Page 14 of Arrows

“So why would he want someone like Van? No offense,” Thayil added, tucked under Robert’s arm.

Van thought that maybe he should take offense, but also his head was starting to hurt, and walking had provoked some of the specific sore muscles into louder complaints.

“All of you shut up!” Milo yelled. “I’m getting Van tea!”

The tea helped somewhat. Dark and hearty. Everyday. Recognizable. Not made of delicate wild berries and honey.

The reprieve lasted about as long as it took for Milo to pour him a second mug, and then the chatter launched into the air again.

“Did him fucking you move the river?”

“Was it like literal earth-moving?”

“I heard he likes it rough, like leather and whips—”

“I’ve never heard that, how would you know?”

“Van?”

All the expectance landed like a wagonload of stones. Van wanted to sit down.

Lorre did like sensation. Touches. Friction. Skin to skin. And had, at least one of the times, wrapped Van’s wrists up in rose-red fire that hadn’t burned. But it hadn’t been about pain or roughness.

He thought it had been about connection. About broken bones, and a foot-rub.

He scraped out, “No. Nothing like that.”

“Maybe he thought you wouldn’t like it.”

“Bet he’s saving that for next time.”

“Still can’t believe you did it,” someone else said, from the back. “I wouldn’t. A fucking magician. That’s like…fucking blasphemy. Or something. He’s not human.”

“I heard he killed his own father—”

“Don’t be stupid, as if he had a fuckin’ human father, he’s made of magic—”

“And he must be a hundred years old.”

“Looking like that? And fucking Van like that, all night? He’s never.”

“They’re got records, down in Valpres—the old baron always said—”

“Well, and wouldn’t you, if you wanted people to think you had a dangerous powerful sorcerer for a son?”

“Fuck-all good it did him, then. If his son killed him.”

Van blurted, inadvertently, “Lorre didn’t!”

Everyone swiveled his way and got intently fascinated. He tried to hide behind tea.

“No,” Thom said, “go on. Are you sharing details yet?”

“No. I don’t think I should…” How could he explain? How could he put the immensity, the paradoxes, into simple words? Strawberry tea and silk robes. Bare feet and injuries. Lorre saying I don’t need to know you and then coming over to tuck him in. “He, ah. Told me he didn’t. He was busy being a porpoise, he said.”

A lot of staring happened. Van drank half his tea, too fast, and choked on too-hot liquid.

“A porpoise,” Claudette repeated, saucer-eyed.

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