Page 53 of The Sorcerer's Alpha

“Surely we’ll—surely the king will understand. We can stay together.”

Temur looked at him in alarm. “They would separate you? A bonded pair?”

Sycamore rubbed at his face. “I don’t know for sure. A few years after you left, one of the older sorcerers fell in love with a woman from the city. They had a child together. Somehow it was discovered, and she and the baby were sent away to live in a temple near the coast. I don’t believe he ever saw her again.”

The scandal had been all anyone talked about for weeks. At the time, Sycamore had thought the judgment passed down by the sorcerers’ council was reasonable and wise. Of course Walnut couldn’t perform his duties effectively if he was constantly distracted by the demands of a family. The woman and child would be well cared for in the temple. Walnut should have known better.

But Sycamore was older now. He understood what loneliness was; how long it could last, how it expanded over time. He remembered how diminished Walnut had seemed in the aftermath, silent and thin, a ghost haunting the library and the courtyards. He had died of a fever a few years later and everyone had agreed that was for the best.

King Aditya could have stopped it. He knew what the council decreed. He never hesitated to direct the sorcerers’ affairs when it suited him.

Temur took a long sip from his cup of water, then another. He rolled the liquid in his mouth before he swallowed. “You would both be welcome to stay here, you know. For all anyone in Chedi knows, you died along with the rest of Marut’s team.”

“Thank you,” Sycamore said. “But we can’t.”

“What does your husband think about this?” Temur asked.

Sycamore didn’t reply. He could feel Marut in a spot right in the middle of his chest, a warm heaviness anchoring his heart. He could sense Marut’s emotions only dimly at this distance, but he thought Marut had found the horses.

Marut would be happy here, in this wild, open country. He had many skills the Sarnoy valued; they would be patient with him while he learned their language and their customs. But he, too, was loyal to Chedi. He would understand why Sycamore needed to go home.

“Is Sarangerel coming?” Sycamore asked.

Temur sighed. “Yes. She ought to be here soon.” He shifted forward on the bench. “Help me up. I see we’re finished talking about this matter.”

“Temur,” Sycamore said, and waited for Temur to turn and look at him. “I appreciate that you care about my happiness. But I’m not a child any longer. You need to respect my decisions.”

“I know. Forgive me.” Temur sighed again. “It’s a hard habit to break, worrying about what’s best for you.”

“I must think first about what’s best for Chedi,” Sycamore said, and Temur nodded and said nothing more.

When Sarangerel arrived, breathless and full of some story about a dog chasing a sheep, Sycamore walked with her down to the river. He carried his scrying supplies and a heavy fur taken from Temur’s bed, with much loud complaining from Temur that had made Sarangerel cover her mouth and giggle. Let him complain: Sycamore was going to teach his apprentice to scry or die trying.

“I’m going to have you try using the river ice as a medium,” he explained to Sarangerel as they walked. “The river’s more a part of the earth than a bowlful of water is. You may find it easier.”

“I’m just no good at scrying,” Sarangerel said. She made a shrugging motion to pull her hands up into the sleeves of her coat. “Maybe I can’t learn.”

“Maybe not, but let’s try this before we give up.” Sycamore glanced at her. “If it’s true you can’t learn, that’s not a bad thing, you know. I’m sure Temur has told you this, too. You don’t need to scry to be a good wizard.”

“I know that.” She wrinkled her nose. “But I’d still like to be able to.”

The thickness of the ice was unchanged from the last time Sycamore had checked it, the day before his heat. He and Sarangerel walked out to the middle of the river, which wasn’t a very great distance from the banks—it wasn’t a large river—but still enough to make Sycamore uneasy. He had never seen a frozen body of water before coming to the Khentii. When he shared this thought with Sarangerel, she gave him a baffled look and said, “Do you not have winter in Chedi?”

Sycamore grinned. “We do, but you would hardly think of it as winter. It rains a lot, mainly.” He shook out the fur and laid it on the ice so they would have somewhere warm to sit. After a moment’s consideration, he bent to brush snow from the surface of the ice, then paused. He stripped off one glove and pressed his bare hand to the snow, pressing downward until he felt solid ice underneath. He sent a dream of warmth into the snow, and all around him, spreading outward in a flawless circle, the snow melted away to expose bare ice.

“Wow,” Sarangerel said, but Sycamore hardly heard her. He had melted away the top layer of the ice, too, and what remained was clear as glass, revealing the dark water beneath. He hadn’t known he could do such a thing.

“Well,” he said. “Let’s begin.”

He first had Sarangerel sit with her bare hands on the ice for as long as she could bear, listening to its thoughts and learning how it was made. When she was too cold to continue, he mentally mapped out a bowl-shaped circle of ice and sprinkled it with ash and lapis.

“Who should I look for?” she asked, leaning forward to peer at the ice.

“Try your nephew,” Sycamore suggested. Sarangerel’s older sister had recently given birth to her first child and Sarangerel was smitten with the baby, who in Sycamore’s opinion was only marginally above average as far as infants went. But there was no accounting for taste.

Sarangerel closed her eyes and focused. Nothing happened.

“Reach for him,” Sycamore said. “Send your thoughts toward him. You’d be glad to see him now, wouldn’t you? What do you think he’s doing right now?”