The Sorcerer's Concubine (The Telepath and the Sorcerer Book 1)

by Jaclyn Dolamore

  Grau took one look at the damage and then he ran out, dashing around the dark, abandoned headquarters and opening the door to peer outside. Apparently the culprit was gone. He returned alone as Velsa picked up the metal emblem that identified the Victor Talking Machine. She turned it over and over in her hand, as if the emblem held the machine’s soul and could be restored to a new body, the way her own soul was caught in her eyes.

  “Why would anyone do this?” Grau said.

  They heard doors open, and in another moment Lieutenant Dlara walked in. Somehow, adding a pajama-clad, bleary-eyed Lieutenant Dlara to the scene made it even worse. “What happened here!?”

  “We don’t know,” Velsa said. “We heard it break…”

  “But whoever did it was gone,” Grau said.

  “I certainly hope no one in this camp harbors disloyal thoughts toward Kalan Jherin,” Dlara said. “Someone needs to answer for this.” He picked up a dented piece of the horn. “Either they had a key to the library or they picked a lock. You saw no one?”

  “It took us a second to get down here,” Grau said.

  Velsa felt hollow inside, as if a friend had died, and she couldn’t yet accept it. She might never see a phonograph again. Fates only knew how much it had cost.

  “Go back to bed,” Dlara said. “I’m going to question the night guards and talk to the other officers.”

  In the morning, the camp was subdued but abuzz with gossip. Word of the shattered phonograph had spread, but no one had been punished. Everyone assumed it was an act of rebellion against Kalan Jherin, and Velsa certainly could see why someone might want to rebel against the severe man in the portrait, with all of his tracts and pamphlets supposedly handed down by fate, and his strange machines.

  Flower strolled by. “You must be so sad, Velsa. I know how much you loved that thing.”

  Velsa stiffened.

  Grau put a hand on her shoulder.

  “Oh dear, you don’t think I did it, do you?” Flower clasped her hands. “Such a violent act.”

  “You…didn’t, did you?” Velsa asked carefully.

  Flower came close enough to whisper in Velsa’s ear. “I did do it,” she said. “And good luck proving it.”

  “I’ve never done anything to you!” Velsa couldn’t hold back her anger. “And you take it out on the phonograph?”

  “You’re the only one who really cared about it.”

  “You know if anyone does find out you broke something so expensive that came from Kalan Jherin…” She faltered, since she wasn’t entirely sure what would happen to a law-breaking concubine.

  “Dozens of men will vouch for me,” Flower said. “Don’t poke a wasp’s nest.”

  When she left, Grau said, “We should still tell Dlara. Even if he can’t do anything about it, he ought to be aware.”

  Lieutenant Dlara seemed unsurprised when they informed him. “Frankly, I’d still rather it be Flower’s petty jealousy than an anti-Kalanite among us,” he said. “I could speak to Archel about it…”

  Grau made a hesitant sound. “I worry this might only make things worse. But this is the second time Flower has targeted Velsa, and she’s willing to destroy camp property. What might she plan next?”

  “I understand the hesitation,” Dlara said. “The trouble with Flower is that she’s slept with half the men in the camp. Archel doesn’t care about her, so how can we expect her to care about anyone else? Her behavior is completely unacceptable, but the men like having her around, for their own selfish reasons, and it would cause a fuss if we brought the hammer down upon her.”

  “How is a concubine regarded, by law?” Grau asked. “If she hurt Velsa, what recourse do we have?”

  “Archel would have to compensate you for any physical damages,” Dlara said. “Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be considered a crime against a person…” He looked uncomfortable.

  Grau made a low sigh of frustration, took off his hat and smashed it in his hand. “Damn.”

  “I don’t think there’s much we can do,” Velsa said, reluctantly, but she felt so helpless. Flower would always win, it seemed.

  When they came to dinner that night, Flower was sitting on a man’s knee, her head bowed against him while he rubbed her back, as if consoling her. Archel and Dlara were being very quiet. The men were passing the wine around themselves instead of being served by Flower.

  A bad feeling tickled its way up Velsa’s spine. Other men were filing in to take their places at the table.

  “Something wrong, doll?” one of them asked Flower.

  She gave him a pitiful look and then glanced at Velsa, and when she turned Velsa realized her hands were missing.

  “She is being punished,” Archel said curtly.

  Hours before, Dlara had agreed with them that he wouldn’t say anything about Flower’s deed. Velsa sensed the tension between the two Lieutenants and Flower. Maybe Archel had found out on his own and been angry.

  Either way, Flower’s glare made Velsa shudder.

  The men served themselves, but Flower still floated around the table throughout dinner, acting like a little girl scolded for stealing a sweet. She pouted and held her arms close to her body, giving shy glances through her eyelashes until she had been thoroughly assured that she was still just as pretty as ever.

  Velsa could never watch her without a sick fuzzy feeling rising inside her chest, a mix of pity and…

  Utter fury.

  Did Flower have to act so brazen? As if she enjoyed being treated like a pet and a possession? If she was going to be angry, she should at least take it out on the men who abused her, not Velsa. It made Velsa feel tainted by extension.

  Of course…she can’t take it out on them. Velsa understood this too well.

  Grau approached Dlara after dinner. “What is going on?” he demanded in a whisper. “I thought we agreed that punishing Flower would only make things worse.”

  “We did, but Archel could tell I was angry. He asked me if Flower had broken the phonograph, and he insisted she be punished. I told him that Flower might retaliate at Velsa, but…Archel really doesn’t care about the affairs of Fanarlem girls. Not yours or his own. He does care about his own standing, of course, and Flower is his responsibility. My hands are tied. It might be even worse if I reported this to my superiors. I believe Lord Jherin has already considered banning concubines from camp. He feels it’s a barbaric custom.”

  “I think I agree with him,” Grau said.

  Dlara’s brow furrowed and he looked at Velsa. “I didn’t mean in your case.”

  “But I do,” Grau said. “Velsa shouldn’t be here, exposed to all of this behavior.”

  “I understand,” Dlara said. “I’ve never believed we should abuse Fanarlem. Velsa seems every bit as sweet as my own sisters. I half forget she isn’t a Daramon girl.”

  Dlara was being nice but none of it made Velsa feel any better. By the time they got back to the barracks she felt like someone was pinching her from the inside. She already knew it would be a sleepless night.

  Grau stepped into the washroom and came out in his army-issue pajamas. He suppressed a yawn and sat down beside her on the bed. “If Flower hurts you,” he said, “we’ll leave this place.”

  “But at that point she’ll have hurt me already.”

  “Well, you’re not as easy to hurt as the phonograph, which is left unattended.”

  “I’m worth less than the phonograph. I wasn’t a gift from Kalan Jherin,” she said, in a low tone, because as usual they weren’t alone. Their roommates were also changing into pajamas, turning back covers, talking about the day—luckily, no one mentioned Flower.

  “No,” Grau said. “I don’t want to hear another word like that. You’re infinitely more valuable to me, and I don’t think I’m the only one. All the men in our squad like your cooking and the sweet, absent-minded way you’re always singing ‘Oh Suzana’.”

  “I have to be sweet,” she said. “I was told I could never let myself be angry or rebelli
ous, that if I did, I would be cursed to live this life over and over. Sometimes I can feel anger bubbling up, and I don’t know what would come out. I might not be very likable anymore.”

  He laughed. “Ridiculous. You think I wouldn’t like you even if you were angry sometimes? The fights I’ve had with Preya! The same goes for you. Maybe it will take time for you to believe it, but it’s true.”

  Chapter 14

  Velsa was beginning to get very tired of making potatoes and cabbage with cured sausage. Every day, the same. Well, sometimes they had carrots or beets. Either way, she didn’t care to eat it anymore. She felt sorry for Grau, that he had to eat every day, no matter how unpleasant the fare. She dreamed of pastries.

  At least she had a new book to read while she stirred the lunch. Two weeks after Ancestor’s Day, a carriage had arrived at the camp with a load of holiday gifts. The men were astonished to see the packages arrive so quickly, and even more astonished to open so many lavish parcels. The camp flooded with new handkerchiefs, cologne and shaving kits, but most especially, books. Novels, freshly printed in Nalim Ima with color plates, many of them about bold adventurers and heroic tales of war. The most popular one was about a steam-powered ship like the one Preya mentioned—the men were passing that one around so avidly that Velsa figured she’d be lucky to see it in a month’s time. In the dark nights it wasn’t uncommon to see men tilting books toward the fire to read them, turning pages with gloved hands.

  Flower seemed even more nasty since the books had become the talk of camp, but there was no helping that.

  Today Velsa had a book called “Jane of the Moors”. The men weren’t so interested in it because it was a romance. Velsa had started it yesterday and found it very strange because it was written from Jane’s own perspective as if she were a real person, but it was a novel. The cover declared it, as if she wasn’t the first reader to be confused. Once Velsa got used to the style, she could hardly put it down. Jane lived in an orphanage where everything was terrible and it reminded Velsa of the House, except that the children were always dying. The story must have taken place before the Ten Thousand Man Sacrifice…unless Jane was a Miralem? Oddly, the book never mentioned her race.

  The story took a very exciting turn as the men were eating, when Jane met a strange man out on the moor who turned out to be the master of the house. Velsa thought maybe moors and marshes were not so different and imagined this Rochester fellow looked like Grau, even though he was supposed to be ugly. She wondered why such a rich man would choose to be ugly and not have his face shape-shifted. He would probably explain sooner or later. Rochester talked a lot. Everyone in the book talked in very long passages.

  A whizzing sound made Velsa look up just as an arrow struck one of the men in the back.

  She had barely registered this before a slew of them followed.

  The camp erupted in uproar. Men shoved their food dishes aside and scrambled for the weapons they had tossed aside in their complacency. Only Lieutenant Dlara seemed to have maintained readiness; he had his rifle in hand and was shouting for the men to take cover in the brush. “Help your comrades, but hurry!” A few of the men had taken a nasty hit and while they wouldn’t die, one had passed out and another young man was on the ground screaming with pain—or maybe fear. An arrow jutted out of his stomach.

  Velsa’s brain snapped to life; she ran to the soldier in pain, drew the crystal pendant out from under her shirt and snatched up a dropped flask of water. She tried to project healing light to him. Water had healing properties.

  His screaming died back into a whimper, and she urged him to his feet. He was shivering violently and almost knocked her over into the snow with his stumbling. One of the other soldiers came over and took the man off Velsa’s hands, half-dragging the young man to cover.

  Grau took out his crystal, waving his hand in the direction of the arrows. The sounds of choking and sputtering came from the bushes and trees as he manipulated the air so their attackers couldn’t breathe.

  “Fire, quickly, while Grau has a hold on them!” Dlara called.

  The soldiers fired a round of shots from the brush where they had positioned themselves. They had spaced out into two groups, their shots angled to avoid catching Grau and Velsa in the line of fire.

  A body fell from one of the trees, while another cried out and staggered into the camp, collapsing on the ground.

  Velsa had never seen death before. She had no time to consider it now. Grau was bent forward, one hand clutching his crystal, murmuring to himself. Velsa clutched her own crystal, but she had none of Grau’s skill.

  Something changed in the air, just then. Velsa felt a little sick.

  A haze settled on her mind, blurring the edges of her vision, and robbing her desire to move.

  Someone was in her head, a shapeless presence that smelled like burning hair and felt like a snake slithering up her rib cage. She stood in the center of the camp, trying to remember what she was supposed to be doing, as two dozen Miralem burst out of the bushes and dropped from trees. They were a grubby, colorful lot—obviously not soldiers. The bandits, most likely. Velsa’s knees threatened to buckle. She managed to look over at Grau and saw him bending forward, a hand on his head, obviously struggling through the same feeling.

  Their men had stopped firing. A few of them groaned or made odd sounds like they were trying to speak but could no longer remember how. She wasn’t sure she remembered how to speak either. She wanted to call Grau’s name and her mouth wouldn’t even move.

  The Miralem held bows with arrows at the ready, the front line of them advancing toward the men in the brush while the rest started searching the camp. They grabbed packs, a rifle someone had dropped, a different novel one of the men had brought, canteens and plates and cigarettes—anything they could carry.

  One of them was looking at Velsa. A woman, with gray hair in long braids and layers of clothing topped by a embroidered apron. She rushed toward Velsa, holding out a hand.

  Velsa swayed a little, trying to stumble toward Grau, trying to scream. The telepathic attack was fading off, but time still seemed strange, like the Miralem were moving faster than her. In a panic, she threw the book at the Miralem woman. That must be what she wanted. And maybe, as cheap as books were getting, Velsa could have another copy of Jane of the Moors someday.

  The woman caught the book in one hand but she kept coming. She scooped Velsa up like a sack of potatoes and threw her over her shoulder.

  Velsa might have been heavier than Grau and Rawly expected, but this woman looked like eighty pounds of potatoes wouldn’t make her blink.

  The fog on Velsa’s mind lifted, but now she was captive. Velsa flailed, pushing on the woman’s back, trying to wriggle or fight her way out of the strong grasp. The woman handed her off to one of the Miralem men, who was even stronger.

  “Grau!” Velsa screamed. She could see him behind a cluster of bushes, struggling to stand straight.

  “Velsa…!” he called back, shaking his head. “Velsa—I’m coming—as soon as I can!”

  The man started running with Velsa in his arms.

  “Miss, we’re trying to save you,” he snapped.

  “I don’t want to be saved!”

  “I know that’s what they tell you,” the man said. “Believe me, it’s for your own good.”

  “You’re kidnapping me!” Velsa said. “I don’t want to be saved! This is my home!” He was rapidly carrying her away in the wrong direction, toward the river.

  “Aren’t you a concubine?”

  “I was, but—”

  “Does a man own you? In the eyes of the law?”

  “Well—yes, but—”

  “You deserve better than that,” he said. “You deserve freedom.”

  Her mind swirled with fear and possibility. If her soul was a Miralem, and the Miralem lands would offer her freedom…what if she belonged there, after all?

  But she had already spun so many dreams with Grau. The house they would have, the
gardens and horses and long walks in the marsh. Even if they couldn’t really have such a life, even if they could only have a cottage…she couldn’t leave him.

  The man stopped at the bluff that led down to the river, and she thought here he might have to put her down and she might have a chance to run…one chance. Except, Fanarlem simply couldn’t run as fast as flesh and blood people, certainly not a tall and athletic man.

  She had barely finished the thought before he began scaling the steep bluff with her still in his arms. His feet seemed to know the safest places to plant themselves, and here and there he stopped gripping her legs to grab a rock or a root. They were on the riverbank in seconds, the other Miralem following. Crude rafts, tethered to the bank, were quickly piled with a bounty of supplies and released from their moorings.

  “Velsa!” Across the river, Grau plunged through the bushes at the top of the bluff.

  The woman put a strong hand on Velsa’s back and forced her to turn toward the Miralem lands, away from Grau. “I know it’s hard at first, but he won’t do you any favors.”

  “Please,” Velsa said. “I mean it. I don’t want to go. I don’t want to fight you.” She tried to duck away.

  The woman caught her arm. “Foolish,” she said. “I suppose you think you love your ‘master’. He’s all you’ve known. You’re scared to leave.”

  “Don’t touch me.” Velsa yanked her arm free and ran to the bluff.

  Other soldiers appeared at the bluff, firing on the Miralem at the rafts. The old woman who had been gripping Velsa just moments ago dropped to the ground, a red stain blooming on her apron. The arms that had easily lifted Velsa were now limp and lifeless. But the Miralem were fighting back, too. They fired arrows and Velsa feared she heard Rawly scream.

  She clung to the rocks a moment, feeling the weight of the crystal on her chest, praying that her friends were protected. Rawly was still screaming.

  The Miralem at the river were on their rafts now, disappearing with their loot down the rushing waters. One raft still remained.