The Sorcerer’s Wife

by Dolamore, Jaclyn

  Then she reminded herself that she had no money for new parts and tools, and Sorla would go home at the end of the week.

  “Who told you you could touch those?” A woman’s voice barked from the other side of the shelves. “Where is your master?”

  Velsa clapped the book shut and stepped out from the shelves as Sorla was saying, “I’m holding the books for my mistress…”

  “That’s right,” Velsa said, trying to muster an authoritative tone. It helped that the woman scolding Sorla was rather short and unassuming. “They’re mine. This is my servant.”

  “Hmm…very well, then. Please be sure she stays within your sight. We don’t allow slaves to be unattended here.”

  Velsa remembered her own surprise, her overwhelming gratitude and joy, when Lieutenant Dlara found out she could read and offered her free rein of the border camp library. Sorla, now lowering her head in quiet acceptance, deserved that much.

  A little surge of fury passed over Velsa as the woman walked away. “You mean—” She raised her voice, snatching the woman’s attention back. “If I want a book from the library and I don’t have time to get it myself, I can’t send Sorla to fetch it for me?”

  The woman turned sharply. Her lips were pursed. “It was allowed once, but we had an incident where some slaves came here and vandalized books.”

  “So my slave must be punished because someone else’s misbehaved? Let them pay for the books.” Velsa snatched at an argument Dlara had used to defend her reading. “I want Sorla to read so she will understand her place in the world.”

  “I’m sorry, but I have nothing to do with the rules. You can write a letter to the director.”

  Velsa backed off, feeling the words ‘my slave’ still in her mouth like a bad taste.

  “Thank you, miss,” Sorla said as Velsa came back.

  “Don’t,” Velsa said. “Please don’t thank me. Let’s just check these out and go.”

  As they drew close to home, staggering under the weight of the heavy books, a bright figure stood out against the snow. The Peacock General was in front of her building, watching her approach.

  Terror seized her. He was holding her cloak. Hopefully he just wanted to give it back.

  But she didn’t trust him.

  “Velsa!” He waved. Today he was wearing a black cape trimmed in honey-colored fur, and a red silk robe with an embroidered Halnari sash. His earrings were strands of silver stars. He held out her drab little cloak and as soon as she got close to him, he swept it around her shoulders.

  “I know you don’t get cold, but you look so cold without it,” he said.

  “That’s what Grau always says too. But I do like having my cloak. It keeps the wind off.”

  “I wanted to apologize about last night,” he said. “I should have locked the conservatory, but no one goes in there at night except experienced sorcerers who are deep in work. They wouldn’t have been shocked as you were. But then, I should have known, if any novice potion maker would come poking around after hours, it would be your young man. And curiosity must be a trait you share—I don’t know where my manners are. Let me carry those books up for you.” He took her books, and Sorla’s too, and now he had invited himself into her home and she didn’t know what to say.

  “Thank you, sir…” She led the way up the stairs, trying to shrug off her reluctance. The Peacock General was obviously important. Thank the fates she had left that picture of Kalan Jherin on the wall. “Is Irik okay?”

  “Shape-shifting like that is very painful,” the Peacock General said. “But she felt much better once she had her medicine. It will take time for her to learn to control herself.”

  Velsa unlocked the door. He put her books on the table and glanced around the small room, which was at least very tidy thanks to Sorla. “Speaking of learning control, the birds are chirping and they tell me you are a talented telepath.”

  “That’s what the Halnari woman told me. I don’t use it much.”

  “Your Halnari mother died when you were young?” He must have read her papers.

  “Yes.”

  “And you lost your real body. I’m guessing, then, that you didn’t want to emphasize your telepathy. You must have already keenly felt that you were different from other children.”

  Sorla was listening with interest.

  “But here,” he continued, “your powers would be valued.”

  “I just got married. I don’t know what Grau would think.” She wondered how long she could use Grau as an excuse. Probably not long.

  “You do realize…Kalan needs you more than he needs a novice potion maker?”

  How could Velsa say right to the face of one of Kalan’s generals? And yet, this was the last thing she wanted. “I don’t want to be like the Halnari ladies,” she blurted. “They talk down to me.”

  He laughed. “A fair point! They have mastered the art of the disdainful sniff, haven’t they? But they grow on you…or maybe it’s that we grow on them. I just want to make sure you are aware that if you worked here, you would make more money than your husband. You’d be given better housing and you could keep not just one slave, but a few.”

  Although Sorla was heating up water, he was gone before she could offer tea. Velsa sank into a chair.

  “Miss,” Sorla said.

  “Yes?”

  “You don’t want to work in such a prestigious position?”

  “Not when I’ve just arrived.” Velsa should have told Sorla it was none of her business, but she couldn’t bear to speak to her that way.

  “Of course,” Sorla said. She turned away, busying herself with putting away the jar of tea and the cups.

  Chapter 5

  Velsa and Sorla fell into a routine while Grau was off studying potions, but Velsa could never treat Sorla as an equal.

  Velsa tried to allow for plenty of fun at home. They read plays aloud and made a chatrang game board out of paper. Velsa met most of the neighbors and was relieved when they were all friendly to her, and no one questioned why she had a servant. “It must be good for you to have some help around the house,” one older woman said, apparently thinking Velsa was rather fragile—which was not entirely untrue. Sorla was stronger than her. The woman from Balumi gave her some sprigs of fragrant herbs she grew in her window to make their rice especially delicious.

  She was always waiting with dread for the Peacock General to pay another visit, but he was a very busy man. The newspaper described his meetings with officials from Atlantis and New Sajinay, and his trip to the northern part of Nalim Ima to deliver supplies after a devastating ice storm. He was called “Lord Jherin’s Golden Voice” because he was usually the one who spoke on the leader’s behalf.

  The newspaper described the Wodrenarune’s daily activities, reporting on the number of hours he slept, what he ate (which was very little), and how much time he spent in meditation. Usually, this was the bulk of his day. A legend had grown around the man, that he spent so much time deep in conversation with the fates that it was painful for him to be out in the world.

  “That’s a little strange,” Velsa said at dinner one day. “Isn’t it? For a leader not to speak to his people directly? To never be seen?”

  “He is seen at the annual Concourse where all the officials gather,” Grau said. “They say it’s been that way for some time. I think it’s odd, but everyone else seems to accept it.”

  Sorla watched them from where she always sat by the oven while they ate. Velsa considered that maybe they shouldn’t talk about Kalan Jherin in her presence, but it was too late now.

  “I don’t really understand why the fates would only talk to one man,” Velsa said.

  “I don’t understand why people believe the fates only talk to one man,” Sorla said.

  Grau furrowed his brows and then laughed. “Dangerous talk with that picture hanging on the wall.”

  Velsa’s interest was piqued by Sorla’s rebellious comment. She had never quite believed in the Wodrenarune either. “Wh
y don’t you believe it, Sorla?”

  “I don’t know…I just don’t. I don’t think I was a terrible person in my past life. But it doesn’t matter as long as everyone else believes it.”

  “It does matter,” Velsa said.

  “I might be happier if I believed it,” Sorla said. “I think the Fanarlem who believe have an easier time.”

  “If you’re going to live here, I don’t want you to believe it,” Velsa said.

  “Then I won’t,” Sorla said, with the ghost of an impish smile, before she grabbed their plates. Grau, as always, started gathering up the rest of the dishes on the table before she could come back. She tried to take it from him. He wouldn’t let the dish go.

  “In this household, you’re not fated to clean up our dishes,” he said, pointing at Velsa. “You heard the lady.”

  “If I was free,” Sorla said, “and I could do anything I wanted, I would open a cafe, and I would still clean up your dishes.”

  “You can’t even eat,” Grau said.

  “Well…,” she said. “I’m a pretty good cook even so, aren’t I?”

  “And possibly a wizard to get all of that out of seven pieces a week.”

  Someone knocked on the door with five rhythmic raps, as if it was someone they already knew.

  Grau opened the door as if he expected a friend. The door opened to reveal the Peacock General. They had learned from the papers that his name was Calban, but he never introduced himself as such.

  “Uh—good evening, sir,” Grau said.

  “Good evening, Sorcerer Thanneau.”

  “Would you like to come in? I’m sorry, we’re just finishing our dinner.”

  “Thank you.” Calban stepped past him. “Don’t worry about dinner. I’m glad you’ve finished. We have important business to discuss.”

  Grau shut the door. He had a slightly dark look, behind Calban’s back.

  They only had three chairs, so Sorla hastily vacated hers and stood by the stove. Calban claimed the empty seat and spread his hands on the table like he owned the place. Maybe he did. After all, they were allowed to live there on behalf of the magical arts department. “I found out that you have not been quite truthful with me,” he said.

  Velsa was very glad sometimes that the food she ate disappeared in her throat. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have a meal churning through her body, as terrified as she felt now.

  Grau sat down too, maintaining calm. “What do you mean?”

  “You killed a dragon.”

  Now Grau’s calm slipped, but Velsa couldn’t help a rush of relief.

  “Yes,” Grau said. “But it was pure luck. I harnessed a lightning storm.”

  “Pure luck, he says.” Calban looked at Velsa like they were in on a secret. “As if it’s easy to harness lightning.”

  “It is easy, relatively speaking,” Grau said. “It’s far more potent than anything I could have generated on my own.”

  “Lightning comes before thunder, and it’s gone almost before you know it’s happened. You must be very attuned, to harness lightning. You’re being very modest. You downplayed your elemental skill for our tests.”

  “I want to make potions,” Grau said. “That’s why I’m here.”

  “I understand,” Calban said. “I’d be happy to give you an education in potion-making—eventually. But our nation is on the very brink of war with the Miralem. This is not the time for wants. We need your elemental skills right now.”

  Velsa’s relief was short-lived. The entire reason Grau lied was to avoid being sent to the front lines and torn away from her. And the news from the border nations kept growing more ominous. Dragons, which in peaceful times would never be spotted on the mainland, kept appearing in the mountains, near the border camp where Grau had killed the other dragon.

  “I don’t think I could have killed the dragon if I hadn’t felt that our very lives were at stake,” Grau said. “I didn’t want to advertise myself as someone who is normally capable of—”

  Calban stood and snapped his fingers twice. A plume of flames shot from his hand and engulfed Grau’s arms and face. Sorla shrieked. Velsa felt the heat on her own skin, but she forced herself not to react.

  Grau slashed his palms through the air, dispelling the fire as quickly as it had been created, but Calban renewed the assault. His breath came in sharp exhalations. The fire roared to new life, in a different shape this time, racing up Grau’s sleeves, clinging to his hands despite his efforts to fight off the magic. He thrust out his arms, initially calm, but the fire wouldn’t leave him.

  His face twisted with barely restrained pain. Calban kept controlling the fire, with fingers and breath, imposing his magic on Grau.

  Grau’s power was nothing in the face of Calban’s, that was clear. He was giving the fight everything he had and Calban was completely relaxed.

  “You’re hurting him!” Velsa cried, unable to stand it any longer.

  Calban reeled the fire back to him, and it died in his palms.

  Grau’s hands and clothes were singed. His face was reddened by the heat, a sheen of sweat on his brow. He was obviously hurting but he gritted his teeth.

  “There,” Calban said. “That’s what I want from you. Quick reflexes, skill, and the force of will not to cry out in the face of an enemy attack. You lied to me, Grau. Please don’t forget, it is a privilege to be here.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “Besides…you do understand, the more powerful your magic, the greater the reward?” Calban’s demeanor softened now, as he eased back into his chair, putting one elbow on the table. “You’ll have a better apartment and more pay.”

  Calban put a hand on Velsa’s shoulder—she cringed back at the touch before mastering herself. He took a little jar from his pocket and handed it to her. “Give your husband some healing balm, with my compliments.” He got up to leave, with one last glance at Grau, who was holding his burnt hands in front of him, looking like all his concentration was devoted to not voicing any pain.

  Calban smiled and went out the door.

  Grau squinted his eyes shut and let out a pained exhalation. Velsa rushed to his side and opened the jar of healing balm. It was thicker than the balm Grau carried, and a mossy green color. She quickly worked it into his skin. Sorla was still cowering in the corner.

  “Damnit,” Grau whispered.

  “It’s all right,” Velsa said, smothering her own fear. She could still feel the weight of Calban’s hand on her shoulder. “We’ll have to make the best of it. More money, at least…that isn’t a bad thing…”

  “Money isn’t worth more than safety,” he said. “But I guess if I wanted that, I shouldn’t have come here at all.”

  They were given a new apartment, quite near to the Palace of Blessed Wings. It had six rooms, all properly furnished with rugs, curtains—even a curtained bed, and not just a flushing toilet but also a bathtub with hot water. “Too bad you’re not waterproof,” Grau said.

  That same print of Kalan Jherin still stared down from the wall of the parlor, but Velsa expected they would spend most of their time in the kitchen anyway. They always did. Sorla was always making bread and pie crusts and neatly chopped piles of vegetables while Velsa read aloud, or other times they talked and did needlework.

  Sorla seemed younger every day. Velsa began to believe she really was thirteen, not yet a woman. She had her own room, too, with a proper bed. She was giggling and girlish at the sight of it, flopping on the mattress and leaping to the window to see her view, even though such lively motion made her clumsy.

  The day after Grau’s promotion, an envelope arrived with his name written on it.

  Your presence is requested at a party hosted by Calban, the Peacock General, on behalf of Kalan Jherin, at the Palace of Blessed Wings at 9 pm this week’s end.

  The invitation made Velsa turn cold. She kept hoping that Calban would forget her. That was certainly unlikely if she attended parties hosted by him, and now of course sh
e must.

  Still, none of them had set foot within palace walls before, and she had never dressed up and gone out with Grau to a party as his wife.

  The night of the party, she took out her one formal outfit, that Grau bought at a second-hand market the same day he bought her. She had also worn this to the library…so the Peacock General had already seen her in it. All her clothes had grown shabby with constant wear. Since she didn’t sweat, she could wear clothes for a longer time, but that meant she never owned many. Her stockings had snags and she had mended holes in the toes a few times. At least the dress was long enough to hide them.

  Sorla watched; she was excited even though she couldn’t go.

  “Can I brush your hair and put on your ribbons?” Sorla asked. “I always thought it would be romantic to be a maid to a fine lady who went to parties at palaces.”

  “You can if you really want to, although I’m hardly a fine lady.”

  “Or…are you?” Grau glanced away from the mirror. On this night, potentially the beginning of a very important era in their lives, he was attempting to form his braid into a fashionable loop at the back of his head, and failing miserably. “I may have bought you a surprise.”

  Sorla waved her hands excitedly. “Can I get it?” she asked.

  “Sure, you know where it is,” Grau said, bemused, as she almost tripped trying to run to the door. He shot Velsa a small smile, and she thought he was just as happy that he found a way to include Sorla in their festivities as he was to surprise Velsa.

  Sorla came back with a purple box in her arms.

  “How did you buy this before you were paid?” Velsa asked Grau.

  “On credit,” he said. “I know we’re saving money, but you can’t go to the palace in that old dress.”

  Velsa lifted off the lid to find a beautiful gown in the very latest style, with three tiers of gauzy skirts, a shape that was also mirrored in the sleeves, which had two tiers. Each tier was edged in a strip of red velvet that matched the sash waist. The dress was midnight blue in the skirt, pale blue in the sleeves and front panel—with the rich red complimenting both. In her hands, the fabric felt substantial and ethereal at once.