Page 68 of The Sorcerer's Alpha

Something in Aditya’s expression flickered. “I must think first of the kingdom,” he said quietly. “I would gladly send a battalion off with you this very day. I have no battalion in Banuri, but you’re correct that it’s a matter of some urgency that Sycamore be retrieved.” He rubbed at his face again. “I need to write a letter.”

Marut knelt there on the floor as the king applied brush to paper at considerable length. He didn’t think the king would take offense if he stood—Aditya seemed too pragmatic for that—but he didn’t want to risk doing anything that might make Aditya decide Sycamore was more trouble than he was worth. Sycamore was entirely trouble, and he was worth everything.

“The general is off at White Valley,” Aditya said without looking up from his writing. “Whoever he’s left in charge won’t want to give you any troops, but if that’s so he ought to have been more careful not to lose my sorcerer. There.” He blew on the paper to dry the ink, then folded the letter and sealed it with melted wax. “Ride to Beas as quickly as you can and give this message to the officer. I’m seconding you to his command.”

Marut tucked the letter inside his tunic. “My king.”

CHAPTER25

The Skopoy held him in a windowless room on the second story of the building, away from the earth and any wind from which he might draw inspiration. The walls and floors were made of wood and mud, inert and lifeless, and he didn’t have the talent to absorb power from the still air around him. He had never been empty of magic for this long and was unnerved by how helpless he felt.

He had been blindfolded for the last part of the journey and didn’t know for sure where he was. They had crossed out of the badlands into Skopa at dawn, and from there ridden only another hour or so before arriving at the town or small fort where he was being held. Sycamore’s ancestors had come from Skopa many generations ago and the language he had spoken in childhood shared some words with Skopoy, but his efforts to eavesdrop on his captors as they rode had proved fruitless. He hadn’t caught more than a stray word here and there. Since his arrival, no one had provided him with any information about how long he would be held or whether he might be sent elsewhere. He assumed he would be ransomed back to Chedi eventually, and he would have absolutely nothing of value to share when he returned.

Someone came twice a day to give him food and water, never the same person twice in a row. Every few days, he was provided water and rags to bathe. His bed was comfortable. His room was warm enough and dry, and light seeped through the walls and ceiling to give him some sense of the passing of time. No one could say his captors were mistreating him, except by the second day he was going mad with boredom. At least if he had a window he could watch the comings and goings outside that he could dimly hear through the walls. Instead he had nothing to do but lie on his bed and stare at the ceiling.

He slept as much as he could, and did exercises on the floor when he couldn’t sleep any longer. He spent most of an afternoon watching an ant crawl across the floorboards, searching for dropped crumbs. He thought of Marut a great deal. He wondered if Marut knew that he had been captured. A few days into his imprisonment, he began to sense Marut drawing nearer, but the only surprise there was that Marut hadn’t left Banuri sooner. Likely he had been assigned to a new patrol and was riding to the badlands in his capacity as a scout. It wasn’t wise to hope for anything more.

The days passed. Sycamore turned his attention inward, studying the workings of his body. His shoulder still bothered him and was often stiff in the mornings or after a long period of inactivity. For a first effort at healing, his work wasn’t bad, but when he spent some time studying the area he could see where the bone fragments were slightly misaligned and the surrounding soft tissue had developed scarring as a result. He could mend it, he thought, but that would have to wait until he could sit with the earth again.

He idly inspected the rest of his body, finding old scars and marveling at how his knee was put together. His left foot was minutely smaller than his right. And there at the core of him was a bright smudge of something, some tiny speck of—well, what was it? He focused his attention. A blot of something foreign, part of him and yet not, and then he understood what it was and opened his eyes in the darkness of his cell to stare into the black air pressing down on him from above.

* * *

Marut rodewest with as much haste as he could manage, riding from before dawn until after nightfall and pushing Bunny harder than he liked to. The bond told him that Sycamore was in no danger, or at least didn’t believe himself to be in any danger: that was his one consolation. Sycamore was being held somewhere in a small cell, away from all light and air, but Marut sensed no distress from him, only boredom. Sycamore had nothing to occupy his time, and as Marut well knew, he hated to be idle and would surely be chewing off his own leg in short order. But boredom wouldn’t kill him. He was unharmed, at least for now, and Marut would be grateful for that.

He traveled alone and slept on the ground beside his fire each night, and made good time. After he came into the badlands he lit no more fires and he wrapped cloth around Bunny’s hooves to muffle their sound. He encountered no Skopoy, though, and had no trouble of any kind all the way to Beas. The ancestors were watching over him.

His letter, when he delivered it to the camp’s commander, didn’t receive the enthusiastic reception he had hoped for despite the king’s warning. The man read it twice, then tossed the paper on his desk and rubbed at his eyes. “I have no men to spare for this.”

Marut remained standing at attention. He didn’t know what to say.

“Believe me, I’d be glad to have the wizard back and killing Skopoy for me. But we’re barely holding the mines as it is.” He shook his head. “If the king had provided additional troops for this task—but you’re only one man.”

Marut wasn’t sure if he was meant to apologize. He held his shoulders back and his head high.

The officer sighed heavily. “Is he far?”

“No. No more than half a day’s ride.”

“I can give you one scout patrol. But that’s all. The Skopoy have a small outpost at the nearest village to the border, and I would presume he’s being held there if you say he’s so close. Go due west until you find the road. If you get captured yourself, there won’t be any help coming.”

“Understood, sir,” Marut said.

The man nodded. “Wind Below go with you.”

It was mid-morning then. By noon, the patrol was assembled and ready to ride out. Marut had found Rhododendron in the camp’s stables and saddled her to go with them, on the off chance that their mission had success. Sycamore would be glad to see her, as Marut was.

“You’re ready, then?” asked the patrol’s lieutenant, a cheerful man named Nilay, which served as a painful reminder to Marut of his lost friends. “We’ve done some recon in the area, so we know the way, but give a shout if we start heading off target.”

Marut saluted and let the patrol ride ahead of him before following. How strange to be with other scouts again but not be one of them. He felt that he belonged nowhere. His only home was with Sycamore.

If the Skopoy killed Sycamore, Marut wouldn’t follow him. He would go on with his duties and wake each day to attend to whatever tasks he had before him. But it wouldn’t be a life.

Near sunset they came to the road the commander had described and turned off into the woods to follow that route without being detected. The landscape was much like the one Marut had ridden through on the far side of the badlands in Chedi, hilly and green. Weary farmers walking beside ox carts passed by on the road, but none looked over to wonder what moved so silently through the trees.

In the last light, Nilay made a hand sign to call for a halt. They turned deeper into the trees and made camp there. Marut didn’t need to ask for instructions because the actions were as familiar to him as mounting a horse. He tended to Bunny, ate a cold meal of flatbread and pickles, and rolled himself in his blankets to sleep. There would be no fires tonight.

Sycamore, he called through the bond. Sycamore! We’re here for you. Be ready.