Page 27 of The Sorcerer's Alpha

“Too many books,” Sycamore said. “The palace has an impressive library. I’ve spent many winters buried in the stacks.”

Marut was ragingly curious about Sycamore’s life in the palace, but he feared asking any questions that Sycamore might find invasive. He said, “What else do they eat? Surely something.”

“Berries, I would imagine. Can you imagine a life without bread?”

“No,” Marut said. “Or lentils.”

“Horrible,” Sycamore agreed. “My tutor made it sound like a nice life, though. Traveling all around during the summer months, then spending all winter swapping tales by the fire. I can’t say I would object.”

“Aside from the lack of bread,” Marut said, and Sycamore laughed softly.

The wizard went on in that vein for some time, meandering into a Sarnoy folktale his tutor had told him. Then he stopped, said he couldn’t remember the rest, and fell silent. Eventually, Marut realized he had fallen asleep.

The tent flapped as the storm blew outside, but Marut had driven the stakes in deep, and they held fast. He lay there listening to the wind howl. For the first time since leaving White Valley, he had no pressing concerns about his immediate survival. They had enough food and fuel, and there would be plenty of water after this snowfall. Neither of them had developed frostbite. The horses were doing well. He could relax somewhat, at least for the time being, with Sycamore peaceful beside him and the world outside still and hushed as it waited out the storm.

What he found there in the quiet was grief: the time and space he needed to grieve for his team, and for all the rest of his patrol. He had lost teammates before, more than once, and knew how to mourn, mainly by letting the passage of time do the mourning for him. But he had never lost his entire team in one swoop, and he hadn’t lost Jyoti, whom he had known for his whole life—all of his life that he remembered. He lay aching in his blankets, his chest constricted as if a heavy boulder were resting upon it. His eyes began to leak. He pressed his hands to them and wept silently, until his head throbbed and his nose felt swollen and raw. Mercifully, Sycamore didn’t move.

He crawled outside to piss and rub some snow on his face. The horses were dozing where he had tied them and didn’t react to his presence. Snow clung to the branches of the fir trees nearby. He didn’t expect much accumulation—the steppe was likely too arid for heavy snowfalls—but the wind blew the flakes around so much that visibility was abysmal. There was no chance of travel until Sycamore’s heat was done.

He went back into the tent. After being outside and smelling nothing but wind and cold air, Sycamore’s scent clobbered him over the head. Even if Sycamore hadn’t told him, there would be no mistaking it.

He could control himself. He had the willpower for it. He wasn’t new to desire.

He had cut a few lengths of wood and trimmed the bark with his hatchet, and he sat now with one, his legs covered with the blankets, and began a new carving. He turned the wood in his hands, trying to decide what shape it would best take. A bird, he decided. A goshawk.

Sycamore stirred as Marut scored the detailing into the wings with the point of his knife. He blinked up at Marut and said, “What are you making?”

“A bird of prey.” Marut showed him the small figure, suppressing his embarrassment. The wizard didn’t know that Marut had been thinking of him as he began to carve.

Sycamore drew a breath as though he meant to say something, then subsided without speaking. He closed his eyes again. Marut could tell he wasn’t sleeping, but left him to it without comment. It was just as well.

The day passed.

CHAPTER11

Marut woke in the darkness to the sound of Sycamore sighing.

Awareness surged through him. The scent of Sycamore’s heat was thick as fog in a valley on a winter morning. Marut reached for him without thinking, then stopped himself before making contact. Even if Sycamore begged, he should do nothing.

“Marut?” Sycamore asked quietly.

“I’m here,” Marut said. He could feel the warmth of Sycamore’s body beside his under the blankets, hot as the sun.

“I’m too warm,” Sycamore said, with a tremulous note of worry in his voice.

“Well. Take off some of your clothes.” Marut tried not to think of what that process would involve, or the inevitable result.

“My shoulder,” Sycamore said.

Yes. Of course. Marut stared into the darkness, wholly unrelieved by any light. He couldn’t see the peak of the tent above him, and when he turned his head, he couldn’t see Sycamore beside him. The wind still wailed outside. It was easy to think that nothing they did in this black, closed space mattered, but they wouldn’t be lost on the steppe forever, and the consequences of what they did here would follow them all the way back to Banuri.

“Sit up,” he said. “I’ll help you.”

Sycamore had already removed his coat, leaving Marut only his tunic and shirt to contend with. He could see absolutely nothing and had to fumble in the darkness until he found the fastening at Sycamore’s throat. His fingertips brushed the skin of Sycamore’s neck, smooth and warm. Sycamore made a choked noise and Marut winced and said, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t,” Sycamore said, voice tight. He was holding onto his control, Marut was sure, with a grip of iron.

Marut unfastened the tunic and carefully drew it down Sycamore’s bad arm, and then left Sycamore to strip it from the other. Beneath, his wool shirt was damp with sweat and smelled so powerfully of him that Marut’s head swam. Concealed by the darkness, he bent his head toward Sycamore’s neck and drew in a deep breath.