Page 56 of The Sorcerer's Alpha

“Sycamore,” he said, meaning to put a stop to Sycamore’s searching, but Sycamore raised a hand to forestall him. Marut wrapped his arms around his shins and looked away from the bowl, staring instead into the fire. If Sycamore saw something awful, surely he would keep it to himself.

Sycamore was silent for several minutes and motionless aside from his eyes darting back and forth as he examined whatever he saw in the water. Marut could read nothing from him; he had a disciplined mind and was good at keeping his emotions closed off, which Marut normally found restful and now found maddening. At last, Sycamore reached forward to tap his fingers on the surface of the water, sending ripples spreading, and upended the bowl to drain the water out onto the earth.

“Tell me,” Marut said, afraid to know but also desperate to know everything, to satisfy, in any small way, a lifetime’s curiosity.

“I couldn’t see your father at all,” Sycamore said. “There was nothing there.” Then he smiled at Marut, his warm, generous smile that always made Marut’s heart leap in his chest. “But I saw your mother holding you when you were a baby. Very small, still wrapped in swaddling cloths. She was rocking you in her arms and kissing your face, and singing a song to you.”

“What song,” Marut said, a barren, thirsty part of him eager to soak up every one of Sycamore’s words.

“It’s the one about—do you know it?” Sycamore whistled a few notes, then sang, “I went out walking, and saw my true love, out in the garden—”

“Beneath the willow tree,” Marut finished. “Yes, I know it.” He had never heard Sycamore sing. He was horribly off key, which Marut—predictably—found charming.

“You look very much like her,” Sycamore said. “The same nose. The same eyebrows.” He reached over to trace his fingertips over one of Marut’s eyebrows. “The same smile.”

For the first time in his life, Marut longed for magic of his own so that he could see what Sycamore had seen. “What else,” he said, helplessly greedy. “Was there anything else?”

Sycamore’s hand dropped to rest on Marut’s arm. “Yes, one other vision. You were somewhat older, sitting up on a bed with a wooden toy in your mouth. You mother was hanging laundry from the window, and every time she took something from the basket, she—” He mimed holding up a cloth to cover his face. “She hid her face from you. You were both laughing.”

“My mother,” Marut said quietly. He felt that he was about to weep, but no tears came to his eyes.

Sycamore was looking at him. He could surely sense Marut’s turmoil through the bond. “You were very fat. Adorable. I think your mother loved you very much.”

A great invisible fist closed around Marut’s heart. He moved his tongue against the roof of his mouth, hoping to dislodge some reply. “I should check on the horses,” he said, and rose to his feet before Sycamore could respond.

The horses were fine, dozing in the darkness beyond the fire. Marut left them be and looked out into the vast night, lit by one of the moons and by the endless stars overhead, shining their cold light down at the world without seeing it or caring what moved on its surface. The priests had taught him that each star was its own sun, which he had never quite believed. Staring up at the sky now, a powerful wave of vertigo came over him so that he had to close his eyes until it passed. The night sky was as deep as the ocean.

When he returned to the fire, somewhat sheepish about leaving so abruptly, Sycamore didn’t ask what was wrong and only gave him a small piece of cheese to finish eating. His undemanding silence eased Marut’s nerves. Sycamore wouldn’t expect him to share any thoughtful insights and wouldn’t probe him with endless queries about his emotional state. He had always accepted Marut exactly as he was.

“Thank you,” Marut said, after a few minutes of quiet, when he had calmed enough to manage some conversation.

Sycamore flooded the bond with sympathy and affection. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“You didn’t.” Marut sighed. “I’m glad to know. I’ve spent my whole life wondering. But I suppose I thought that I would—that it would change something. But it changes nothing. She still died. I’ll never know her.” He rubbed at his eyes. “I’m not making sense.”

“I think I understand. I’m sorry.” Sycamore reached over and squeezed Marut’s shoulder. “I never should have offered in the first place.”

“No, I’m glad you did. Truly. Thank you for looking.” He meant to say more, but couldn’t find the words. He was grateful to know that his mother had loved him, but he ached to imagine what his life might have been like if she had lived.

Well, who was to say it would have been better than the life he ended up with? Every turn in his path had brought him to Sycamore, whose love was present and real and filled Marut with sustaining joy. He couldn’t be sorry for any past grief when he held Sycamore etched so deeply in his heart.

Sycamore was his family now.

The thought scorched through him like a lightning strike, sizzling its way to the ground. He had lost his parents before he ever knew them; he had lost Jyoti and all the rest of his team; the children he had given Purya weren’t his. But Sycamore was his and would be forever. They were bonded now, and after they died they would meet again with the ancestors.

“What is it?” Sycamore asked, peering at him, sensing something of Marut’s emotions.

“I’m lucky to have you,” Marut said, which was a diversion but also true; but Sycamore accepted the explanation and leaned over to kiss him.

That night he dreamed of his mother but mostly of Sycamore, and in the morning he felt much the same as always. They rode north.

* * *

The landscape became increasinglyarid and barren as Marut and Sycamore rode into the foothills, with no trees anywhere in sight and the earth rocky and bald beneath the horse’s hooves. Marut couldn’t help thinking of the badlands and everything that had gone wrong there.

They followed Bayarmaa’s directions to a valley mouth marked by a pile of heaped rocks taller than Marut. From there, she had told them to ride up the valley and look for another cairn, where they would turn onto the trail that climbed to the pass. The way was narrow and winding, she had said, and the weather in the pass was unpredictable even in high summer.

Marut was not, all in all, looking forward to the experience.