Page 61 of The Sorcerer's Alpha

He had taken the back stairways to his rooms and seen no one. He walked now through the main corridors to the king’s official chambers where he conducted his daily business. He passed Hawthorn and Alder, walking deep in conversation with their heads bent toward each other, and neither of them so much as looked in his direction. He didn’t think he looked so different, but dressed as he was and with his beard, he was invisible to them.

He was prepared, then, when he approached the guards standing at the doors to the king’s chambers. Before they could open their mouths to embarrass themselves by questioning him, he said, “The Sorcerer Sycamore reporting to the king with urgent news relating to the war with Skopa.”

Both guards’ eyes widened. “Right away, my lord,” one said.

King Aditya was alone in his study, seated at his desk as he pored over a stack of papers. The daylight was fading and the east-facing room had grown dim. Aditya looked up as the guard escorted Sycamore in, and although his expression didn’t change, he immediately set aside his papers and rose from his seat.

“Sycamore,” he said.

Sycamore bowed deeply. “Your Majesty.”

Aditya gestured a dismissal at the guard. “Please sit. Let me light the lamps. When did you return? I’ve heard nothing.”

Sycamore sat in one of the high-backed wooden chairs by the window. “Only today. No one recognized me with the beard.”

“Indeed. Well.” Aditya was quiet for a minute as he went around the room lighting the lamps. He moved stiffly; he was an old man and growing older. In Sycamore’s youth, Aditya had seemed as tall and broad-shouldered as an ancient warrior, and Sycamore had thought he was invincible and immortal. But all men aged and died, even kings.

At last, Aditya joined Sycamore by the window. “Tell me what’s come to pass.”

He listened in silence, stroking his beard, as Sycamore told the tale: the flight from White Valley, his injury, their various encounters with the Sarnoy, the mountain crossing. When Sycamore was finished, he folded his arms across his chest and said, “You’ve had quite an adventure.”

“Yes,” Sycamore said.

“I’ll thank the ancestors for your safe return. We’ve needed you here, these past months.”

His tone was mild, but Sycamore shifted in his chair at the implied rebuke in his words. “We came as soon as we could. The mountains—”

“I know what the passes are like in winter.” Aditya gazed through the window, looking out at the courtyard garden below, riotous with spring. “I thought transportation was lost magic. Chestnut has been trying for years with no success.”

Sycamore kept his shoulders relaxed. He didn’t clench his jaw or grip his hands together. He hadn’t told Aditya of how he whisked them away from the blizzard or of the inadvertent trip to his native village, telling himself he was skipping those parts for the sake of brevity. Nor did his tongue loosen now.

“I spent the winter trying to master the trick,” he said. “With no success.”

That much was true. He was, strictly, telling his king the truth.

“Ah, well. It’s often surprising what one is capable of in a crisis.” Aditya smiled at Sycamore, the warm, approving smile that Sycamore had spent much of his life trying to earn. “It’s good to have you back. I feared you were lost to me.”

“I’m glad to be back,” Sycamore’s mouth said.

“Rest up for a few days. I’m sure you’re weary from your adventure. But then I’m afraid I need to ask more from you on behalf of your kingdom.”

Sycamore didn’t move. “I’m your servant, Your Majesty.”

“I need to send you back to the badlands. The Skopoy constructs, you understand, are an ongoing problem. One was captured at Beas, and Willow and many soldiers were killed when it escaped.”

Sycamore had no fondness for Willow but was still sorry to hear of his death, and not eager to join him. “Willow confirmed that they’re earthen constructs?”

“Yes. He said his combat magic had no effect on them. So you see why I need you. None of the other sorcerers has your same affinity for earth magic.”

Back to the badlands, then: back to the beginning. How many times would he loop through this same sequence of events? He had no objections as long as Marut could come, too.

“My heat is due soon,” he said. “Within the next few days.”

“After your confinement, then.” Aditya sighed. “There has been no progress with the war, you see. It’s a wonder we held the mines through the winter. The Skopoy don’t relent.”

“Then neither shall we.” Sycamore looked at the king’s down-turned eyes, his lined and wrinkled face. He told himself to hold his tongue, and then told himself again, more sternly, and then said, “I’ll need an escort to the badlands, I imagine.”

“Of course. You won’t be sent off without protection.”