The Sorcerer's Equal (The Telepath and the Sorcerer Book 3) Page 12

  Brin believes it, too, Velsa thought, putting walls up around her mind.

  But then she wasn’t sure. Brin looked genuinely concerned, and she wasn’t speaking down to Velsa.

  Maybe it was just more complicated here, with a vague goddess to believe in instead of the firm proclamations of Kalan Jherin. Everyone interpreted ancient teachings in different ways.

  Brin was saying something Velsa didn’t quite hear, and then, “I could speak to Madam Blazar, perhaps.”

  “No—thank you. I can take care of myself. I understand, now.”

  Yes. I understand. She walked home, feeling strangely better. She had always dreamed of a place where she could be something more, a place where she would not be seen as a concubine or a doll. And now she knew this would never be, not in any corner of the earth. People were suspicious of anything that was strange, and she would always be strange. Could she, herself, answer for her own existence? Was it wrong to be born of magic instead of nature?

  It’s no wonder people are confused by the sight of me. Even I don’t know really know what I am. Maybe the first step is accepting that I’ll never really know.

  The first dream she and Grau had shared, of living alone together in some wild place—that was the dream she still had. She could accept the things she couldn’t change, knowing that someday, before long, she and Grau could find that place together.

  At her front door, Sorla and Kessily were smothering sharp laughter as Tomato scratched at the door. A burning candle was resting on the path to illuminate whatever they were doing.

  “Nooo,” Kessily said. “Up here.” She nudged him in the tail. “Turn the key. Sorla, maybe if you do it again.”

  “Like this!” Sorla wiggled the key in the lock and he perked up, instantly intrigued. “Hi, Velsa. We’re trying to teach Tomato to unlock the door. Come on…” She guided one of his paws upward.

  He bit the key and tried to pull it out straight and they started laughing again.

  “He’s almost got it,” Kessily said.

  “Why are you trying to teach him to unlock the door?” Velsa asked. “Isn’t it bad enough that he knows how to open doors?”

  “It’s fun to teach him things. I can’t believe how smart the little bugger is. And it would be useful if we were ever locked in a dungeon.”

  “Why would we be locked in a dungeon?”

  “Because Dormongara wants us to pay a debt,” Kessily said.

  “Ruven told me that mimicking what we do is their favorite thing,” Sorla said. “He was repairing a section of fence at the farm made of stacked rocks, and one of the wyverns was watching, and the next day he started stacking little rocks around the house. Making little fences. Isn’t that the cutest?”

  “Are you still talking to Ruven often?” Velsa asked.

  “He likes my stories about Nalim Ima,” Sorla said, then whispered, “I might have embellished some of them.”

  “Ruven liiikes Sorla…,” Kessily sang.

  Sorla screeched. “He does not! He’s just bored.” She added, “He’s only fourteen,” and then, “And besides, I think he sort of has a girlfriend.”

  “Uh-huh,” Velsa said, as Grau peered out the window at them and gave her a shrug. “Well, am I allowed to go in the house or do I have to wait for Tomato to figure out the key?”

  Inside, the house smelled deliciously of boiled beef.

  “Don’t get too excited,” Sorla said as she walked in. “It’s a really tough cut. We can’t eat it tonight. But it can start to flavor the vegetables.” She glanced inside the pot, gave it a stir, and sat down at the table with Velsa and Grau, tapping her fingers on the wood a bit absently.

  She took a photograph postcard from her apron. Velsa was quite startled to see it. “Ruven gave me this today,” she said. “His uncle works by the border. It’s from Atlantis. It’s an actress from the Fallen Lands but he said I look a little like her.”

  MARY PICKFORD in the moving picture “REBECCA OF SUNNYBROOK FARM”, the card said. It gave Velsa an utter pang, wondering what new wonders were available in Nalim Ima. There was talk of moving pictures but she never got to see one.

  Mary Pickford did indeed look a bit like a Fanarlem girl, with a mixture of girlish innocence and womanly allure.

  “Ruven gave you this?”

  “He said I should do my hair like her. Do you think you could?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know. Grau’s sister would have been the one to figure that out.”

  “The Tarsas are having a party,” Sorla said. “I was hoping to look fancy for it.”

  “The Tarsas?” Velsa asked.

  “Ruven’s family. Can I go? Myrini said you are all invited. Kessily, too. But I don’t know if you’d want to go. It’ll probably go late,” Sorla said. “With dinner and music and everything.”

  “A dance?” Velsa asked, because Sorla seemed a bit nervous. Velsa sensed that maybe Sorla didn’t want her to go, which made her think she should.

  “Probably.”

  “I’m glad you’re making friends,” Velsa said. “But I know it can be hard to be the only Fanarlem girl in the room.”

  Sorla nodded.

  Grau looked like his protective side was kicking in. “Has anyone said anything to you?” he asked.

  “No. They’re nice,” Sorla said hastily.

  “If anyone isn’t nice, tell me. I’ll put a curse on ‘em.”

  Sorla glanced up. “Can you really do that?”

  “Technically, yes. Ethically, no. Still—tell us.”

  “Ruven’s mom wouldn’t let anyone hurt me,” Sorla said. “So don’t worry.” She bounced up to stir the stew again, as if embarrassed.

  “I don’t have to go, do I?” Grau asked.

  Velsa shot him a look. You don’t think we should see how Sorla’s friends treat her? she asked him telepathically.

  He mouthed, She’s fine. And I hate it when you do that.

  Kessily flopped into her seat at the table and volunteered, so Velsa let Grau off the hook since he was being so grumpy about it anyway.

  As they ate, everyone was talking about the upcoming visit from the prince. It was, apparently, tangled up in the nuances of politics which Velsa mostly missed because no one at Madam Blazar’s cared much about politics and there were no newspapers to read.

  “I guess that negotiation between the royals of Laionesse and the Four Generals went all right,” Grau said. “I hope that means we’ll dodge an outright war. They’re giving some credit to Prince Seldon. Apparently, the royal children convinced the King and Queen to negotiate a peace treaty. That’s why everyone is so excited that he’s coming through Dor-Termerna. Well—not everyone.”

  “Who isn’t? The Fur and Hide people?” Velsa asked.

  “Oh! Ruven’s dad does a funny impression of them,” Sorla said.

  “I thought everyone was excited about Prince Seldon because he’s young and handsome,” Velsa said. “That’s the story within the world of fashion.”

  “If they’re trading with the Daramons, does that mean we’ll have books again?” Sorla asked.

  “I doubt it,” Grau said. “Dalaran’s lady friend is mainly excited for soap.”

  “Dormongara said the King and Queen are pretty stupid,” Kessily said. “I wonder if the Four Generals duped them somehow.”

  “Yes,” Grau said. “I can’t imagine it’s really as easy as a trade agreement. But we’re so removed from the news here that I can’t guess at who is playing who. But one thing I’ve noticed is that the Miralem are pretty arrogant about their chances. They never lose, and they can’t fathom that they ever could lose.”

  Chapter 9

  Velsa dragged on her clothes the next morning. She didn’t want to see Madam Blazar ever again. She didn’t want to endure Madam Peroneel calling her ‘Princess Velsa’ in a sarcastic voice. She didn’t want to spend time with those other meek Fanarlem.

  She came in the back door of Madam Blazar’s.

  “You’re late,
Princess Velsa,” Madam Peroneel gleefully pointed out.

  “I’m sorry,” Velsa said curtly, determined not to start any more trouble. It was just a job, that was how she had to look at it.

  All that week, the workload was intense. They were usually there for twelve hours without a break, with an endless sea of sleeves to attach to dresses, beads to sew onto collars, buttons and hems and pockets to be put in their places. And Madam Peroneel never missed a chance to make a snide comment about Velsa. A few days in, Velsa was telling her fellow workers about the Peacock General’s mansion, the piano and the ballet dancers.

  “What’s this now?” Madam Peroneel interrupted. “The Peacock General? What business did you have with him?”

  “My husband worked for him.”

  “Oh my goodness. I don’t know why you ever came here, Princess Velsa. The life of a concubine sounds so much better than this.”

  “I—I wasn’t exactly a concubine anymore…”

  “Oh, do tell us more about what a good man he is, this Peacock General.” None of the Four Generals were, of course, at all popular in Dor-Temerna. Calban’s glory days were during the War of the Crystals, which everyone remembered as the bloodiest day in Miralem history. But Velsa hadn’t meant to remind them of all of that. She just wanted to talk about the music and the dancing, which she feared she would forget.

  Velsa shook her head and got back to her sewing.

  The next day was the party, a welcome respite from the suffocating atmosphere work had become. Sorla led the way to the Tarsa farmhouse, through the winding outskirts of town and up a green hill. Stacked stone fences hemmed in some sheep. The land was cleared save for a few trees, where wyverns perched, taking flight when their party drew near to sniff around. Tomato got a little defensive with Kessily. He fanned out his ridges and raised his wings.

  Then, he pounced on another, slightly larger red wyvern and they started trying to scratch each other before the larger wyvern chased Tomato into the tree.

  He sat on a branch, head lowered in submission, making pathetic screeches. The larger wyvern circled around him.

  Sorla clapped her hands, but they didn’t make much sound. “Drat,” she said. “Ruven claps at them when they fight.

  Kessily slapped her one hand against her thigh and the larger wyvern backed down.

  A beautiful house topped the hill, a bit larger than the stone house where Grau had grown up, but this one was plastered white with exposed brown beams, two small balconies on the second floor with moons cut into the pattern of the wood, and a steep thatched roof with a chimney. The house had been expanded with some shabbier one-story additions, and then a huge barn and a smaller carriage house adjoined.

  Chickens and wyverns scurried around together near the house. Some of the party had already spilled outside, having an impromptu archery contest.

  Myrini came out and started hugging them all. “I heard you coming,” she said. “I’d know the sound of Tomato’s little squawk anywhere.”

  “Thank you for having us,” Velsa said, slightly bewildered by the impromptu hugging. “This is a lovely house.”

  “Raising these little buggers has been good to us,” Myrini said. “We’re the only wyvern farm west of the mountains. Come in, come in.”

  Inside, a well-worn farm table was spread with food, and more people were gathered around nibbling. Myrini introduced them to other neighbors and friends, more names than Velsa could hope to remember.

  The contrast to previous parties Velsa had attended was striking. Maybe it helped that Grau wasn’t here, but no one said a word about her once being a concubine or commented on her attractiveness, and had the sense that no one was thinking it either.

  Obviously they did know all about her through the gossip channels. Everyone was asking her how she liked Dor-Temerna, if Grau was feeling all right, if they were settled in or needed anything. Other parents told her that Sorla played with their children and one woman said, “You have done such a good job with her. She seems so well-adjusted.”

  “Well—I don’t really know where she gets it,” Velsa said.

  Kessily received the same treatment. They’d heard she was lost, they were glad she was fine, had she found a job. Too bad about the wing, but she looked good.

  Within an hour, Velsa was as happy as she’d ever been in her life. She was standing near the table, nibbling on some of the food, gossiping with Rovi and a woman named Alassa who had a loud, frequent laugh.

  “A visit with Lord Gara, how was that?”

  “Yes, his family has lived here as long as anyone can remember but they’ve always been weird.”

  “Oh, Brin. Don’t get me started. One minute, she is a paragon of goodness and the next minute she’s the bossiest bitch in town.”

  “If anyone gives you trouble, Velsa, just tell us.”

  “The blood cough. All that fuss about it, people coming up to me every day going, ‘Ohhh, I think I have it, I can’t stop coughing’ and I’d say ‘Are you coughing up blood?’ and they’d say ‘Well, no’ and I’d say, ‘Then you just have the cough’—you know, I half believe the blood cough never even existed. It was invented to drive healers crazy.”

  “Did you ever see a movie theater in Nalim Ima, Velsa? No? But they are real, aren’t they? The concept just fascinates me!”

  There was a brief commotion when a baby wyvern broke into the house and made a bee line for the dinner table. The constant, shocking sight of men gently removing screaming babies from their wives’ arms and saying, “I’ll take him for a while.” Adjourning outside to play a horseshoe toss, in which Kessily made second place. Then, as the sun was setting, music and instruments.

  “A bastir!” Velsa exclaimed. “I used to play that. I haven’t seen one since.”

  The man who had brought the stringed instrument tried to hand it to her.

  “Oh, no. I was never that good. I’m not sure I remember the chords.”

  He rolled his eyes and pushed it on her. “That’s what they always say. Come on! We don’t know any Daramon songs.”

  Velsa shook her head shyly, but she did miss playing. She had actually been quite devoted to music once, because she thought it was her best chance of having a kind master—to be an Entertainer, the most refined of concubines. And maybe because she actually liked it, too.

  “If you were drunk, you’d play.” Myrini nudged her. “Poor thing, stuck being dead sober.”

  “Maybe one song.” She relented. “If Kessily will sing with me.”

  Kessily knew the bawdy ones, “The Baker’s Lady” and “All the Girls on the Docks”, and then “Farewell to Sailors” which was always a favorite although it was sad. Most songs from Atlantis were sad, so Velsa didn’t play for too long. But her fingers seemed to remember the chords well enough even when her mind didn’t. Before she gave the bastir back she picked out “Oh Susannah!”, from the Fallen Lands, and it got everyone dancing just as it did back at the patrol camp.

  Night fell before Velsa reflected that she had barely seen Sorla. The youth were off doing their own thing, running around outside with the wyverns. Some of the girls looked closer to Velsa’s real age than the women she was spending her day with. They all thought she was one of the mothers. How very odd this is. Grau will have to come next time.

  The only trouble with being a Fanarlem among flesh and blood people was that everyone was starting to get tipsy, if not worse. Kessily was still singing and getting very loud. Myrini was completely gone playing some game that involved liquor and embarrassing questions; so much for Velsa’s image of sweet, innocent rustic farmer women. Myrini’s wiry, scruffy husband was the sober one, quietly cleaning up after people all night.

  Velsa felt like she truly understood Miralem for the first time—these Miralem, at least. They had very different priorities in life from Daramons. Even when Daramons had little money or came from rustic corners like Grau’s hometown, they aspired to some ideal of beauty and refinement. They valued money and possessions
; they liked to own things. Indeed, they wanted to master them, the way their sorcerers harnessed the elements. They could be cruel in their pursuits, but they also looked toward the stars. They were never content with the simple life.

  Miralem were quite the opposite. They didn’t care much about being beautiful or accumulating possessions—the shops in town attested to that, because there was almost nothing for sale that provided pure beauty with no practical function. Velsa sensed within them an acknowledgment of their place on the earth, among plants and animals. They were content. They didn’t need more. They didn’t strive for more, at least not the way Daramons did.

  Maybe sometimes that was good. Just to be satisfied with the moment.

  Velsa was sitting alone for the first time that night, on a log bench near a bonfire, but not too near the others, loud as they were getting.

  A ways down the slope of the hill, a cart full of the younger people approached, the driver steering the horses around rocks.

  The cart stopped. Their laughter rang out in the clear night. A few boys and girls jumped down, and one of the boys grabbed Sorla around the waist and plunked her over his shoulder.

  “Hey!” she cried.

  Velsa stood up, on instant alert.

  “Hey, hey,” Ruven echoed. “What are you doing back there with my doll girl?”

  “Come and get her!” The other boy started running into the darkness with Sorla. She was shrieking, pounding his back—laughing, too, but that didn’t mean she really liked it.

  A wave of revulsion rolled through Velsa, all the times she had ever been grabbed or called a doll swelling within her. Sorla was just a girl and already getting this treatment. Madam Blazar certainly wasn’t helping, dressing up all the adult Fanarlem like they were dolls themselves. All the kids in town were probably influenced by her. Sorla was going to grow up in this place, playing along just to be liked, until before long she might be working at Velsa’s side and letting Madam Blazar curl her hair.

  She ran after them. “Sorla!”

  Sorla looked at her. “It’s okay, Meirin, we’re just having fun.”

  The boy immediately put her down anyway. He lifted his hands. “We were just messing around.”