Page 35 of The Sorcerer's Alpha

Marut shifted his weight forward and wrapped his arms around his shins. “I see.”

“I didn’t even consider he might still be alive. He seemed so old even when I knew him. But she said he was alive at least as of last winter.” Sycamore rapidly shook his head back and forth, trying to shake off the sense of disquiet that had settled over him at Tsetseg’s news and still lingered. “It’s hard for me to imagine.”

“Would you like to go visit him?”

Sycamore chewed his lip for a moment before he replied. What he said next would close certain doors. But it was the only thing to do—the only sensible choice. “I thought his people might take us in for the winter.”

“I see,” Marut said again, more slowly.

“I’ll go into heat again before too long, and it would be best if I were somewhere I could go into seclusion when that happens. And maybe we could get more aid from his people, even a guide through the mountains.”

Marut nodded and glanced aside. “That’s a treacherous crossing if it’s not high summer, and even then.”

“So I’ve heard.” Sycamore looked down at his feet, at the scuffed and dirt-caked tips of his boots. “I don’t know if he would be pleased to see me again.”

“Did you part on bad terms?”

“He left unexpectedly and wouldn’t tell me why. He told me one day that he was going back to the Khentii, and the next day he was gone. I was a child and was furious with him, and called him many awful, childish names. I don’t imagine he would hold that against me, but I also think that—” Sycamore stopped for a moment and thought of what he wanted to say, how much he wanted to reveal. “If there was affection between us, I think it was solely on my end.”

“We can do what you think is best,” Marut said. “It’s your choice.”

Sycamore’s stomach felt heavy, as if it was filled with a lump of lead. His choice was clear, but he took no pleasure in it.

Marut was watching him, his eyes on Sycamore’s face. His hair was beginning to curl around his ears as it grew out. He was more handsome than he had any right to be.

“I’ll say our farewells to the matriarch,” Sycamore said.

Tsetseg came out of her tent to see them off, along with at least half the inhabitants of the camp, who clearly regarded their Chedoy visitors as a curiosity. The horses had fed well on the Sarnoy fodder and seemed reluctant to leave their meal supply, but they came willingly enough when Marut whistled at them. The saddlebags bulged with cheese and dried meat. Marut rolled and tied the furs onto the horses’ backs. With their new clothing and these supplies, Sycamore no longer felt that they were riding on the razor’s edge of survival. He could take a breath at last.

“You’ll come across a village or two, I imagine, as you travel,” Tsetseg said, when Marut had finished fussing around with the horse’s tack. “Tell them you bartered well with Tsetseg of Spruce Ridge. Most camps don’t have wizards, so they’ll have work for you.”

“Thank you,” Sycamore said, well pleased by this information. He bowed to her, and to Chimeg, standing nearby. “Many blessings on you all.”

“And on you,” Tsetseg said, and the Sarnoy all stood outside the sheepfold and were still there when Sycamore turned, a long way across the steppe, to look back at the cluster of tents in the distance.

Clouds gathered as the afternoon passed, but the changing weather didn’t affect Sycamore’s spirits—nor Marut’s, judging from how he began, after a while, to whistle.

“You’re very cheerful for a man wearing a bright coat in a barren waste,” Sycamore said. “Aren’t you worried you’ll be an obvious target?”

“It’s a nice day,” Marut said placidly.

They stopped for the night as the sun began to kiss the horizon. There was no convenient range of hills or stand of pines to serve as a windbreak, only unalleviated steppe, but the wind was only a gentle breeze and Sycamore expected a calm night. Marut built a fire as Sycamore tended to the horses. They sat side by side on their saddles and ate their cheese, which Sycamore could already anticipate being heartily sick of within a few days.

“Northeast from here,” Marut said, half a question, as the sky darkened and the fire crackled.

Sycamore nodded. “Tsetseg told me it’s been a harsh winter, but we’ll be heading into more temperate country. I’m not sure how the Sarnoy define temperate. Easy riding, though, she said.”

“We’ll make good time, then.” Marut watched Sycamore closely. “In time for your next heat.”

“Ancestors willing,” Sycamore said, and Marut turned his attention back to his food.

When their meal was finished, and the night was too dark and cold to stay out any longer, Sycamore crawled into the tent while Marut stamped the fire out. He hesitated before lying down beneath the furs. His new coat was too warm to sleep in, but he was reluctant to undress when Marut would sleep beside him all night. He didn’t know how to navigate their interactions now, after feeling Marut’s knot swell in his hand.

Oh, Wind Below. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes and rubbed them hard, trying to drive out the memories. He had months to go of close quarters with this man.

The tent flap opened. The light of the moons behind the thin clouds was enough to show Marut’s face. His expression was surprised, then wary as he took in Sycamore kneeling on the bedding. “Is everything all right?”

“My coat,” Sycamore said, “I think—it won’t be good to sleep in.”