Page 19 of Arrows

Milo started, “You’re not—again—” but Van had already moved.

Too late, he realized that he should’ve stayed, should’ve reassured Milo. But that was difficult, too, in ways he hadn’t examined. And Lorre might need help.

Lorre did not need help, or pretended not to. Van ran over to his side, and then realized that that meant he, plain bowman Evander Roche, was in the company of his queen and his general and the world’s greatest magician.

The Queen, waiting for a table, cushions, ink, had come back over. She said, to Lorre, “Thank you.” It was real; it was also a dismissal. “People would’ve died. And you prevented that.”

“I didn’t do it for you. I told you I’m not on your side.” Lorre lifted a shoulder, let it drop. “I don’t like war. The land doesn’t like war. Disruptions. Wounds. And also I’ll be going through your royal library and treasury, when we get back.”

General Freye made a hissing teakettle sound. “The treasures of Averene—”

“One of your ancient histories has a tale about the Fire Prince, and your treasury has his Crown of Endless Flame, and I want both.”

The furious teakettle sputtering grew. “My Queen—”

“Oh, don’t complain about it,” Queen Ryllis said, “it’s a small enough price for not going to war. And the Crown’s silly anyway; it’s too hot to wear or touch, and it isn’t even as useful as a sword would’ve been. You can have it,” she added to Lorre, “but please be careful, it’s melted three chests and reinforced iron crates already.”

“I can touch it,” Lorre said. “It won’t hurt me. Go finish your negotiations. I won’t move that river again. You can put the boundaries of human kingdoms wherever you’d like.”

Van, at his side, worried more. And couldn’t look back, in case he saw anger on Milo’s face. Anger, disappointment, hurt: he knew he deserved them all.

He did not know what more he could do. He couldn’t be two places at once. And he couldn’t not help, if Lorre needed that.

“Are you keeping Bowman Roche, then?” General Freye eyed Van. “Not that anyone’s objecting. Bowman, you follow his orders, understand?”

“It’s not an order.” Lorre swung away, a butterfly-flutter of lavender and raspberry and piled-up hair and gold-and-pearl hair-pins. “And I’m not keeping him. Only for now. Come with me, please.” That last was for Van; he trotted a few steps at Lorre’s side, until the magician stopped and said, “Not walking—” and put a hand on Van’s arm.

And the world dissolved into swirls of air and fire and gemstone light.

Chapter 6

Van couldn’t see, and then he could. The outline of Lorre’s tent rushed in: glowing blues and violets, sage-green and snow-white samite. The heat of the fire in its gleaming bowl. The sprawl of the map, altered, flung across the marble table.

He felt his lungs fill, felt the air in them. He gazed at his magician, astounded, wordless.

“Oh, don’t.” Lorre put a hand to his own temple, fleetingly; pressed fingertips there. “I didn’t want to be stared at. This was faster.”

Van managed, because that was the easiest of his overflowing questions, “Headache?”

“No. It’s only people. Humans. I’m going to be a raincloud. I want you here when I come back.”

“A raincloud.”

“I need…let’s just say it’s magic. Read a book. Nap. Whatever you’d like. I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

Van nodded, because clearly he was not in control of any part of this conversation. Lorre shut his eyes, opened them, did a little all-over wriggle as if settling bones and muscles back into shape, or testing them for flexibility.

And then all his edges softened, blurred, faded. Dissolved, right there, like a chalk drawing under rain. Gradual but abrupt, here and gone, human body turned into a slate-dark billow of icy wind and sleet, which gathered itself up and blew out of the tent before Van could even comprehend what’d just taken place.

The heap of Lorre’s robes collapsed with a small sigh, a tumble of brocade and satin, raspberries and lavender in stripes and ruffles. A clatter of pearl hair-pins landed on the top.

Van stood there and stared at satin and pins. He didn’t know for how long. The day had gone from flat sun to silvery gloom, outside. The tent was firelit and snug.

He’d known Lorre wasn’t fully human. He’d known. There’d been jokes about shapeshifting, earlier that morning.

He hadn’t known anything, nothing at all. He hadn’t understood. And he’d dared to think he could offer some assistance, to a thundercloud, a river-child, a magician.

One of Lorre’s hair-pins, a knot of black pearl and thick gold, caught the light from the fire. It winked at him: encouragement, perhaps. It was here, and Van was here, and they were here, together. That was as real as anything was.

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