Page 5 of Arrows

“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.”

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