Page 16 of The Sorcerer's Alpha

Cold fear twisted through Sycamore’s gut. Surely no alpha could track him by scent. Not across such a distance.

He had been surprised when the king told him he was to be sent out to the front lines. Sorcerers aided the kingdom in many ways: working the weather, encouraging crops to grow, serving as the king’s eyes and ears in far-flung corners of the country. Chestnut and Maple had been stationed in Bhilamala for more than a year now, fending off attacks from the Tihasoy. But they were safe in the walled keep of the city, not traveling exposed through the wildlands. Sycamore had to wonder what about the situation in the badlands was so critical that Aditya had decided to risk losing his talents. Because he could see that they would be lost, either to capture by the Skopoy or to his death.

Marut stopped at a runnel flowing with rainwater to let the horses drink. As they sat in their saddles, dripping and chilled, Sycamore said, “The Skopoy are after us.”

Marut sucked air through his teeth. “Are they?”

“One of them is an alpha. But changed in some way. I fear he can smell me.”

“All right.” Marut patted his horse’s neck. He was quiet for a minute, then said, “I know how to evade ordinary men, and I know how to keep us alive in the wilderness. I don’t know what to do about magic.”

Sycamore’s body felt hollow like a dry well. So many people had died to protect him, and all in vain.

“You should do it now,” he said. “They won’t bother tracking you.”

Marut glanced at him. “Do what?”

“Kill me. I’m sure you were told not to let me fall into enemy hands.”

Marut said nothing. He nudged at his horse’s sides to get him moving again.

Rhododendron raised her head from the runnel and followed. “Did you hear me?” Sycamore asked, piqued by Marut ignoring him.

“I heard you,” Marut said, and nothing further.

The rain fell. They rode without stopping. Sycamore chewed some dried meat in a failed effort to stop his stomach’s complaining. When Aditya had first given him this assignment, he had thought it would be inconvenient and unpleasant but also a thrilling adventure. Well, he’d had enough of adventure now, and if he ever returned to his warm, quiet rooms in the palace, he would be content to do all of his adventuring through reading travelogues, and would never again leave Banuri.

The sky darkened as night approached. Sycamore’s cloak was soaked through after so many hours of pouring rain. He shivered steadily, unable to warm himself. He was dry and warm only where his body rested against Rhododendron. Marut glanced at him again and again, but said nothing until he finally said, “We need a fire.”

“Find a good place for it, and I’ll do what I can,” Sycamore said. “But the smell, the smoke—”

Marut’s mouth quirked. “A small fire.”

“All right,” Sycamore said. As he fully expected to die here in the badlands, he might as well be warm one last time.

Marut found a shallow rock shelter carved out beneath an overhang, offering some protection from the rain and a ceiling to help contain the smoke. The overcast sky would lower visibility, and the rain would dissipate the scent. The conditions were about as good as they could hope for. Sycamore spoke to the rain as Marut got the fire going, asking for news, and the rain said nothing was moving anywhere. The world was quiet as night fell. Whatever magic the Skopoy had, it wouldn’t let them risk their horses riding through a rainy night.

He helped Marut rub down the horses and give them water, and set the waterskins outside the overhang to fill with rainwater. Marut draped his cloak over his saddle and set it near the fire to dry, then turned his back to Sycamore and stripped off his clothes. Sycamore crouched to poke uselessly at the fire to give himself something to do that wasn’t staring at the bare, brown curve of Marut’s lower back.

“You should undress, too,” Marut said, joining Sycamore beside the fire. Mercifully, he had wrapped himself in a blanket. “You’ll warm up faster out of your wet clothes.”

“All right,” Sycamore said.

He didn’t try to see if Marut watched him undress. What did it matter? He could smell Marut’s body and his own, ripe with scent after so many days without bathing. They both knew they had left all propriety behind and there was nothing to do but brazen through the situation.

He wrapped himself in a blanket of his own and crouched beside Marut at the fire. Marut was cooking something in a small pot—lentils, Sycamore saw, simmering along with dried meat. His stomach let out a profound gurgle.

Marut slid his gaze sideways toward Sycamore, his eyes creasing at the corners. “Don’t expect too much. I don’t have any spices. Or salt.”

“I would eat dirt right now,” Sycamore said. “Including the worms.”

Marut’s eyes creased more deeply. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Sycamore forced himself to eat slowly, taking his time to chew and swallow each bite instead of bolting it all down in a rush the way he wanted to. Despite being entirely flavorless, the lentils were the best meal he had ever eaten. He could have cleaned the pot by himself, but instead he ate exactly half before passing the remainder to Marut.

The rain drummed on the rocks outside their shelter. Behind them, the horses had lain down to sleep. Sycamore could almost pretend they were still on their journey out of Banuri, that no one had died and that they were all safe.

“We should sleep,” Marut said.