Page 49 of The Sorcerer's Alpha

Marut glanced over and saw him as he approached, and lifted his arm in a wave, his face brightening with a smile. Sycamore waved back.

CHAPTER18

Marut noticed the first subtle change in Sycamore’s scent two days before Sycamore said anything to him about it, and wondered whether Sycamorewouldsay anything about it, or if he would simply announce at some point that he was going into confinement and leave Marut to his own devices for a few days. But on the third morning, Sycamore looked at him from across the table as they ate breakfast and said, “I’m sure you’ve noticed that my heat is coming.”

“Yes,” Marut said.

“Well,” Sycamore said. He took a sip of his mare’s milk. “Let’s go for a walk when we’re done eating.”

A spell of bitter cold and storms had ended the day before, and the steady swishing noise of people sweeping snow from their tent roofs accompanied them as they walked through the village. Marut exchanged a greeting with the mother of one of his students as she passed by with a baby on her hip, and looked at Sycamore when she was gone to find Sycamore smiling at him.

“Who taught you to say that?” Sycamore asked. “Your pronunciation is good.”

“The children,” Marut said. “They like to teach me.”

“Charming,” Sycamore said. “I feared it would be.”

The livestock had trodden down the snow around the encampment, but beyond that the drifts were deep enough in places that walking was more like wading. Sycamore had been spending a lot of time of late taking long walks across the steppe near the village, to the extent that Marut was somewhat concerned about him losing his way, and he feared they were in for a long trek now. He was relieved when Sycamore stopped near the herd of horses grazing in the snow not far from the village.

“So. Your heat,” Marut prompted, when Sycamore seemed disinclined to do anything other than squint at the horses.

Sycamore shrugged. “I’ll go into confinement tomorrow, I imagine. Or the day after.”

“All right.” Marut waited for Sycamore to say something further about this matter. When nothing came, he said, “I suppose I’ll need to find somewhere else to sleep for the duration.”

Sycamore’s mouth pinched into a tight knot. He folded his arms across his chest and stared into the distance just past Marut’s shoulder.

“Forgive me,” Marut said, not knowing how he had misstepped but regretting it nonetheless.

“You haven’t done anything wrong. It’s just that I’m…” Sycamore trailed off.

“I’ve upset you,” Marut said.

“No,” Sycamore said. His mouth worked for a moment. Then he said, all in a rush, “If we were Sarnoy, we could be married in truth. I would be kept very busy as the village hedge wizard, blessing tents and chasing stray sheep. You would turn every child into this village into an expert trapper.”

“You couldn’t want such a thing,” Marut said, aching with how much he wanted the life Sycamore described.

“Couldn’t I?” Sycamore’s gaze, when he turned it back toward Marut, was bright with fury. “I belong to Chedi. I can have nothing for myself. But I can want it anyway, just to torment myself, I suppose.”

“I could tend to the horses,” Marut said, his throat tight. “We could have children.”

Sycamore’s eyes went even brighter. “You would want that?”

“More than anything,” Marut said, and Sycamore made a pained noise and turned away, one hand held over his face. Marut stepped toward him and laid a tentative hand on Sycamore’s shoulder, praying that Sycamore wouldn’t shake him off, and throbbed with sweet and heavy sorrow as Sycamore permitted himself to be drawn into Marut’s arms.

“I need to go meet with Sarangerel,” Sycamore said after several minutes had passed, his face still pressed to Marut’s shoulder. His tone was calm as if he were discussing the weather. “She’ll be waiting for me by now.”

“All right,” Marut said. They turned then and walked back to the camp.

Marut spent the rest of the day swallowing around a lump of emotion lodged in his throat, even as he went around with the children to check the traps they had set the day before. He felt raw and uncertain after his conversation with Sycamore. He was a fool to daydream of things he knew were impossible, but he did dream of them, every morning as he woke up with Sycamore chatting idly about his plans for the day as they dressed and ate, every evening as they sat beside the stove and went to bed together. Little wonder his thoughts took the form they did.

When he returned to the tent that evening, carrying one of the partridges the children’s traps had yielded, Sycamore was seated on the bench outside the door, leaning back against the tent wall with his eyes closed as he sat bathed in the fading light. He turned his head at Marut’s approach without opening his eyes. Marut sat down beside him and touched his hair and his cheek, his blood making a slow, aching beat through his heart.

“What have you brought me?” Sycamore asked, and opened his eyes to smile at the partridge. “We’ll eat well tonight.”

“Yes,” Marut said.

“Stay with me for my heat,” Sycamore said. “I don’t want to be alone.”