The Sorcerer's Concubine (The Telepath and the Sorcerer Book 1) (13 page)

“I guess it depends on who’s making the music,” Grau said. “If it’s Archel’s concubine, I’m not interested. I think you’re right—we’d better stay away from them as much as possible.”

“Well, it
is
her,” Rawly admitted. “But not
just
her. Some of the men play too. If we ask nicely maybe Dlara will play his harmonica. He’s shy about it, but it’s something else. He got it in Nalim Ima. It looks like a strange little rectangular flute but he plays the best songs I’ve ever heard on it. Besides, if you avoid Archel forever you’ll also miss the best of camp social life.”

Grau’s curiosity obviously got the better of him. “All right. We’ll stay for a few minutes.”

“You’d have to deal with it sooner or later,” Rawly said. “But I’ll stick with you. He can’t hurt Velsa. Lieutenant Dlara would never allow it, anyway. He already disapproves of how Archel treats Flower.”

“That’s her name?” Velsa asked. Flower was usually just a nickname.

“We call her that. Her real name is something else, like…Sibalora? I can’t remember. Something like that. Archel just calls her by nicknames and everyone else has pretty much settled on Flower.”

Sibalora had such a different sound than Flower. One was a real name and one was a pet. A pang of sympathy swept through Velsa. That could have been her, or any of the girls at the House. She wondered about Amleisa and Nraya. Were they still called by name?

The men were gathered around a comfortable, crackling fire; not so blazing that it frightened Velsa. There was a horror story back in the House about a concubine long ago whose hair had caught on fire and her face had burned away, and when her replacement face finally arrived she looked like an entirely different girl. Velsa never knew if that story was true, and her skin was gently fireproofed, but better not to take chances. She also stayed away from the smoke, as the smell would cling to her for a long time.

Flower was already playing a song on the flute, to the slow beat of two drums. The song sounded similar to “Farewell to Sailors”, which Velsa used to practice on the bastir, but the melody was different in the chorus. When the other concubine had finished a few verses, one of the men took up the song with a strong, deep voice. Flower lowered her flute. She gyrated her hips to the pounding of the drums.

“Come here, doll,” one of the men said. She drew a handkerchief from her pocket and fluttered it in his direction. He swatted at it playfully until he caught it, and pulled her against him. She stood straddled across his legs and rubbed her pelvis against his face.

Flower’s dance was just one small interaction in the large circle of men; many of them were not even paying attention to her. But Velsa had a hard time seeing anything else. She had never witnessed anything so improper in public.

Rawly covered her eyes.

“Hey!” she exclaimed with surprise. 

“Grau, I think your girl would blush if she could. You’d better keep her home and give her some dolls to play with, and I don’t mean that
kind.”

“I’m not a kid,” Velsa said.

“There’s virgin and then there’s innocent. You can be one and not the other.” Rawly draped one arm around each of them. “Tell you what, I’ll insist Dlara play that harmonica and take this evening out of the den of vice. But I can’t save you every night.”

As he left, Grau turned to Velsa. “Why do I get the feeling that now that we’re here, and everyone has told us how boring it is, a murderous band of river pirates is going to show up within the week?” He frowned. “I’m not sure the border guard is for me.”

“Bored already?” she teased.

“Not bored. Uneasy.”

Velsa patted his arm, but she didn’t know what to say. She was uneasy herself, and kept watching Flower, even as she tried not to. Flower had a seductive smile on her face, but Velsa thought her eyes were dead.

Rawly was chatting with Lieutenant Dlara, pointing back at them. Dlara nodded and took a silver object from his pocket. The man performing now wrapped up his song with a final chorus, and bowed to Dlara.

Dlara shook his dark head sheepishly. “Just a tune for my new squad sorcerer, Grau, and his girl, Velsa.”

The harmonica was silver with engravings on the case and looked more like a small jewelry box than an instrument. She didn’t expect the noise and energy that came out. It was a harsh sound, almost like someone wailing, but simultaneously more cheerful than any song she had grown up hearing. The men started clapping along almost immediately.

They sang, “Oh, I come on down the river with a bastir on my knee! I’m going to Atlantis, my true love for to see. It rained all night as I depart, though the clouds were dry, the sun so hot I froze to death, Su-za-na dry your eyes…Oh Su-za-na, oh don’t you cry for me, I come on down the river with a bastir on my knee!”

They sang with great gusto and the bouncing beat was infectious. The drummers came in and the men were not just clapping but stomping their feet. Grau took her hand and spun her around, which made them cheer.

The songs of Atlantis and its neighboring cities were usually bittersweet, infused with longing. They told tales of ocean journeys and mythological figures. This song must be the latest fashion from Nalim Ima, like epaulets, but it sounded so contrary to everything she had heard of Kalan Jherin and his palace. He was a powerful sorcerer, with his black-wing flag and his tracts about the souls of Fanarlem. Surely he wasn’t stomping to Su-za-na?

With the men now so merry, Lieutenant Dlara began another song. A stranger tried to grab Velsa’s hand. She darted back and Grau stepped between her and the other man. 

“Don’t keep her to yourself, Thanneau!” He was a pretty fellow with big brown eyes and a light tone, but she didn’t dare trust anyone who grabbed her hand.

“Velsa’s shy.”

“It’s just a dance! Nobody’s going to hurt her. But come on, have a little pity, they don’t let any women in the camp.”

Velsa felt the tension in Grau’s arm, and she knew he wanted to say some retort to defend her. 

Flower was watching her from the other side of the fire. The red and orange of the flames reflected in her glass eyes. She didn’t seem to like the men who had watched Velsa dance, who wanted her attention now.

Well, that makes two of us.

“I’ll dance with Rawly,” she said, offering her hand to him, praying that this might ease the situation. “He’s been very nice to me.”

Rawly pretended to wipe a tear of joy. “This is the first time I’ve ever had luck with a woman for being nice.”

The pretty fellow laughed and stepped back, and Grau laughed too, and she knew she’d managed the situation as far as they were concerned, but Flower was still glaring as Rawly spun her around to another song.

“You’re kind of heavy,” he said.

She frowned. “That’s what Grau said. What do you all think I’m made out of? I’m sure I’m not any heavier than Flower.”

“Well, I’ve never touched
Flower,
” Rawly said. “She terrifies me. And Fanarlem girls aren’t my type; I like a good fight too much.”

“A good
fight
?”

“Yes. I don’t know, I get excited when a woman yells at me—at least, if I think we’ll make up in the end. I don’t suppose you can fight with Grau. It certainly wouldn’t be the same.”

Grau said he wanted her as a wife. An equal. But they never had fought.

Only once had she even dared to question him.

The golden band around her neck weighed upon her. She had begged him to remove it and he wouldn’t—he had reasons that sounded sensible, but she wondered if he would feel the same if he was the one with untrained telepathy. Would he voluntarily lock away his own ability? His own
senses
?

T
hey had
no privacy at the camp. Velsa lay awake in a room full of breathing men. Grau fidgeted, even in his sleep. She wondered if he was having bad dreams. She missed the tender solitude they had shared on their journeys, the gentle love-making that led to a blissful sleep. Six months of this? It seemed unbearable.

Over the next few days, Grau went through a succession of tests and training. The attitude at the camp everywhere seemed laissez-faire. Men loitered around the camp, their appearance so disheveled that it might have been a refuge for hobos. Squads went out on patrol every day, to return with no reports of interest. The hierarchy of the military seemed confused. They were supposed to be working for the nation of Atlantis, but Kalan Jherin was the name spoken of with the greatest respect.

Velsa was allowed to accompany Grau everywhere, but could only sit and watch him. Her childhood had often been just as dull, but her patience for boredom seemed to have fled with all the things she’d seen and done in recent months.

He was handsome with a sword in hand, or demonstrating his ability to start a fire with sorcery. She liked watching him in action. But she would have preferred to be useful herself.

In the evening, sometimes they stayed for the music. Velsa kept quiet, trying to avoid any notice from Flower, but the other concubine was always staring at her. 

She and Grau took a walk around the camp on a morning of blue sky and bright brisk wind. Grau’s hand was warm in hers. They talked of their future, their dreams growing more wild and improbable by the moment. They might both become great sorcerers together, they might buy their own land in the marsh and build a house with an orangerie and a huge library and a stable with two beautiful horses they would take riding through the grasses…

They turned a corner and Grau trailed off at the sight of one of the soldiers humping Flower against the wall. Velsa pulled Grau back, turning around the way they had come, but it was too late. Flower saw them with her glassy eyes. The sight of her there, her body small and limp and accepting, was seared on Velsa’s mind. 

Velsa’s steps stumbled a little as they walked away.

Archel bought Flower for this purpose
,
she thought.
Once, she must have waited in a House, imploring the fates for a kind master the same way I did. And this is what she got.

She had always been told that concubines were safe from a life of prostitution, that they served only one man, like an arranged marriage. One might worry over a cruel master, but at least there would only be one. She wondered why it had never occurred to her or any of the other girls that the man might want to sell her to others.

Maybe it had simply been too terrible a thought to ever consider.

O
ne afternoon
during Grau’s rifle training, Lieutenant Dlara approached her and said, “Sorcerer Thanneau told me you can read.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How about if you read some books from the base library, so you’ll have useful knowledge? You could be our unofficial scholar.”

Scholar? Lieutenant Dlara was actually giving her a
purpose
. 

She feared that a reading Fanarlem would attract as much attention as an eating Fanarlem, and certainly she still attracted attention everywhere she went. But he had already provided her with an explanation, if anyone challenged her right to read books. “Thank you, sir. I’d be happy to.”

He chaperoned her to the library, a small room which must be almost directly under their bedroom, which contained four shelves of books and some cabinets of documents. A few tables and chairs rested by the windows for study; they were empty at the moment. She was immediately drawn to a book titled
Fanarlem Life: History, Construction, and Upkeep. 

“So I know what to do if I break,” she said, to explain.

“Of course.”

She settled back in the field before opening her book.

I
ntroduction
to the Reader

I
t has been
centuries since we unlocked the secret of artificial life, but this great magic remains frightening and mysterious to much of the populace. When faced with even the most lifelike of flesh-born Fanarlem, people struggle for words of pity or ask many questions. How did it happen? How do you survive?

Since childhood I have been stricken with a malady that has defied the efforts of healers and sapped the magic from my blood, so that by the age of twenty-seven, despite a promising career, I found myself struggling through my days, forced to rest after taking even short walks. I was warned I would be confined to my bed within a few more years, with death soon to follow, unless steps were taken.

As the only child of a widowed mother, death was unacceptable to my soul and familial duty. The commonly accepted path was to visit a necromancer who could transition my body into an undead state—bearing in mind the many ramifications; the body that could no longer heal itself, but would be ever-dependent on sorcery.

Undead, I would largely preserve my outward appearance and my ability to move throughout society without attracting stares of pity or misguided condescension from everyone I met.

Still, I was intrigued by the second option. The Fanarlem body, which strips away most nuisances of human need entirely and for which many repairs could be accomplished by myself or any local craftsman. Why should we, the creators of this great magic, leave it only for slaves and not for ourselves?

Against the urgings of my friends to be sensible and even my mother’s tears, I chose the life of a flesh-born Fanarlem ten years ago. I have adapted to its surprising advantages and disadvantages, learned the nuances of construction incorporating the newest techniques and materials, and have educated countless strangers about the truth of my existence, which is not worthy of anyone’s pity.

And if you yourself are faced with the choice between death, undeath, and artificial life, or if your soul currently dwells in an artificial house and you are struggling to find acceptance, I hope this book will bring you to greater comfort and understanding.

H
umbly Yours
,

I. H. Orhan

V
elsa had not expected
the book to be written by an actual Fanarlem. A flesh-born Fanarlem—what Grau hoped to pose her as. Maybe this book would tell her how to pretend she had gone through such a transition.

She was so fascinated by the book that she could hardly tear her eyes from it. She had never read anything about her own kind that didn’t dwell strictly on how Fanarlem were cursed and what they had to do to purify their karma. This book spoke to her directly as if she was going to make her own body and repair herself.

She heard soft footsteps coming up behind her.

It was the first time she’d seen Flower during the day, before dinner. The other concubine was still wearing her fine silk robes, and carefully sat down on the dry grass beside Velsa.

Velsa shut the book.

“What are you reading?” Flower asked, touching the cover as if to see it better.

But Velsa didn’t think she could read. Her eyes never moved with any comprehension.

“A book on Fanarlem construction,” she said, a little reluctantly. “Lieutenant Dlara said I ought to be informed.”

“Why would
you
need to know that?”

“Well…if I need repairs, I can do them, or tell Grau…”

“Grau can’t take you to a proper shop?” Flower scoffed. “He can’t really afford you, can he? What will you do when your bones crack and your skin frays? That’s why you never show any of your precious skin, isn’t it?”

Anger briefly flared in Velsa’s heart, but mostly, she still just felt pity for Flower, who had so much attention but little else. Velsa could only see one of the girls she had grown up with, the fear in her eyes twisted to cruelty as more and more of those fears came true.

Flower snatched the book from Velsa’s hands and started running.

“Hey!” Velsa cried, her reverie of pity cut short. Grau was across the field; she couldn’t tell if he’d even heard her yell.

Velsa ran after Flower. More than anything, she was terrified that Flower would destroy the book and Velsa would never know what it said. It seemed unlikely that the book would be replaced.

Flower’s robe fluttered ahead. She ran faster than a Fanarlem should run. Velsa’s joints creaked; she felt the impact of her footsteps rattling up her whole frame.
This is what she wants; she’s hoping I’ll break.

Velsa stopped before the field was out of sight entirely, reluctant to move beyond where Grau could find her. “Please!” she cried.

Flower stopped too, just out of reach. They stood on the edge of the tenting grounds. A few of the rougher men who slept in the tents were milling around, and quickly gathering into an audience. She dangled the book over the nearest campfire.

“I don’t want to get in your way,” Velsa said. “I’d be your friend if you let me. I know you’re mistreated—”

Flower shoved the book into the fire, underneath a simmering pot of beans.

“Oh no…” Velsa ran forward. 

Flower laughed. She knew how carefully Velsa avoided the fire at night. Low flames lapped at the book’s cover.

Velsa grabbed the book and flung it on the ground, stomping on the spot where smoke trailed upward. She glanced at her hands, finding only a few smudges of ash. Her hands hadn’t gone up in a burst of flame like she’d feared.

Flower shoved her. 

Some of the men whooped with excitement. “There you go, Flower!” one of them said. “Somebody ought to show her who’s boss!”

Velsa stumbled, her boot hitting the charred logs on the fire’s edge. Flower kicked her other foot, knocking Velsa off balance. She hit the ground and Flower flew on top of her, holding her down.

Grau and Rawly were right—Fanarlem girls
were
heavy, at least, if you didn’t expect the weight. Flower’s hair tickled Velsa’s cheek. “Fanarlem don’t
read,
” Flower snarled in her ear. “It’s forbidden.”

“No, it isn’t! They taught me at my House and I’m sure they wouldn’t have if—”

One of the men picked the book up from the ground. “
Fanarlem Life
!” he said. “Who needs a book on that? Do what we say, that’s Fanarlem life.” Chuckling, he moved to drop it in the fire again.

Velsa lashed out, hardly knowing what she was doing. She had saved Fern once—the power was there if she could dig it out. This time, she felt a wisp of control—of her own bending will, shoving past the golden band. Heat flashed in her temples, and her eyes filled with stars.

The man clutched his head with a cry of surprise. The book fell, undamaged, back on the dirty ground. “What in curses? That little wench used magic on me!”

The gathered men murmured with concern.

“Grau taught her magic,” one of them said, and it seemed like a threat.

They didn’t seem to realize it was telepathy.

Velsa was on the brink of ruining everything for Grau as well as herself. 

Flower caught one of Velsa’s hands and shoved it into the smoldering ashes. The man Velsa had attacked eagerly joined her, grabbing Velsa’s other hand, pressing her skin against one of the flaming logs.

Velsa screamed. The stories she had once read, of wicked Fanarlem burning to death, had not lied about the pain. She didn’t want to show weakness but she couldn’t help the cry that broke from her lips. “Grau! Grau,
please,
help!” 

“Can’t handle a little pain?” Flower hissed. “I imagine not. Grau doesn’t discipline you at all.”

The man grabbed the back of Velsa’s collar and yanked her back from the fire. “If you want that pretty sorcerer of yours to keep you safe, you’d better not give us anything to complain about.”

“Please,” Velsa said. “Lieutenant Dlara told me I could read—that I
should
read, to make myself useful.”

“I think Dlara’s a Fanarlem-lover,” the man hissed. 

“I think someone needs to teach you a lesson,” Flower added.

“Velsa!” Grau’s shout was so loud it seemed to bounce off of the ground. “Let—her—
go
.”

The man threw Velsa to the ground and rose to challenge Grau. Grau’s sword was drawn, but he didn’t use the sword nor magic—he came straight in with a fist striking the man’s face. “Don’t touch her,” he snapped.

“Oh, not so soft for once?” the man said, rubbing his cheek. “Usually I think you’re wrapped around your whore’s finger. Did anyone ever tell you it’s supposed to be the other way around?”

“Velsa is mine.” Grau pointed his sword at the man’s neck. “I’ll treat her how I like and it isn’t your business. Some men don’t get their kicks from abusing women, and if that makes me soft, I’ll take it.”

“You can’t abuse a Fanarlem,” the man said. “That’s your problem, there—forgetting that she’s cursed.”

Grau bared his teeth; she knew he was unable to retort without admitting that he didn’t believe this.

“How about dropping the weapon and I’ll test you man to man?” his opponent suggested. “No swords, no magic, and no pot shots.”

Grau handed his sword to Velsa. It was almost too heavy for her to hold.

The other man, who was not wearing his uniform jacket but just the shirt beneath, rolled up his sleeves. Some of the gathered crowd started chanting, “Fight! Fight!” Flower’s fingers were laced, her expression excited. Velsa glanced at her own hands, damaged by the fire. Her skin was blackened, with a few puffs of stuffing poking out from charred fingers, but the pain had vanished the moment her hands no longer made contact with the heat.

Grau and the other man circled a few paces, their eyes locked on one another. The crowd kept edging back to give them more room. Half the camp must have been here by now. The smell of burning beans was in the air as the campfire was completely ignored.

Grau made the first move, lunging at his opponent—but as the other man drew back and lifted his arms to block, Grau darted back a step and then tried to surprise with a kick. The other man dodged this, too, and tried to take advantage of the moment Grau withdrew his leg, throwing a punch that Grau tried to evade. The fist knocked against his cheek, but not hard.

Velsa tried to remind herself of the Ten Thousand Man Sacrifice, and Grau’s magical blood. He couldn’t really be hurt. Still, she cringed back as the other man followed his punch with an uppercut, and this time he struck Grau in the jaw.

Grau quickly tilted his head back and forth, shaking off the pain, and lunged at his opponent, almost knocking him into the fire. Now they were on the ground and Grau had the upper hand, getting in a few good, fierce blows so the man’s nose and forehead were bleeding—but then the man shoved him off. They rolled in the dirt. It was all happening so fast now, and turning into a wrestling match.

“What in curses is going
on
here?”

Lieutenant Dlara had arrived on the scene.

“Sorcerer Thanneau!” Lieutenant Dlara snapped.

Grau got to his feet, snatching up the hat that had fallen off his head and brushing dirt from his uniform. “Sir,” he said, but his tone was not apologetic.

The other man got to his feet more lazily, almost grinning. “Lieutenant Dlara,” he said. “I guess I got carried away.”

The gathered crowd, which had been eagerly chanting moments ago, were now attempting to look concerned and confused, like they had all just shown up that second.

“They burned Velsa’s hands,” Grau said, taking his sword back. He tried to put a hand on Velsa’s shoulder, but before she would let him, she took the opportunity to pick her book up out of the dirt and clutch it close.

“Velsa should not be reading that book,” Flower said, drawing herself up like a noble lady. “She shouldn’t know how to read at all.”

“I let her take it from the library,” Lieutenant Dlara said. “She’s just sitting around most of the time, so I wanted her to study information that may come in handy.”

“I was always taught that reading leads to willful thoughts,” Flower said, “and it seems to me that Velsa has enough of those already.”

“
Velsa
has willful thoughts? Who is arguing with an officer?” Dlara barked at her.

Flower dropped her eyes to the ground. “I am sorry, sir.”

“If I tell Velsa she may read, that’s the end of the matter,” Dlara said.

Another one of the officers approached, a man named Kellen who always welcomed Flower’s attentions at dinner.

“What’s going on?” he asked. “Is everything all right?”

Flower started to cry, lowering her head and turning her toes together a little so she seemed younger, more fragile. “I didn’t mean to upset you, Lieutenant Dlara, sir, it’s just that I can’t read and I was always told that Lord Jherin doesn’t approve of Fanarlem girls who can read. I thought it was sinful. I thought it was my duty to burn Velsa’s book because that’s what I’ve always been
told
. I didn’t know it belonged to the library.”