Page 7 of Arrows

He should go in. Shouldn’t he?

The sun hung at just the angle to drench the world in dreamy buttercup gold. Sensual, if one liked. Incongruous, in another sense: here in this army encampment, all the gold and buttercups on the brink of war.

He stared at the tent-flap. His heart thundered in his throat. Storms at sea. Those crashing waves, again. Perilous rocks ahead.

He did not know where Milo had found the shirt. He hadn’t asked, bewildered by efficiency and his best friend’s newfound desire to make him as presentable as possible. Milo had put something into his hair, a sweet vanilla sort of scent, and had done something to make the waves softer and shinier, rather than freshly-washed and fluffy.

Milo’s hands had been gentle, touching him. Milo himself had been quiet, aside from giving occasional orders about holding still for hair assistance or rolling up sleeves just so, because that mattered, evidently. That had all felt lovely, in a way—Milo fussing over him—and also not. Milo had not made jokes, or teased him. Deeply gravely serious, instead.

Van put out a hand. Touched the tent-flap. No sound came from inside.

He had a small bottle of oil, because Milo had put that into his hand, and he had left the bow and quiver but he did have one short knife, because Milo had said, in that newly serious voice, “I know you think he won’t hurt you, but we don’t know him, Van; we don’t know anything about him and what he’s like.”

“If I bring weapons he’ll think I’m there to murder him—”

“I’m not saying conceal it. You’re in Her Majesty’s army. He’ll expect it. And…” Milo had hesitated, hands halfway through unlacing Van’s shirt partway. “And I want you to be safe.”

“I—”

“If you don’t feel safe, if he hurts you, if he asks you for anything you don’t want, you get out of there. And you come find me. Promise me you will.”

“Wouldn’t that be some sort of treason? If the Queen wants him happy.”

“I don’t care if it is. I mean it, Van.”

Van looked at him, at those sky-blue eyes, at the set of that familiar square jaw. Milo needed a shave, he thought suddenly: hints of stubble had appeared. And those eyes held tiny lines like crumpled music-notes, at the corners.

He had said, putting a hand over Milo’s, on his sleeve, “I promise.”

He looked at his arm, his hand, now: reaching out to a magician’s tent.

A skitter of fear, desire, anticipation, ran down his spine. Magic. Lorre. Himself. Whatever that meant.

He pictured long shining hair, and Lorre’s big golden-lashed eyes, and that glittering grace. He felt his body react, wanting.

He drew a breath, shaky. He let it out. He went inside.

And discovered, an anticlimax, that the magician was not present.

No shimmering hair. No lapidary prettiness. No twinkling fire-flowers. Disappointment sagged into his chest, his gut. Other places too.

But of course Lorre wasn’t there. He’d said Van should wait for him. And possibly make tea.

Given that, Van had a look around. He’d never been in a magician’s tent. Never would be again. After tonight.

The tent wasn’t as large as he would’ve guessed, but it held wonders. Plush rugs that doubtless felt fantastic under bare toes. A marvelous heap of bed, strewn with velvet and brocade and satin and furs. A dark blue coat embroidered with gold lay flung across that bed. A small folding table held a map of the Middle Lands and three different types of ink and what looked like vials of sand, water, and something purple Van couldn’t identify. He was afraid to pick anything up.

The kettle sat on another table, this one inlaid with onyx and pink marble. Van did not know how Lorre had got it here, and chalked that up to magic.

He discovered water in a copper pot, but not hot water; he considered this and the act of tea-making. Lorre had left two small canisters out, plus a plate containing fresh strawberries, delicately iced cakes that had definitely not come from the Army supplies, and miniature spinach-and-cheese tarts. He’d also left at least four mugs and cups of various types scattered around: two on the table, one beside the bed, one inexplicably balanced on a fold of tent that was helpfully serving as a shelf.

Van collected the mugs and cups—one was pewter, two porcelain, but another one appeared to be made of solid ruby, and he hoped desperately that it wasn’t, in case he dropped it—and concluded that magicians, at least this one, were as human as anyone else when it came to absentmindedly setting down cups of tea and wandering away.

He put the collection next to the kettle, and wondered whether he should wash them. Did Lorre have some sort of cleaning system?

He opened both canisters of tea, figured out which was mint and which was strawberry-lemongrass, and eyed the kettle, and thought about hot water. The tent was in fact decently warm; a bit more exploration uncovered a glowing brazier, on a low shelf with three books and a bundle of what looked like twigs and sticks. Lorre evidently liked warmth. And possibly sticks.

All right, then: hot water, tea, preparations. What else?

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