Page 3 of Arrows

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?”

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