Chapter 1

"I know he won't ever look at me," Van said. It was true: he had no illusions about himself, plain Evander Roche, presently sitting near a small shared cooking-fire by the edge of the archery division camp. The he in question, the glittering golden Sorcerer of Averene, was busy at Queen Ryllis's side, planning ways to deal with the Penthii border incursion, while dressed up in magic and jeweled hair-pins and entirely justified arrogance; Lorre did not have the time to spare for a single faceless bowman in the Queen's hastily-assembled army. "I know that."

"So you don't look, either." Milo knocked a boot into his, beside the low heat of the night's fire. Milo Perrot, over the past few weeks, had rapidly become Van's best friend: the same age, short and fair and freckled next to Van's height and shaggy brown hair and brown skin and overall sea-scuffed twenty-eight years. Milo had been the person beside him in the lines, a training partner, a calm harbor, since they'd both volunteered and met each other during recruitment. They'd fit together easily, then and now, sharing a tent for this uneasy wire-taut waiting.

Van glared at him and the present unhelpfulness. Milo appeared to be entirely interested in stew, and did not look back. But added flippantly, around a mouthful of beef, "Or just go ahead and ask; he might turn you into a toad, but hey, at least you'd've tried."

"Not going to happen." The night crackled and flared: with stars in their black velvet swoop, with long dry grasses, with the fires of the lines, their own and the Penthii army in the distance. Too close, and too far: here at the border, ominous as the flick of fire.

No serious hostilities had happened yet. A few skirmishes, a few warnings.

All of those had occurred more than three days ago: before the Sorcerer had finally shown up, barefoot and beribboned and annoyed. A quivering tightrope peace had existed since then; nobody wanted to find out what mountains Lorre might level in response to hostilities on either side.

Van, standing in the front of a tense and restless line on that grey-bronze morning, on the flat grassy field, had seen the glint of light from Penthii armor. Had breathed the scents of leather, sweat, oiled bowstrings, fear. He'd never drawn an arrow with intent to strike a man, before.

And the air had opened, a clean sweep like a curtain brushed aside. And shimmering antique prettiness had strolled out of light and wind, and looked at them all with the cool haughty elegance of an ancient court portrait, imperious and powerful and breathtaking.

One flick of Lorre's hand had put an insurmountable barrier across the flat destiny of the field. It lingered there now, translucent and hazy but not opaque, lazily rippling.

Van, gazing at him—the casual power, the mesmerizing paradox of impractical silky robes and haphazard jewels plus pale bare feet and slim hands and bedroom-loose hair, and the beauty, oh Goddess, the beauty—had felt the want like a thunderclap. Like a wave on the shore, back at the harbor village where he'd grown up, crashing in to knock him down.

He said now, sitting beside his closest friend at their shared fire, nowhere near the tents of generals or the strategies of queens and magicians, "As if he'd even know I existed. A legend like that. Out of stories. I'm just me."

Milo's head came up. His eyes were blue, though paler than Lorre's brilliant sapphire, less intense. Just now they seemed brighter, standing out in small cozy firelight. A strand of his hair, also red, had swung down along his face. "Don't."

"Don't ask the world's greatest living sorcerer if he'd maybe, possibly, ever, want to toss a leg over an innkeeper's son from Baylight, please? Thanks, I wasn't going to." He considered this, threw in, "Toad would be the least of my problems then, I'd imagine."

"No. Not that. I mean, no, you shouldn't, because he's here to stop a war and he's busy, Van." Milo balanced stew in one hand, shoved the hair out of his face. His voice sounded almost angry. "I mean, obviously don't do that. But not because of that. What you said."

"You brought up the toad enchantments."

"No. Listen—" Milo stopped, shook his head. "I'm not good at words. You know. Farm boy. Goats and pigs. But there's nothing wrong with that. Like there's nothing, nothing, wrong with you. Of course you'd be good enough for him."

"I'm not—"

"You'd be good enough for anybody," Milo interrupted, startlingly fierce about it. "So what if he's magic? You can whistle like a sea-bird and you stood up and volunteered to protect your home. He showed up three days late. Without boots."

"I'm not sure sorcerers need boots. Or maybe he lost them. Like a storybook tale. The Sorcerer With No Boots."

"Van—" Milo's expression did something complicated, too full of emotion, skidding across the freckles; after a second he shoved it all away into determined control. "Of course you shouldn't interrupt him. Because of him. Not because of you. Understand?"

"I wasn't serious," Van protested, astonished at the forcefulness. "I only thought, you know, in a story. A daydream. You saw him too. How could you not feel it, seeing someone like that, and you just…" He wasn't sure how to explain. "Imagining. All the imagining. Like a gut-punch. But not like I'd ever expect it to happen."

Milo did not say anything. In fact, did not even look at him.

Van tried, "I know better, you know."

"You shouldn't have to." Milo put down his unfinished stew. "Just stop thinking about it, all right? Think about the morning. Orders, when we get them. The next day. Getting through it."

"Are you all right? You sound—"

"Fine. Tired. Going to bed."

"Milo—"

"You can finish that, if you want. Not wasting food." Milo vanished into the night and the tent-flap, letting it swing behind him. Silence followed.

Van looked at the tent, looked at half-eaten stew, wondered what he'd said or done or got so wrong. They were friends; he hadn't thought Milo would take offense at idle speculation about a magician's attractiveness.

But maybe that wasn't the problem at all. Maybe the problem was exactly what Milo had said: getting through this. The strain of waiting. The orders, whatever they might be. A fight, a show of strength, a dismissal. A crackle of magic, laced through the air like ready bowstrings.

He understood, because he felt it too: the exhaustion of not knowing, of balancing on the edge, an army summoned and not yet used. Arrows in a quiver.

The stars hung cold fire overhead. Quiet conversations, chatter, laughter bounced around the camp: everyone coping with the night in their own ways, as best they could. The largest tents—the Queen's, and General Freye's, and the striped cerulean fantasia that Lorre had conjured up—sat a little removed, tucked against one of the low hill-rises, lamplit. Inside, the fates of countries, boundaries, lives were no doubt being debated and decided.

Van, only one small cog in that vast turning clockwork, sighed and finished his own stew, and Milo's, even though he wasn't terribly hungry; he was practical, though, and Milo had been right about not wasting anything.

He scrubbed the bowls, after; and he ducked into the tent with as little noise as possible, trying to be kind. The tent wasn't large, and their bed-rolls lay close; Van settled in, feeling as though he was balancing on tiptoes.

After a second Milo, clearly not asleep, said, "Sorry."

"About what? I know you're thinking about tomorrow. We all are."

"Tomorrow. Right. Anyway, sorry."

"No need for that. And, hey. I'm here. For you. The way you are for me. Together, right? No matter what."

Milo wasn't facing him; Van couldn't see his eyes. But his voice sounded affectionate, if ragged. "No matter what. You and me. Get some sleep, Van."

"Well. You too."

Milo made a grumbling sort of sound, but that was fine, that felt almost normal, the two of them talking. Van shut his eyes, and waited for morning.