Page 26 of Arrows

“I still don’t have any money—not much—I won’t be a burden on you, I swear, I’ll find work, save up enough to start—” He stopped. His hands stopped, too: curiosity conquering other emotions. “Van—what’s in your pocket?”

Van shoved a hand in. Back out. Then nearly dropped the handful.

Raw gold and pearls. Lorre’s hair-pins, a tumble of them. More: loose sapphires, diamonds, rubies. An antique amethyst ring. A strand of black pearls, dripping over his fingers. Pools of light, rainbows flinging color.

Milo gulped, “Goddess…”

Lorre might’ve meant the wealth as payment, as if to a courtesan or bed-servant. Van didn’t think so, though. The hair-pins, the pearls. Those were personal: items Lorre had worn. A gift.

He draped the pearls across Milo’s shoulder. Beauty for beauty. “He wants us to be happy.”

“I was all prepared to hate him. For hurting you.”

“I know. I love you.”

“Maybe I hope he’s happy too. Whatever that means.”

“Yes,” Van said, and kissed Milo again, draped in jewels and possibilities.

Chapter 8

They went home in the morning, under patchwork clouds and fleeting rain-showers. Blue sky meandered in and out, playing games with cotton-puffs of white and grey.

The Queen spoke to them all, one last time; she thanked her volunteers, and she told them she was proud to stand among them, and she told them she was honored by their faith in her. It was a good speech, genuine, and Van did like her. She caught his eye, near the end, and her cheeks flushed pink; Van wondered whether she was thinking of the moment she’d offered him up to Lorre, to be used however a magician might desire.

He didn’t mind that. He had wanted it, after all.

He had, he thought, just about everything he’d ever wanted.

He nodded at his queen, and her expression eased; she gave him a fractional nod in return, and her gaze swept onward.

Lorre did not come to speak to the army, and his fanciful tent was gone. But a large and beautiful firebird sat atop one of the signal-posts, displaying plumes of indigo and smoky orange and crimson and blue topaz and weathered gold. It tipped its head at Van and Milo, as they passed; it had jeweled labyrinth eyes.

“Thank you again,” Van said to him. He was holding Milo’s hand. “And if you ever need anything—”

Lorre took flight, a comet of color against the blue-and-white expanse. Heading north, maybe. Toward the royal treasury, to find a legendary crown. Without looking back.

“He doesn’t like to be thanked,” Milo said. “Does he?” There’d been two plain golden rings among the treasures: unfussy, straightforward, amid decadence. Coincidentally, or perhaps not, one had fit Van. The other fit Milo. It hugged Milo’s finger now; Van could feel it, as they stood hand in hand.

“I think he does like it,” he said. “But it’s…complicated. Magic. Or just him. Let’s go home.”

Milo nodded, not letting go. The sun popped out to rest rays atop his red hair like a benediction.

They’d spent the night packing to leave, gathering equipment and supplies and spare socks; they’d also spent the night touching, stealing and sharing kisses, laughing in amazement that they could. That had felt right too: the way they’d moved together from the start, just one more piece settling into place, a once-broken bone having set itself and neatly mended.

They had slept together, bundled close. They had only slept; Milo hadn’t asked for more, despite the arousal Van could feel pressing against his hip. He hadn’t wanted to ask either. Not just yet, not now. Too new, for all the rightness. Too bruisable, this emotion.

He wondered whether Milo was trying to care for him, some lingering concern over any possible physical hurt; he wondered whether Milo was afraid to ask about sex, in case Van ended up comparing a farmer’s son to a glittering shapeshifting wild magician. That was ludicrous, because they were different people and because Van did not want Milo to be anyone else. He hoped Milo knew that.

Milo smiled at him now, short and freckled and sturdy and perfect. Van felt the love spread out from his chest and all through him, down to his toes in their boots, radiant and warmer than the scattered sun.

They gathered up packs and bows and provisions. They’d been offered a ride partway, because Claudette was friends with a driver of one of the wagons. She waved at them; Milo waved back.

The ride was quiet, and the wagon rattled, and Claudette looked at their entwined hands with open fascination. She did not ask about Lorre, but she did ask what they planned to do now, how Van would like running an inn, whether Milo was excited about seeing the ocean for the first time. She herself was going home to join her father in his workshop, crafting guitars and lutes and gitterns; she would be good at that, Van thought, with those quick skillful hands, those bright dark eyes.

He exchanged glances with Milo, as they got to the crossroads near the Treow Forest; Milo nodded. As they prepared to turn west, as Claudette hugged them in farewell, Van pressed four of the gemstones into her hand. She stared at rubies and diamonds, eyes and mouth astonished.

Van said, “For your own workshop, when you start that up,” and she laughed, and hugged him again, and promised to visit and bring Milo a new guitar, one of her own design.

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