Page 13 of Arrows

Familiar sounds bounced and rattled through the day: orders, drills, cooking-fires, the whickering of horses, calls for assistance with a tent-post or a piece of harness. Not at war yet, then. Lorre’s diaphanous veil hung like a drawn sword across the field.

The field had some different shadows. An edge of blue. Van turned to see more clearly.

He’d known—he’d known—but he hadn’t known, not really. Lorre had even told him to look, while tracing new lines across a map.

Those hadn’t only been lines.

The glinting silver-blue ripple of river, where no river had been, rushed down along the western edge of their encampment. It flowed out of new small hills, and through a merry channel, and under Lorre’s shield. It slid into the dry grasses and scrubland, on its way to solve Penth’s drought problem.

Van couldn’t take a step. Couldn’t even hold the immensity of it in his head. Lorre had—had been touching a map, and talking to him, carrying on a conversation, while—

Magic. Sorcery. And the stirrings of awe and fear scratched at his bones. Lorre could do anything, could have anything. Had wanted him. Had fucked him, casually, and then reshaped the world.

One figure detached itself from a group around a fire, and ran his way, up the short path. Van hadn’t managed to move, trapped by hills and a river and recognition of what he’d just done, by the time Milo arrived in a breathless hurricane of red hair and starburst freckles. “Van!”

“I’m here, I’m sorry I’m late—”

“Don’t apologize—” Milo gazed at him, then pulled him into a whirlwind embrace, quick and forceful. And then let go fast. “Are you hurt? Did that hurt? Should I not touch you? What did he do to you?”

“Milo—” That embrace had left brightness along his body. Imprinted there. Exactly what he’d needed, except he wanted more. Closeness. Security. “I’m not hurt. I’m fine.”

“I wanted to come up and be here. Waiting.” Milo kicked a clump of grass with one boot. “The General ordered me not to. No disturbing you, she said. If Lorre was—was using you.”

“I wouldn’t say using…” But maybe it had been. “He was gone when I got up. I’m not sure whether he’s done with me.”

“He and the Queen went to look at the river. You look tired. Come here.” Milo put a hand under Van’s elbow. “Can you tell me about it? Are you allowed to?”

“He didn’t say not to…”

Milo’s expression softened with concern, then got harder: anger at a magician. Van wondered what his own face was doing, to prompt that reaction.

“Come on.” Milo started walking them back to the archers’ tents, not fast, hand remaining in place. Van did not need the help, unless maybe he did, because at the touch the hollowness in his chest had begun to fill up with blossoming closeness.

As they got nearer, they drew a small crowd. Fellow recruits, not only the archery division, swarmed. Wide eyes, wide mouths. So much attention. Clamor. Curiosity. All directed at Van.

Claudette demanded, “Was it magical?”

Thom asked, “What’s he like? Impressive, scary, giving orders—he seems like he’d give orders—”

Someone Van didn’t recognize shouted, “Did he shapeshift? Were there animals?”

“What,” Van pleaded. “No. No shapeshifting. No animals.”

“What’s he look like?”

“He just looks human—”

Robert arrived to say, “He’s not, though, is he? And you let him fuck you.” His eyes were iced-over emeralds of disdain.

Someone else called over, “How good was he? That mouth, that arse—”

“I’m not sure I should say anything,” Van attempted.

“I heard he used to be the lover of the Baron of Variennes,” someone else contributed. “When he was younger. New at Court.”

“That’s true, my granddad saw him.”

“And then the old King himself. And the Queen. In that one story.”

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