In moments like this, Velsa felt they were the same age. Sorla obviously had to develop self-reliance at a young age, while Velsa felt like a flower pressed between the pages of a book for the past eighteen years, now dropped into a garden plot and told to grow. She opened the heavy door, feeling very small.

  Inside, a few finished pieces were showcased under magic lights: glowing stones held in permanent glass fixtures that hung from the ceiling. Upholstered sofas and carved beds were in front, while simple wooden chairs and bed frames lined up in back. A woman was polishing a rocking chair, but when the door opened she immediately put down her cloth and walked toward Velsa. “You are the doll girl from Nalim Ima.”

  “I’m a Fanarlem,” Velsa said. “Yes.”

  “What can I do for you?” The woman’s eyes were wary.

  Time hung in the air for a moment, as Velsa took in her suspicious expression, the way the woman stayed a few feet back, and the sound of hammering on the floor above. Velsa felt like her feet were sliding out from under her. The woman didn’t look like she wanted to sell Velsa a table, much less give her a job.

  But no matter how hopeless it was, she had to try.

  “I’m looking for work,” she managed. “I can read and write.”

  “Oh.” The woman seemed flustered. “Wait here.” She went up the stairs. The hammering sounds stopped, and Velsa heard voices.

  A man came downstairs with her, his messy brown mop of hair falling into gentle eyes. “The Fanarlem girl,” he said. “Welcome to Dor-Temerna. I understand that you and your husband helped the dragons.”

  “Yes.” Velsa relaxed slightly.

  “That’s heartening,” he said. “Perhaps there is hope for our peoples after all. Now, I hear you’re looking for a job?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where have you worked prior to this?”

  “Well—I worked in a clothing stall for a time,” Velsa said, reaching for the fake past she had presented in Nalim Ima.

  “This is the largest workshop in town,” he said. “We have clients from the capital, country gentlemen who furnish their hunting lodges, sorcerers… I just don’t know what our customers would think to see you here. Some of our buyers will have never seen a doll girl in all their lives. Others are very religious and will be uncomfortable with the idea. We want them to think of the furniture, not you or what purpose you might have been created for. You understand.”

  The woman fidgeted with her sleeves. Velsa wondered if everyone in town knew she had once been a concubine.

  “I write well and I’m good with numbers, too,” Velsa said, a little desperately.

  He smiled like he hated to let her down. “We don’t have any need of that right now. But I know Madam Blazar, on Hill Street, is always hiring seamstresses.”

  Everyone thought Fanarlem were good at sewing and needlework just because they had to be stitched up themselves. And Velsa, in fact, was good at needlework, but it was the last thing she wanted to spend all her days doing.

  “Thank you,” she said curtly, before heading back out the door.

  She rubbed her hands, feeling homesick all over again. At least at home, she knew where she stood, instead of this place, where some people were kind and others were cruel, and she never knew what to expect or whom to trust.

  Maybe her mistake had been to put herself forward as a salesperson. Maybe she was too much of an oddity around here to put in the front of a shop. She passed a row of stores; one selling fabric and sewing notions, another for swords, knives and other weapons.

  Peering down one of the narrower side streets, she saw a sign with a quill. “Documents and Letters - Transcription - Copying” declared a smaller sign.

  With renewed hope, Velsa opened the door. An older man with a tired face and a younger woman nibbling on some nuts sat at desks, surrounded by the comforting sight of papers and sturdy, leather bound books. Velsa took in the scent of dust and ink, in the sweet moment before they raised their heads.

  The older man was startled. The woman looked up, and then down, and then at the old man. He tilted his head slightly like he was listening to the wind.

  Velsa thought they were speaking to each other telepathically.

  “What—do you want?” he asked.

  “A—a job. I write very neatly.” Velsa had to force out the words.

  “You write?” the woman said. “I didn’t think Daramons believed
in teaching slaves to write.”

  “Sometimes they do.”

  “Fancy slaves reading!”

  “We don’t need any help, I’m afraid,” the man said. “I believe Madam Blazar will always take another seamstress.”

  “Thank you,” Velsa said, backing out the door quickly.

  Is Sorla having a better time, I wonder?

  It’s hopeless to try, isn’t it? Fanarlem make lace and embroidery if we’re lucky, and that’s as good as it gets for us, no matter where we go. But do they have to look at me the way they do?

  She hurried away from him, panic driving her feet forward. Yes, this was a huge mistake. She never should have tried to leave Nalim Ima. She never should have investigated rebellions and questioned the government…

  She found a bench and sat down to calm herself. This is silly. Remember what Kalan did to Kessily and Dennis… Dennis had risked his life for her to escape, and Grau had nearly died to help Morgnar. They had hardly been here for two weeks. It would surely get better when people got used to her.

  Oh, but— The idea of pressing forward with this awful job search was too much.

  Chapter 8

  She pulled the hood of her cloak down over her head. She just needed a good cry and she couldn’t do it at home.

  She looked up in time to see Sorla on the far side of the square. She had met Ruven on the street, and he had another wyvern in tow, this one slightly larger and blue-tinted. Sorla was moving her hands in what seemed an imitation of Grau pitching the nuts across the room and Tomato chasing them. She certainly wasn’t paying any attention to Velsa.

  Why does Ruven keep talking to her? Velsa had a hard time imagining that a young man would risk his social reputation by spending time with a strange newcomer. She would suspect him of having unsavory designs on her if they were older, but a teenage farm boy seemed too young to have a Fanarlem fetish.

  Sorla laughed. Velsa could hear the sound faintly across the square. Ruven motioned forward, and she walked with him. They headed down a side street, still talking.

  How strange. Is Sorla really just…making a friend?