Page 55 of The Sorcerer's Alpha

“What do I care about Chedi,” Marut said fiercely, exuding guilt even as he spoke. He turned back to Sycamore and his eyes were heavy with resignation. “Sycamore—”

“I know how you feel.” Sycamore stepped toward him and put his arm around Marut’s waist, drawing him in, and Marut sighed and dropped his forehead to Sycamore’s shoulder.

“I know we can’t stay,” Marut said. “But…”

“I know,” Sycamore said. “We want the same things.” He held Marut close, filled with longing and loss, but most of all joy for the time he’d been given: the time they had now, every day that had passed, every day that remained before they made their way back to Banuri. He was grateful to have had Marut at all. He wasn’t sorry.

“We’ll leave at the thaw, then,” Marut said.

PARTIII

CHAPTER20

The ice of the Chono thinned from the center. As the first flowing water passed through that narrow channel and began to eat away at the remaining ice along the banks, the people of Twin Rams broke down their tents, packed their carts, and prepared for their long summer migration. Marut and Sycamore packed their saddlebags and their own small tent and retrieved their horses from the Sarnoy herd. They would be heading north, toward the mountains, and the Sarnoy were traveling south. The time had come to part ways.

They set off with little fanfare. Bayarmaa had hosted a feast the night before to mark the end of winter and honor their departure, and they had made their farewells then. Even so, Temur and Sarangerel came out to see them off, along with all of Marut’s students and their families. The weather was mild and the horses whisked their tails against early flies as Sycamore and Temur exchanged a few final sentiments, both of them weeping and pretending not to. Marut stroked Bunny’s nose as the horse snorted and flicked his ears. Bunny had enjoyed his winter of socializing and sloth, but now that his tack was on him again, he was impatient to be off.

At last, Sycamore turned away, wiping his face on the sleeve of his coat, and scrambled onto Rhododendron’s back. “Let’s go, then,” he said shortly. As they rode off, he didn’t look back.

Bayarmaa had given them detailed instructions. The nearest mountain pass was so high that snow would block it for at least another month. They would travel farther west to a lower pass and wait there if need be for the route to open. Crossing the mountains would be the most dangerous part of their journey. From there, they would wend their way northward through the Mountain Kingdoms, heading ever downward through the foothills of the Koramandi until they returned to Chedi at last. The journey would take them a month if all went well.

Sycamore was quiet for most of the morning. Marut could feel his sorrow and confusion and let him be. The sky overhead was the bright blue of a bird’s egg and decorated with high white clouds. The sun warmed Marut’s face and bare hands. By the time they stopped at midday to eat and rest the horses, Sycamore had shaken off his dark mood and peppered Marut with questions about where they would stop for the night and whether he thought the pass was likely to be clear when they arrived.

Spring came swiftly to the steppe. In Chedi, spring was a slow transition as the rains eased and then stopped and the sun dried the winter-damp hills. Here in the open grasslands, with no trees to block the sun’s attentions, the remaining snow melted as soon as the air warmed above freezing, and the first fragile shoots of new grass soon pushed from the ground. High overhead, so high they were merely white specks in the sky, geese flew south to their summering grounds.

Marut stopped early for the first few days to let the horses re-acclimate to long-distance travel, but after that they went quickly and without incident. Once they saw a group of Sarnoy in the distance with their carts and animals, but otherwise they encountered no one. Marut was reminded of the early days when Sycamore’s shoulder was still healing and the steppe seemed barren and empty of all life. He knew better now: it was full of life, singing above them and burrowing beneath their feet, growing and changing. He had come to love this country and would be sorry to leave it.

The Koramandi came into view a few days after they left Twin Rams, ragged on the horizon like an uneven white seam stitched into the air. The mountains seemed far more imposing than they did in Chedi, rising as they did directly from the flat plain before them. Sycamore pulled Rhododendron to a stop at the crest of the hill they had just ridden up and said, “We’re meant to go overthat?”

“The pass won’t be so high,” Marut said, somewhat doubtfully. “Didn’t Bayarmaa tell you the traders go over every year?”

“I suppose,” Sycamore said, still frowning.

“If the conditions are too poor, we’ll turn around and wait another week. I know you don’t want to delay, but you’ll be no use to Chedi at all if you die in a snowstorm.”

“Your encouraging words fill me with confidence,” Sycamore said, frowning at him so dramatically that Marut had to laugh.

Marut was pleased to be out in the wilderness with Sycamore again, the two of them alone with the horses and their tent and no one to notice what they did or care. The nights grew warmer as the season turned, but even so Marut lit a fire every evening and was glad to have its warmth as he and Sycamore sat together and made idle conversation, the things people talked about when there was nothing new to talk about.

On one of those nights, as they ate a bird Marut had trapped that morning, roasted hot and dripping over the fire, Marut said, “I’d like to ask you something, if you don’t mind.”

Sycamore raised his eyebrows. “Alarming, but go on.”

“You offered—before Twin Rams.” Before they bonded, which was how Marut had already come to divide the course of his life. Before he bonded with Sycamore, and after. “You said you could try to look into the past and see my parents.”

“Yes. I didn’t think you remembered.” Sycamore tore a strip of meat from the bird’s tiny bones. “You’ve changed your mind?”

Marut chewed slowly. He had, but he didn’t quite know why, and he hoped Sycamore wouldn’t ask for an explanation. “Does it take a great effort for you?”

“No. Scrying is one of my talents. I’ll need some blood from you and some hair. Not much of either.”

Marut nodded. “All right. If you’re willing to try.”

Sycamore set out a copper bowl and filled it with water. He took Marut’s knife and cut a lock of hair from the back of his head, and sprinkled that in the bowl along with a generous pinch of ashes. Then Marut used the knife to slice into his own thumb, a bright wedge of pain splitting the pad of his finger. At Sycamore’s direction, he squeezed several drops of blood in a circular pattern over the bowl. Each drop bloomed scarlet as it hit the water.

“Good,” Sycamore said. He cupped the bowl in his hands and turned his gaze toward the water. The hair and ash began to swirl around. The blood turned the water a deep, rich crimson. A chill started at the back of Marut’s neck and crept over his scalp. He wasn’t sure if he was reacting to the workings of Sycamore’s power or merely to the unsettling thought of what he might be about to learn.

The water gave a shiver and went still, suddenly clear as a mountain lake. Marut could see nothing in the bowl, but Sycamore drew in a sharp breath and leaned forward slightly, intent on whatever vision had appeared. Marut’s stomach rolled in a sour heave. He shouldn’t have asked for this.