Page 39 of The Sorcerer's Alpha
Marut turned the hare again. “What does that mean?”
“I can look into your past and see what you experienced. It doesn’t always work. But I’m happy to try if you’d like me to.”
Marut considered it. He had never imagined such a thing. He wasn’t so wary of Sycamore’s magic anymore, but it seemed unnatural to go prying around in history like that, as if the passage of time were only an inconvenient curtain that had been drawn across a doorway and could be pushed aside at leisure.
“No,” he decided. “It’s better to leave all that alone. No need to dredge it up.”
“The past is lost to us, and yet with us all the time,” Sycamore said. “We drag the years along after us like a fishing net being towed through the water.”
“I didn’t know you wrote poetry,” Marut said, entirely in earnest, but Sycamore laughed and rolled his eyes and said, “Yes, all right, give me some of that food which smells delicious and thoroughly cooked by now.”
The landscape changed and changed again as they rode north and days turned into weeks. The days were short and the nights were long and cold, and he was pleased to linger in the bedding in the morning and make love to Sycamore in daylight. Sycamore was always willing, always eager, and every day Marut thought only of how long it would be until he could have Sycamore beneath the blankets once more. He was lost in a dream: the happiest dream of his life, with Sycamore smiling at him from across the fire every night, and telling him small tales to pass the time, anecdotes about people Marut had never met.
They came upon a range of hills larger than any others they had seen in the steppe and forested with pines and larches. Small, shy deer minced through the thick layer of fallen needles that blanketed the ground, and birds darted through the heavy boughs overhead. More than a day of riding took them through those hills and out to the steppe again, but here the land was more hilly and forested, and with fewer reindeer but abundant herds of roe deer and gazelles. Marut killed a deer with no assistance from Sycamore, and they stopped and camped there for a day to give Marut time to clean and skin the carcass and to rest the horses.
Sycamore had proven to be squeamish and went off to gather firewood while Marut dealt with the deer. He came back with his arms full of branches and said, “I think it’s going to snow.”
Marut glanced up at the sky overhead, blue and bright. “Oh?”
“The wind’s singing of it. Chimeg told me storms can blow across the steppe without much warning.”
Marut wasn’t willing to gamble on him being wrong. He set his knife aside and wiped his hands on a rag. “Is there somewhere better to set up the tent?”
“Not that I’ve seen. The trees will cut the wind some, I suppose.” Sycamore sighed and crouched to lay the wood on the ground beside their fire ring. “We have water and food. We’ll be warm enough with our furs. The horses will do fine.”
Marut raised his eyebrows. “But?”
Sycamore shook his head. “You might as well finish with the deer. I’ll gather some fodder for the horses while there’s time.” He turned and walked off before Marut could reply.
Marut finished cleaning the deer with a guilty conscience. It was true that he was in no particular hurry to get to Twin Rams. He liked having Sycamore all to himself, and he didn’t share Sycamore’s urgency about his heat. With their immediate material needs attended to, he would welcome the storm as a chance to spend a few days sequestered in their tent with Sycamore in his arms.
The wind changed as he buried the deer’s entrails. Clouds blew up to cover the sun. The horses grew restless, lifting their heads again and again and flicking their tails. Marut went to tether and blanket them, and spent a few minutes speaking to them until they settled. The light was fading by then, and when Sycamore came back dragging a huge branch covered in winter berries, Marut said, “We might as well go in for the night.”
The storm hit in the middle of the night and raged for three days. Marut worried about the horses, but every time he staggered through the blowing snow to check on them, they were warm and well. He slept, made love to Sycamore, and finished his carving for Chandran’s niece, finally feeling that he was able. Sycamore fretted and spent much of his time glaring at the roof of the tent as if he could somehow stop the storm through sheer force of will.
“We have time,” Marut said on the second day. “Don’t we? Before your heat.”
Sycamore turned to look at him. “Yes. Some time.”
Marut tried to swallow down the words, but they spilled out of his mouth before he could stop them: his private dream that became more compelling with each day that passed. “We could stay here, you know. This is a good place. Wait out the winter here and travel to Chedi when the snow melts.”
Sycamore drew in a deep breath and let it out. “It isn’t wise, Marut.” But he reached for Marut beneath the blankets and held him for a while. Outside, the wind buffeted their tent with steady blows.
They were off again as soon as the storm ended. Another few days of riding brought them to a broad river that cut an icy swathe across the steppe from west to east. Marut and Sycamore stopped at the top of a low rise to consider its snow-covered length.
“This must be the Chono,” Sycamore said, although he frowned at the river in a manner that conveyed less than absolute certainty.
“We passed the cairn on the top of the ridge, and the broken cliff face with the tree growing from it. And we’ve headed due north from there as Tsetseg said. I don’t think we’ve made a false turn.”
“Then which way is downstream?”
“To the east,” Marut said doubtfully. How could they know? The river’s origin was a mystery, and with the water frozen, he didn’t know how to tell which direction it flowed. Rivers didn’t freeze in Chedi; he had no knowledge that would help him here.
“She did say north and to the east. That seems most likely then, doesn’t it? Well, let me look and see if there are any villages nearby. That will help us decide.”
Marut checked the horses’ hooves and ate some cheese while Sycamore sat on one of the furs with his eyes closed and let the earth talk to him, pressing one palm to the ground for a while before switching to the other. Marut had asked him once why he switched hands and Sycamore had given him a blank look before explaining that he switched when his hand had grown too cold and numb to bear. Marut had felt rather foolish then for assuming there was some mystical reason.
Sycamore searched for a good long while, longer than Marut had come to expect he would need. When he finally opened his eyes, he was frowning. “There are too many villages nearby. One to the east, two to the west along the river. Tsetseg didn’t make it sound like there would be so many.”