Page 48 of The Sorcerer's Alpha
Temur didn’t look up from his work. “King Aditya is in a precarious position. He relies on the loyalty of the sorcerers to maintain power. I don’t know how the situation has developed since I left, but when you were a boy, Aditya’s younger brother was very busy gathering supporters of his own.”
“He died,” Sycamore said. “Thrown from his horse.”
“So.” Temur looked up, finally, and met Sycamore’s gaze. “If your early promise did not, perhaps, come to full flower, then the other sorcerers are mollified. If you think your greatest skill is in protective magic, you’ll be content to stay in the palace and guard the king. If you see the king as your surrogate father, you’ll devote your life to him.”
Sycamore stared at him, appalled by the cynicism of the scenario Temur described. He couldn’t imagine that such a conspiracy existed in truth.
“I can see that you don’t believe me.” Temur set his embroidery aside on the bed. “There was a time when you hung on my every word.”
Bitterness soured Sycamore’s gut. It was true that he had once thought Temur knew everything, had the answer to every question, was the wisest man in any kingdom. But now he knew that all men were fools in one way or another, and Temur himself had taught Sycamore the lesson that no one, no matter how seemingly warm, could truly be relied on.
“Why are you telling me this now?” he asked. “What good will it do me to know?”
Temur’s mouth compressed as he looked down at his hands. “I hope to explain myself to you, I suppose, or to pass the blame to someone else, so that you won’t blame me.” He was quiet for a minute. “It pained me greatly to leave you. I never married, you know, and had no children of my own. But I did come to think of you as my son.”
Sycamore’s eyes burned. “You were always careful to say you would return to the Khentii someday. I have to admit that I dreamed you might take me with you.”
“I did think of it,” Temur said. “I wish now that I had.” He smiled at Sycamore, the expression tempered by the sorrow in his eyes. “But you grew into a good man without me. Who’s to say I would have done a better job?”
Sycamore looked down at his hands. “I’ve wondered why I brought us here. Why not back to Banuri, or—to Setsen, or over the sea? I speak the language, and I know something of your customs, but it’s more than that. Even after twenty years, and feeling certain you were dead, some part of me still believed we would find shelter here.”
“You weren’t mistaken,” Temur said, his voice gentle. “Dhanu, I’m sorry for the circumstances, but I’m not sorry that you’re here. Leaving you behind has been a great burden on my heart all these years. Praise the One God for bringing you to me so that I can see you’re well and happy.” He made a noise of amusement. “And married.”
Marut was too tender of a spot for Sycamore to tolerate anyone poking at it, even Temur. He began setting away the scrying materials—his own, this time, which had made no difference. “Please don’t tease me about that, Temur.”
“Forgive me.” Temur took up his embroidery again, making neat stitches in crimson thread. “I forget that you’re not my student anymore, to annoy as much as I please.”
Sycamore watched him push the needle through the fabric. His knuckles were swollen and his fingers bent, but his stitches were tight and sure. Sycamore said, “I know what I’m doing with him isn’t wise. But he’s the best part of me.” He groaned and rubbed at his eyes. “Don’t say anything.”
“I didn’t intend to,” Temur said. He drew the needle away, trailing its long tail of crimson.
“How do you even know all of that about King Aditya’s brother?” Sycamore asked after a minute of watching Temur embroider. “You always told me you spoke no Chedai.”
“I have two eyes in my head,” Temur said, and then grinned. “And truth be told, Ididlearn a bit of Chedai after so many years in the country.”
“I can’t say I’m surprised.” Sycamore rose to his feet. “I’ll check on the river today. No need for you to walk down there. Tell Sarangerel we’ll try scrying again the day after tomorrow. I don’t want to frustrate her by trying too often.”
“As you please,” Temur said.
Outside, the low clouds spoke to him of deer passing through the hills nearby. Sycamore walked to the river and crouched on the bank to listen to the ice. Nothing had changed since the day before, as nothing likely would for many weeks yet. He sank his awareness deep into the ground like a taproot. The hills in the Khentii were ancient and well-worn, and the earth here was placid and still, wrapped in its dreams.
Sycamore could make light in his hands. He could start a fire with a wish. What else could he do that he had never contemplated? What if Temur was right, and he could send himself and Marut back to Banuri in the time it took for his heart to throb one single beat?
He didn’t want to. He wanted this winter with Marut. He wanted to spend time with Temur. He wanted to teach Sarangerel to scry. The horses were happy roaming free with the Sarnoy herd. He could strive and struggle to bend the limits of his abilities; he could invent new magic from whole cloth and exert himself to work wonders he’d only encountered in old tales, and somehow send them back to Banuri. Or he could do nothing and return to Chedi in the spring by ordinary means. And in doing so, betray his king and country, who needed him now, not three months from now.
He walked west along the river, keeping close to the bank. The wind said snow would fall soon, and more than usual—another storm. His coat flapped around his shins as he walked. In the distance, a flash of blue caught his eye and resolved into Marut as he drew nearer: Marut and his horde of children, all of them squatting beneath a lone birch tree, its white trunk pocked here and there with black markings. Sycamore stopped to watch them, the children’s faces all turned toward Marut as he demonstrated some manner or snare or trap, his hands moving with exaggerated slowness as he tied a knot.
There was more at stake than the simple matter of Sycamore’s loyalty. Chedi was at war. He had duties to the king but also to every common person in the country, every tea farmer and fruit seller, every parent who loved their children. His own life was nothing when weighed against all those others.
He closed his eyes. The wind that blew across his cheeks also blew across Marut’s. He imagined himself transported there, to Marut’s side, through the small distance that separated them. He could be right there to lay his hand on Marut’s shoulder.
Nothing happened. He opened his eyes again. He was standing in the same spot, no closer to Marut than he had been before.
Did he need pain? Did he need blood? For all he knew, there had been some substance on the Skopoy arrow that served as a catalyst to rip them away from Chedi. He couldn’t harness his magic to serve his every whim, no matter what Temur thought.
He began to walk again, toward Marut and the children. His life was nothing, but it was still his life: his one life on this earth. And if Temur was right about King Aditya, Sycamore was going to sacrifice every potential joy for the sake of a man who saw him as a tool to deplete and discard.
Spring hadn’t come yet.