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

by Jaclyn Dolamore

  Velsa woke to a moment of panic that she was alone in bed, before she remembered Grau was with Rovi. She tried to check on him telepathically, but she couldn’t sense him out, which probably meant he was sleeping. Still, it gave her a deeply unsettled feeling. The house seemed so empty without him, even as she could hear Sorla downstairs in the kitchen.

  This is what it would be like, if he had died, she thought.

  The somber thought was quickly tempered by the merry music from the square. She peered out the attic window and saw a family walking down the street, children skipping, everyone dressed in their finest.

  They had breakfast and Sorla carefully pinned flowers in her hair.

  “Are you going to join the chase?” Velsa asked.

  “I must, since we’re here! You can start participating at thirteen. Kessily, are you going to join in?”

  “I’m not looking for a husband.”

  “Well, neither am I. It’s for fun.”

  “I don’t know.” She picked up one of the stray flowers Sorla had left strewn on the table and slipped it in her pocket.

  Velsa wanted to be excited about the festival, but she was too fretful over Grau, and the possibility of seeing Madam Blazar and the two Fanarlem girls who had remained happy to be her little poppets and join the procession. As they headed to the square themselves, she couldn’t help but notice that their little band looked shabby compared to so many others. They didn’t have special clothes for holidays. Sorla spotted one of her friends and started talking to her, but Velsa hated that Sorla still wore her everyday dress from Nalim Ima, while the friend had a beautiful wine-red dress with a lace collar.

  The square was full of colorful pavilions, with jugglers and dance troupes. One stall sold ice cream, which was unheard of the region and regarded with suspicion. Wine sellers were already doing a brisk business. One studious-looking man was pouring samples and saying, “These grapes only grow in the volcanic soils of Priesha. You’ll taste a hint of persimmon and woodsmoke.” He looked dismayed when his customer drank the wine in one gulp and proclaimed it “pretty darn good”.

  Velsa walked with Kessily, who kept glancing around, obviously looking for Dormongara.

  “It would be strange to see him here,” Velsa said. “I feel like he ought to burn up in the sun.”

  “Do you really think we can find him a wife?” Kessily asked.

  Velsa glanced around at all the girls in bright colors, Miralem girls mostly, with long red and blonde hair flying behind them. Dormongara said he wanted a Daramon girl, but they were in shorter supply. They were darker, and dressed more sedately. They matched him, certainly. Her gaze lingered briefly on a young woman with dark eyes and a face powdered almost white, with big black ribbons in her braids. She was watching some muscular, bare-chested Miralem male dancers.

  “I don’t think that’s what he really wants,” Velsa said.

  “What does he want?”

  “I think he likes you.”

  “He doesn’t like anyone.”

  “He’s attracted to you, then. He likes the way you keep talking to him. And—I’m not entirely convinced you don’t like the way he talks to you too.”

  Spots of pink appeared in Kessily’s cheeks. She shrugged. “I don’t know about any of that.”

  “Don’t tell me you had no idea. He came all the way down the mountain in the middle of the night to bring you home. And there is such a thing as playing hard to get.”

  “Ridiculous. I was never the type.” Kessily fussed with her hair a bit absently. Her ponytail was rarely tidy. She tried to tuck a loose strand back up.

  “Anyway, he’s out of luck if he’s interested in me. He’s good-looking, I’ll say that. But I don’t care about that. I’m not interested in living in his castle and having his heirs. That’s serious business. The charms of smoldering eyes and broad shoulders won’t hold up through nine months of pregnancy, I can guess that.”

  “Very true. I’m not necessarily trying to encourage you. Just noting some observations.”

  They walked quietly for a moment and then Kessily said, “I do remember that night a little bit.”

  “Do you?”

  Kessily nodded. “It was all foggy up on the mountain. I remember seeing him walking out of the fog, like a ghost. And—he did look very handsome. That’s all I’ll admit to.”

  “And you were naked.”

  “Shut up.”

  Someone grabbed Velsa’s shoulder and she whirled around, expecting Dormongara but braced for worse.

  In fact, it was Grau. He laughed at her surprise. “You didn’t sense me coming?”

  “I keep telling you, telepathy doesn’t work like that. You have to focus.”

  “You’re not focused on me? I’m hurt.” He took her arm.

  “But Grau, you’re supposed to be in bed! Rovi’s orders! Where is she?”

  “Yes, she said that, but she went out for a few hours, and I’m feeling better.”

  “I don’t know about that. She was very adamant that you need to rest.”

  He took her hand and pressed it to his heart. “Sense my thoughts if you like. You’ll see. I’m not in much pain.”

  His mind was open to her, and she stepped in—but immediately recoiled when she felt dull, throbbing pains in his stomach. “Grau!”

  His mouth twisted sideways. “I should’ve known. You think any pain is too much pain. Really—it’s not bad. I’ve had worse pains from overindulging on Feast Day. I promise, I’ll go back to bed soon. But there’s a man over here taking photographs, and I want one of us so we have a memento if we ever have to be separated again.”

  “Photographs? Really?” She immediately perked up at the idea of this bit of wonder from the Fallen Lands, which reminded her of home.

  He led her to one of the transient stalls. A large cloth hung against a wall, painted to look like the ocean. A man was holding a box with a glass lens that folded out, propped on a tripod. Another couple was standing still against the cloth while he adjusted the tripod a little. “And—ready!” he called, just before a flash of light came from the box.

  “Got it,” he said. “You can come pick the photograph up tomorrow morning.” He turned to Grau, who had pulled Velsa up just behind him. “Are you two next? It’s five silver bits per picture.”

  “Yes, sir,” Grau said.

  “Stand there, in front of the cloth, and get yourself straightened out, how you want to look. Young lady, I suggest you try to look alive. I took a photo of a man and a Fanarlem girl in Laionesse. She didn’t smile, stood stiff as a board, and it came out looking like a man holding a mannequin.”

  “Oh, dear.” She tugged on Grau’s collar, lowering his head so she could straighten out his hair a bit. “You look like you rolled out of bed.”

  “So I did. But I must be pretty healthy to do that.”

  She frowned a little. “I guess I’ll accept that answer. What about me?”

  “You look lovely.”

  “How should I pose?”

  “Maybe clasp your hands like you’re eager to see the rest of the festival. Surely you’ll look alive doing that.”

  “I can’t imagine I won’t look alive!” She brought her hands together and Grau put a hand on her shoulder.

  “Sometimes photographs tend to make people look a little flat,” the man said. “But that ought to do. All right—ready!”

  Right as the man said he was ready, Grau squeezed one of her buttocks with his free hand, which made her almost burst into laughter. She stepped on his foot.

  “You definitely look alive in that one,” he said.

  “Oh, take another one!” she told the man.

  They were paying for the pictures when Rovi stalked over. “No, no, no!” she exclaimed. “Grau, you’re supposed to be in bed!”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You are not fine.”

  “I’m not going to miss the entire festival over this.”

  “He does look all right,” Velsa s
aid, enjoying his company too much to be overly concerned. “Surely he can rest tonight and tomorrow.”

  “I don’t think you’re taking this as seriously as you should, but I suppose it can’t hurt. Just take it easy. No rich foods, no great exertion. No dancing!”

  Grau waved a hand. “I know. Don’t worry.”

  A horn blew from the direction of the outdoor stage, drawing everyone’s attention. Velsa and Grau joined the press of the crowd. They could get nowhere near the platform, so Velsa and Kessily couldn’t see.

  “Dormongara’s up there,” Grau said. “He looks thrilled.”

  Kessily laughed.

  A thrilling drumbeat sounded. The crowd was very quiet. “Announcing His Royal Majesty, Prince Seldon Elar Brandornan.”

  “Is that him?” Grau continued. “The prince?”

  “What?”

  “Real quick.” He put his hands on her waist and lifted her up to see.

  There really was no question about the identity of the prince. Velsa had read enough stories to know what Miralem princes looked like. He wore the golden crown placed upon flowing black locks and a short cape attached to the shoulders of his surcoat with the crest of Laionesse on the back—visible as he turned to greet the luminaries who flanked him: the mayor of Dor-Temerna, Dormongara, and others. His clothes reminded her of the Halnari Miralem, except they were not quite as fussy, but he had a broad collar, heeled boots, and long sleeves that covered the backs of his hands.

  The reason for surprise was that Prince Seldon was nearly as handsome as everyone said. He was as dark as a southern Daramon, but with a face no Daramon would stand for. He had a strong brow and thin lips and looked a bit brutish despite a broad smile. Dormongara was bowing to him now. Behind them, rows of guards stood stock-still, resplendent in leather armor and white capes.

  “Not much like the pictures, is he?” Grau said, putting her down. “Can you imagine the Peacock General meeting up with them?”

  “Is he ugly?” Kessily asked.

  “Sort of,” Velsa said. “He’s swarthy.”

  “Drat, I want to see,” Kessily said.

  Grau held out his hands to her. “I’ll pick you up too if you like.”

  She laughed. “Don’t kill yourself. ”

  The mayor of Dor-Temerna and the festival organizer said a few fawning words about how excited they all were to entertain the prince and so on.

  “Thank you,” Prince Seldon said. “It’s my honor to be here among the great people of Dor-Temerna.”

  It was hard to hear much over the cheers of the crowd, and he went on about peace, but she perked her ears when he said something about Fanarlem.

  “I wish Laionesse to be a home for all peoples,” he said. “A land that welcomes all talents.”

  He announced the official opening of the festival. Much of the audience scattered to find their places within the procession, but for those that remained, there was a mixture of entertainment from Dor-Temerna and the capital: a troupe of girls in regional costume of pure white dresses with peaked hats and blue aprons, dancing in unison with garlands of flowers; a band of singers with a string instrument for accompaniment; sorcerers who juggled fire and made it dance between them into shapes almost like water fountains. Velsa, Grau and Kessily had pressed closer to the stage so now Velsa had a partial view.

  “Next onto the stage, we have the Singing Blossom of the South, with songs of the Fallen Lands.”

  The world whirled around Velsa for a moment. She clutched her stomach as a Fanarlem girl in a red silk dress took the stage. She had two singers to back her up and a man with a squeezebox.

  Velsa had forgotten exactly how her voice sounded, but when Flower opened her mouth, it was instantly familiar, stirring up the memory of Velsa’s discomfort watching her flirt with the men at the camp, the blindfold and gag around her face when Flower stole her away from camp, her menace as she told the guard who was her accomplice to throw Velsa in the river.

  Flower still sounded flirtatious and a little smug as she sang, her voice high and teasing.

  By the light of the silvery moon…

  She sang like the records Velsa heard in Nalim Ima, a song from the Fallen Lands with awkward lyrics, translated into the common language of the continent, albeit in the Atlantean dialect. The audience murmured. They didn’t seem to know what to make of it.

  She realized Grau had placed his hand on her shoulder and was checking her reaction. She was so lost in memories.

  “She’s here,” she said.

  “And no bandits in sight,” he said. “If we’re ever going to get your crystal back…”

  “I thought you didn’t want me to mess with her.”

  “I never thought she’d be delivered to our doorstep. Of course I’d like to get the crystal back, if it makes sense to try. When she leaves, we should follow her and see where she’s staying.”

  “What if she raises a stink and the prince blames us? Presumably she was invited to join the royal entertainments!”

  “Any telepathic judge of these lands should be able to check our memories and confirm that the crystal is ours. If she still has it. I expect she’s probably sold it, but it’s worth confronting her.”

  Velsa told Kessily the plan, but urged her to stay put and enjoy the festival. Moving through the crowd, Velsa and Grau found the back of the stage and waited to catch Flower’s exit. Her songs continued, more romantic ditties that sounded rather the same. The audience was starting to sway to the tunes. Flower’s ability to perform had definitely improved, although Velsa would never admit aloud that she had any talent. The next act was waiting on the sidelines, a Miralem ‘melancholy orchestra’ with strings and flutes.

  They turned the corner to the back of the stage and immediately spotted Dar standing behind the platform, with a military-issue rifle on his back. Dar was the guard who had helped Flower escape. Now he wore the uniform of the royal guard.

  Grau withdrew before Dar could spot them. “Hmmm.”

  “They’re not telepathic or sorcerers,” Velsa reminded him. “I can keep him from shooting at us. If we go to their room or tent or wherever they are later on, surely they won’t give us too much trouble.”

  “Yes, but he’s in the prince’s guard. We’ll confront them, but I’m not sure it’s worth making a fuss. I’m surprised he stuck with her all this time. Especially if she’s sleeping with Three-Tongues.”

  “Well…,” Velsa said. “Flower was always like that. I bet they both appreciate the money. Sometimes I still can’t help but feel sorry for her. She’s such a pawn.”

  “H’lo.” Dormongara called to them from a short distance, walking down from the side stairs of the platform. He sounded tense, and kept looking past them. “What are you two up to?”

  “Nothing,” Velsa said, reflexively. “Waiting for you.”

  “It didn’t look like nothing.” He came up to them. “Have you seen anyone suspicious?”

  “Suspicious?” Grau replied. “Well—there is a Daramon man from my old guard posted in the king’s guard.”

  “Who?”

  “The man standing behind the stage,” Grau said. “His name is Dar.”

  “I see. Thank you.” Dormongara signaled to another man on the stage, with black leather armor, and then turned the corner, the other man following him silently.

  Velsa glanced at Grau. “What is going on?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  They heard some gruff voices confronting Dar. A moment later, the man in armor led him away, one hand on his shoulder, the rifle confiscated into his own hand. Dormongara followed close behind.

  “Maybe it’s time you go back to bed,” Velsa told Grau.

  “We might as well talk to Flower first. She ought to be even easier to intimidate when she finds her guard gone.”

  Flower’s final number, a sentimental song about “Where the River Miral Flows”, came to a conclusion. Velsa hated to admit that Flower’s voice was emotional and sounded pure. The aud
ience burst into applause. The next act was announced and the mostly female musicians of the melancholy orchestra climbed the stairs. Flower never came to the back.

  They moved forward to see if she was still on the stage.

  “Did she jump down off the front?” Velsa cried, and although Grau scanned the crowd, there must have been a few hundred people pressed around the stage. A petite Fanarlem girl would disappear in a moment. “We should have mentioned her to Dormongara, too. Whatever’s going on, I bet she’s a part of it.”

  But all Velsa really cared about was confronting Flower herself. When they last met, Velsa’s powers were still bound. Velsa wanted Flower to feel that Velsa was stronger than her.

  “Maybe she’ll be in the procession,” Grau said. “Looks like it’s getting ready.”

  The streets were empty in anticipation, and had been grated with fresh, packed dirt. Many families had abandoned the stage performance to claim prime spots along the parade route. Young women were clustering in chattering anticipation, as presumably the next event was the chase. Flower-bedecked carriages were lining up at the eastern entrance to the square, causing a traffic jam as they sorted out the parade order.

  Velsa and Grau walked down the parade route until they found Kessily. Even in the chaos of people, she was easy to spot with a cloak thrown over her wing and her thick ponytail.

  “I don’t think Dormongara is looking for a wife right now,” Velsa told her.

  “Do you think someone important was killed?” Kessily asked.

  “Here—at the festival?”

  “Anywhere. If someone had died, he would know.”

  “Everything seems to be proceeding normally…”

  The parade began at the entrance to the square, which was normally just the wide road that led out of town, but today was grandly decorated with arches of blossoms and painted wooden statues of gold lions holding the moon, one of the motifs of the royal house. The prince led the procession on horseback, with three guards behind him, bearing his banner. When he began to ride out, the town cheered and whistled.

  The prince was smiling, waving to everyone, calling out a few people by name. He seemed like a very friendly prince. Maybe that was why he had such a reputation for being handsome; his kindness made him attractive. The band of drums and flutes came behind the banner guard, playing a tune that much of the audience seemed to know; mouths moved and a vague din of words surrounded them.