Page 2 of Arrows

The morning dawned in shades of ice-thin color: low grey skies, dull gold grasses, washed-out hues. Even the oat-cakes and sausages seemed tired, frying in their pans. Van ate a bite, nodded hello to fellow bowmen and women in the archers’ division, and wondered how long this stalemate could last.

He also wondered what the magician was doing. Obviously open war hadn’t happened yet. But nobody’d gone home, either. The long spears were visible, stuck into the ground like a pointed warning, outside the Penthii camp across the plain. Lorre’s barrier fluttered and twinkled in non-existent wind, for all the world like a sparkle-dusted bridal veil.

A few more of the division had joined him and Milo, this morning; talk turned, as expected, to yesterday’s arrival and the advantages or disadvantages of magicians. Deceptively petite and pretty Claudette, who could string a longbow faster than any of them, said, “Yes, but what’s he actually done?”

“Well,” rumbled her tent-mate Thom, “nobody’s fighting, so there’s that…” Thom’s brother was over in the cavalry, as his father and grandfather had previously been: Averene as a unified kingdom had only existed for a few uneasy decades, and even now some of the baronies held out fiercely for independence. Thom’s family had seen some of those skirmishes with Valpres, and Van knew he had certain opinions about the worthy causes, or not, of said fighting.

“I thought magicians were supposed to wave their hands and change the world.”

“He did,” Van said. “Haven’t you noticed the shield?”

“Anyway,” Milo said, “it’s probably more complicated than that. A solution people can live with, after he leaves.”

Impressively mustachioed young Robert and his current lover Thayil strolled by, as usual embodying more commitment to fashion than actual archery practice; Van had heard, in the way of training-ground gossip, that they’d only volunteered because Robert’s father had wanted to impress the young Queen with family loyalty and talent. Van wasn’t certain that this was, in reality, working.

Robert paused at their small gathering to say, about Lorre, “And of course he’s going to leave; not as if magic’s reliable, is it?” and Thayil nodded.

“He’s here to help,” Van protested.

“Magicians.” Robert shuffled the moustaches. “Especially this one. Unnatural. Not human. Like the Church says.”

“He looks human,” Claudette said, sighing. “And pretty.”

“Does he look human, though?” Robert took the mug of tea right out of Thom’s hands and drank some. “Looking like that. Walking out of the air. He must be eighty years old, too. Unnatural, I said. Not right.”

“That isn’t fair,” Van said. If Lorre was in fact eighty years old, no one would ever guess: he looked perhaps twenty, a glorious spectacular twenty. “He can’t help being himself.”

Milo glanced at him.

“Maybe we shouldn’t trust him.” Robert handed back the tea. “He’s not one of us.”

“No,” Milo said slowly, country-farm accent warm over the words, “but Van’s right, he’s here to stop a war. And he can’t help how he’s made. And anyway if you think about it, he can’t be unnatural; if you believe the Goddess made everybody, all of us, then She made him too, right?”

Given their not-quite-argument of the night before, this defense made something warm bloom inside Van’s chest; he wanted to reach out, to touch Milo, except he was holding tea and a sausage in a bun.

“I heard he turned himself into a lion once,” Robert said. “He can shapeshift. He could be any of you. Or me.”

“Why would he want to?”

A pause happened while everyone considered Thom’s question. Van finished the sausage.

“I’m just saying,” Robert said. “He could be.”

“If you really think—”

Orders arrived, in the form of shouts down the line: the general wanted to see everyone, an inspection, equipped and ready. A flurry of motion happened: everyone finishing tea, diving into tents, collecting quivers and arrows and short swords. Milo was looking for a hair-tie; Van picked it up and handed it over.

“Thanks.”

“It was on my side. Want help with that buckle?”

“Got it, thanks—”

They ducked back out, into brittle bone-dry sun. They formed a line. Van noticed a scuff on his left boot; too late to do anything about that now.

The weight of the quiver lurked at his back. He’d always been good with a bow, a fishing-line, anything requiring aim. He wasn’t as flamboyant at trick shots as Claudette, but he was the most consistent of their small group, at least when aiming at targets.

He did not know whether he could shoot a man. In self-defense, maybe. Up close, in the moment. Life or death. But from a distance, at someone else’s order—

He wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.

Beside him, Milo shifted, leaned closer. Let the back of his hand brush Van’s.

Rustles ran through the ranks: the command approaching. Van swallowed, and tried to look like a professional soldier.

General Freye had iron hair and matching shoulders; she was, Van knew, a veteran of the unification wars. She was not alone; Queen Ryllis, tall and coltish and serious, dressed in unremarkable battlefield leathers, was nodding at each comment as if taking mental notes. And the third person in the group…

…was the Sorcerer of Averene. Wearing floaty fluffy periwinkle blue robes, hideously impractical, even see-through in spots. Still barefoot, because apparently sorcerers did not believe in the existence of footwear. Hair long and straight and unbound, today: falling over his shoulder in a waterfall of light. He made the morning and the world even duller, because nothing could compare.

He was saying, as they came up, “—well, if it’s mostly about the river and the water supply, I can certainly handle that; how large a new river would you like?”

“You can’t simply make a river,” General Freye argued.

“I think you’ll find I can.”

“The changes to the land—to the farms—and you’d be taking water from our people, to give to Penth—”

“Isn’t the point of all this that they need it?”

“I’d like to talk to their Chief Minister. Face to face.” Queen Ryllis ran a hand through the brown frizz of her hair. “I don’t like making decisions with an army at our front door. On our land. It’s intimidation.”

“I can move them,” Lorre said. “Where would you like them?”

“That’d count as an act of war. Especially if you act first.”

“Does it count as an act of war if their presence annoys me?”

“Yes!”

“The army,” General Freye said stiffly, “will defend the border. As is their job. Yours is to find a solution that protects Averene.”

Lorre’s eyes narrowed. “What makes you think I’m on your side?”

But you are, Van wanted to protest. Aren’t you? You’re here to save people. You’re magic.

He said nothing, in front of his queen and his general and the world’s greatest magician.

“Our archers,” General Freye said, “are the best in the Middle Lands. Our longbows give us more than an advantage. They are deadly. And not reliant upon mysterious spells and enchantments.”

Van, unsure that he personally was deadly, tried not to meet anyone’s gaze.

Lorre pulled a swirl of white-hot light out of the air and began playing with it: a ribbon, a ripple, twining around his fingers.

“Our army,” Queen Ryllis said, gifting them all with a brilliant smile, “is our strength. Because you all have chosen to be here. You came when called. You want to defend our home, our land. And that makes you all heroes, already.”

Her voice was quiet, but the words carried. She was only twenty-three, younger than Van, but she stood like a queen, and spoke like a queen, and Van knew that she meant each word.

Everyone else knew it too, from the susurration of breaths, the straightening of shoulders. Their queen, their commander.

“I’ll do something with the river,” Lorre said, turning away; they moved on, across the grass. “I’ll need a map. I might be moving some foothills. Not metaphorically.”

“You can do that,” Queen Ryllis breathed, and for a moment the same wonder that Van felt, looking at Lorre, suffused her face. “And you can keep that shield-barrier up as long as we need, you said…”

“I can do quite a lot. When I decide it’s necessary.” The fire-ribbon coiled and fluttered and looped itself around Lorre’s right wrist, over delicate slim bones.

“Is there anything we can do for you?” Ryllis ran a hand through her hair again. “Anything the Crown of Averene can offer the Sorcerer?”

Lorre paused, two steps away. Turned, a dazzlement of gossamer silk and cerulean lace. His eyes swept the line, and found Van: a capture, neat as a net of spun moonlight.

Van couldn’t breathe. He could feel the sweat at his back, under the weight of leather, bow, sorcerous scrutiny.

At his side, Milo had stiffened all over: poised, as if ready for action. Jaw tight.

Lorre came leisurely over. His feet, naked under a swirl of too-light extravagance, made no sound. He was, Van thought dizzily, shorter than the presence suggested: not short, no, but not a towering giant, either. Taller than Milo. A bit less than Van’s own height.

He had the face of an illuminated manuscript, a stained-glass window, an agelessly youthful knight or baron or Goddess-touched hero. Or the opposite, given the Church’s feelings about magicians; equally, given the ruthless command in those blue eyes. A warning, a peril, a danger. A sorcerer.

He put out a hand. Fingertip lifting Van’s chin.

Van might’ve knelt on the spot, or fought for his nod, or come apart with diamond-edged ecstasy right there; any or all of those were possible, just then.

Lorre said softly, “You’ll do.”

Van would’ve nodded, except Lorre’s hand was holding him in place. Anything, everything, yes.

Milo said, sharply, “He’ll do what, exactly?”

Both of Lorre’s eyebrows leapt up in portrait-frame surprise. The bracelet of fire, still wreathing his wrist, leapt as well. “And who are you?”

“Milo Perrot, second division, longbow. And his friend.”

At this point General Freye, visibly horrified at this breach of discipline, snapped, “And about to be dismissed, how dare you question Her Majesty’s magician—”

Van twisted that way, forgetting Lorre’s touch. “Milo—”

Lorre folded both arms, which somehow made everyone look at him. “Absolutely tiresome, all of you. So human. And I’m no one’s magician.”

“May I apologize on behalf of—”

“Thank you, General. Also that one can keep his position. I can appreciate ridiculous romantic loyalty. Go away and do nothing to him.” That was a dismissal; Lorre himself did not move. “You. The tall one. Would you like to join me for the evening, later? It is,” he added to Milo, tone exquisitely dry, “entirely his choice.”

“Oh Goddess,” Van breathed.

“Do try not to mention the Church in my presence.” Lorre tilted an eyebrow at him. “You aren’t planning to pray for my salvation, are you? If so I’ll find someone else.”

“No! No, I’m not—I won’t…oh hell…I mean yes I want to join you, if you—I mean, I…yes?”

“Excellent. Be in my tent before the evening meal. Until then, feel free to do whatever you do all day. I’ll join you when I’m done talking to the hills. You may make the strawberry tea if you’d like.”

Van just nodded, and kept nodding, because every word in existence had disappeared from his head.

“Good, then.” Lorre whisked away in a ripple of silk and veils and fire-flowers and blond hair, catching up to the queen. He did not look back.

Van exhaled, and felt his knees go weak, head light, fizzy and bewildered and full of Lorre.

Milo’s grip on his arm was tight. “Are you hurt? Look at me. What did he do?”

“Nothing. He only touched me.”

“Are you sure? You look—come sit down. He had fire on that arm. Did that touch you?”

“No. Milo…” They’d been dismissed, for the moment; fascinated gazes were moving Van’s direction. Milo swore under his breath, kept his hand on Van’s arm, somehow got them back to the tent and sitting down on the closest bed-roll. His eyes were angry.

Van said, again, “I’m really okay.”

“He wants you in his bed.” Milo offered water; Van shook his head. Milo glanced around helplessly: evaluating tea, a pillow, a flask of Mountain Marches whiskey. Gave up, brought the whiskey, and sat down beside him. “And I’m guessing he’s not good at hearing no.”

“He said it was my choice.”

Milo let out an opinionated breath.

“I think he’d listen. If I said no. He did say he could find someone else.”

“If you were going to be an idiot and call him an unnatural demon-child to his face, yeah.”

“But I don’t think he is one.” Van accepted the whiskey, had a drink, handed it back. Fire and gold on his tongue, in his throat. “He wants company. Maybe he’s lonely.”

“Maybe you’re a romantic and he needs a body for some sacrificial demon purposes. The Queen as much as promised him anything he wanted.”

“You were defending him, earlier.”

“That was before—” Milo shut his mouth, shut his eyes, shook his head. Opened them, anguish in sky-blue. “You want to do this.”

“I…think I do. I don’t believe it. But I do. Before what?”

“Never mind. Tell me again that you’re sure. That you know what you’re doing, it’s not a charm or a lure or anything, and you’re choosing this.”

“I am.” He reached out, found Milo’s hand: broad, freckled, callused. “As far as I know, it’s all me in here, wanting this. I even said, didn’t I, last night? Not that I ever thought.”

“You did.” Milo was looking at their hands, at Van’s around his. He did not look up. “You wanted this. I guess he…he knew that, maybe. Maybe sorcerers can tell.”

“Sorcerers….oh, fuck.”

“What? What’s wrong? Do I need to—”

“No! It’s just. Him. Me! This is happening.”

“Yes,” Milo agreed, now more concerned.

“Oh Goddess. My parents are innkeepers. I don’t know how to even talk to royalty. Or whatever he is. He’s magical. What if I—what if it’s not—he must be used to—”

A dart of absolute pain bolted across Milo’s expression, a flying-fish of hurt in pale oceans; but he blinked and it was gone, and Van wondered whether that’d been real, if he’d seen it at all. He did not know how to ask; Milo said, “Don’t worry about that.”

“I should completely worry about that!”

“Um. Should we….I mean…do you need me to explain anything about—”

“I’ve had sex before!”

“With men?”

“Yes!”

“Okay,” Milo said, looking away again: the corner of the bed-roll, the tent-flap, his own boot. “Right. You’re fine, then. You don’t need my help.”

Van deflated. “I mean. Twice.”

“Twice—oh. Only twice?”

“And one woman, once. Figured out I wasn’t as interested in that. And it wasn’t that big a village. Not a lot of options, really.”

“Right.” Milo paused; his mouth did something like a smile, teasing, though the emotion didn’t match his eyes. “So…it was all right, then, and you know at least some things, about what you’re doing?”

“Some. He must have courtesans. Dancers. Acrobats. Why’d you tell me not to worry? I’m worrying.”

Milo drew a breath, let it go. In tent-veiled light, muted and beige, he stood out: auburn and blue-eyed and freckled, spices and sugar and compact muscle. He put a hand on Van’s shoulder. “He saw you. He chose you. He must’ve had a reason. So don’t overthink it. He wants, well, you.”

“Me.”

“The person you are. The person anyone would—I mean, he knows everything. Magic and all. So he doesn’t want a courtesan or an acrobat. He picked you.”

Van looked at him—at his best friend, his anchor, that solid presence—and felt the warmth of Milo’s hand on his arm, and the intensity of blue eyes watching him; Milo, he knew, did not think this was a good idea.

But Milo knew he, Van, wanted it. He’d said yes to it. He wanted Lorre. And, because Van wanted this, Milo was offering reassurance. Assistance. Help.

He said, “Thank you, y’know. For that. For everything, really.”

Milo took the hand off Van’s arm. “Any time. You know, any time you decide to seduce a magician. I’m your friend. Here to help.”

“You are.” His arm felt colder, deprived of touch.

“We’ve got some time,” Milo announced, now contemplating Van’s hair, clothing, boots, “and we’ll need it. Bath. Oil. Clean shirt.”

“We’ve got drills in twenty minutes.”

“After that, then. That’ll be good, first. A distraction. You can think about something else.”

“I can’t think about anything else. Will he be watching?”

“No. He told you to do what you normally do.” Milo picked up the whiskey, had a gulp, closed the flask. Evaded Van’s gaze, though that might’ve just been normal motion. “So we will.”

“We.”

“Come on,” Milo told him, getting up, holding out a hand. “Focus. Our job. Drills first.”