Page 45 of The Sorcerer's Alpha

Sycamore laughed. “I’ll leave you to fetch the water, then. I told Temur I’d walk to the river with him and check the ice.”

“Convenient,” Marut said, to make Sycamore roll his eyes.

Sycamore went off. Marut walked to Bayarmaa’s tent from their isolated spot at the edge of the village. The previous inhabitant, Sycamore had told him, died of old age in the spring, and the Sarnoy custom was to leave the tent erected for half a year for the spirit to say its final goodbyes. In autumn, when Twin Rams settled in one place for the winter, the tent had been set up out of the way so that the spirit would be encouraged to pass on. Now, the tent was considered vacant, but Marut was pleased to have the distance and privacy.

Sycamore had also told him that he had been conscripted to teach any interested village children the art of winter trapping, and that was where he went now, to collect his pupils from Bayarmaa. He had no strong opinion of this task. He couldn’t speak Sarnoy, but he had learned trapping when he first joined the scouts from a man who spoke so little that some of the trainees were convinced he lacked a tongue. And he liked children well enough.

A gaggle of small people awaited him outside Bayarmaa’s tent, gathered around her as she sat on a bench beside the door. She was telling a story, he guessed, judging from the way the children watched her with wide, rapt eyes as she spoke. She glanced up as Marut approached and nodded to him, and said something to the children, who all turned to stare.

There were four of them, fewer than Marut had feared. He raised his hand in awkward greeting. One of them uncertainly waved back.

The river plain wasn’t the best place for trapping game; if Marut were on his own, he wouldn’t bother. But the children didn’t need to actually catch anything yet, only learn how to set the snares. He led them down toward the riverbank, where a few leafless bushes spread their bare branches. There, squatting among the roots in the frozen mud, he showed them how to tie a few knots, and to make and set a simple bird snare. By the end of the afternoon, three of them had made snares on their own, and the fourth only needed Marut to point his finger a few times as a reminder.

As they hung their snares from the bushes to see what they might catch overnight, Sycamore came walking along the riverbank, the sinking sun glowing behind him. Marut’s chest constricted at Sycamore’s expression, warm with familiarity. Marut was always glad to see him.

Sycamore said a few sentences to the children in Sarnoy and then said to Marut, “Is there anything you’d like me to tell them?”

“Tell them they did well today,” Marut said. “And that I’m looking forward to teaching them again tomorrow.”

Sycamore spoke to the children again. They giggled and shoved at each other. One of them waved at him before they went running back to the village, shouting and jumping.

“You enjoyed yourself, I take it,” Sycamore said as they followed at a more sedate pace.

“They were eager to learn and paid good attention. Yes, I enjoyed it.”

Sycamore smiled at him. “I had a feeling you would.”

“Well, tell me what you did with Temur, then,” Marut said, and Sycamore told him of the thick, solid ice over the river, and the fish swimming in the still-running water deep below.

He slept that night pressed close to Sycamore in their narrow bed. When he woke in the morning, the sunlight pouring through the roof of the tent told him he had slept late. Sycamore was awake beside him, lying on his side with his head propped on one hand as he gazed down at Marut’s face.

“Have you been awake long?” Marut asked, reaching up to touch his cheek.

“Not long. I’m glad you slept.” Sycamore bent his head for a kiss, and Marut slid a hand into his hair, keeping him there, deepening the kiss, running his other hand down Sycamore’s side beneath the bedding, reveling in the softness and warmth of his skin.

He broke the kiss at last and drew back. “What do you think are the chances we’ll be interrupted?”

Sycamore quirked his eyebrows. “Who would interrupt us? Bayarmaa coming to set us some new task? I’m willing to take that risk.”

They lay curled together as they often did during sleep, chest to back. With the blankets pulled high to their shoulders, and turned facing the wall, anyone who did happen to open the door would likely think they were asleep in truth. By now, Marut knew what Sycamore liked and could shamelessly exploit his knowledge. He mouthed sucking kisses onto Sycamore’s neck and shoulders and played with Sycamore’s nipples until Sycamore was hard and shifting against him. That never took long, but Marut liked to keep going until Sycamore was wet and open and fully ready for him, until when he slipped his hand between Sycamore’s thighs he found nothing but slick, yielding heat.

“Stop delaying,” Sycamore muttered, reaching back to paw at Marut’s hip, and Marut tucked his smile against Sycamore’s neck as he finally pressed inside.

He moved inside Sycamore in the smallest possible thrusts, using his abdominal muscles to flex his hips and drive in deep. Sycamore gripped his forearm and didn’t make a sound, breathing in soft pants that filled Marut’s ears. The warm air beneath the blankets heated further until Marut’s underarms were damp with sweat. Nothing in all his years had felt as good as Sycamore opening around him, tight and soft.

Sycamore said his name, breathless now. Marut held him and let his longings crest over him in a great wave. For now, for as long as he could, he would pretend Sycamore was his.

CHAPTER17

Temur’s apprentice was named Sarangerel, related to Temur in some way Sycamore didn’t fully understand; Sarnoy ideas of kinship were only loosely about blood ties. Sycamore thought at first that she was a boy wearing girl’s clothing, then understood and felt quite foolish to have made such a mistake. She was a quiet and serious adolescent with round, red cheeks and her black hair worn in looped braids at her ears. She watched Sycamore in solemn silence during their first encounter, and during their second would only speak to him in one-word replies. Sycamore might have been offended were he not so intimately acquainted with Marut, whose seeming unfriendliness was in truth only shyness. When Sarangerel greeted him with a smile the third time he met her in Temur’s tent, he thought that he was right.

“I’d like you to teach her to scry,” Temur said on that third visit, as they sat by the stove drinking fermented milk. “That’s not Sarnai magic, and I learned a little but never managed to do much with it. But it would be useful for her to know.”

“I can try,” Sycamore said doubtfully. He remembered ancient Hemlock teaching him to scry, impatient to be burdened with such a rudimentary task when most sorcerers mastered the art long before they came to the capital. He could surely do as well as Hemlock had, and with less disgruntlement.

The orange cat sat on Sarangerel’s lap, watching with interest as Sycamore set out the scrying materials Temur had supplied, a hammered copper bowl much like Sycamore’s own along with assorted catalyst powders: ashes, Sycamore’s preferred lapis, ground topaz and amethyst. Everyone had different preferences, so they would learn through trial and error what Sarangerel liked best.

“Do you have—I don’t know the word. Do you work well with water?” Sycamore asked her.