Chapter 4

Van woke up snug and cozy and alone. The pillows and blankets had become a fortress of brocade and velvet and fine linen. They hugged him as if making up for the Sorcerer's absence.

He extracted an arm. Nudged a pillow away from his face. Stretched, cautiously. The soreness had gone. Some very specific spots reminded him of how well-used they'd been, but not in a bad way.

He'd slept later than usual. He could tell as much from the light, the gilded dust-flecks, the temperature. No one had woken him. The air held murmurs of strawberry-lemongrass tea.

Maybe Lorre wanted him to stay. Maybe no one had come to get him because they assumed he was Lorre's, now. Nobody wanted to upset a magician who could redirect rivers.

He would've liked to wake up with Lorre. Even if this hadn't meant a promise or a permanence, even if it'd only been a release, a diversion.

He'd given himself to Lorre because he'd chosen to. He didn't regret it.

But he was still naked, and his backside felt tender, and that was only the third time he'd ever been in a man's bed.

He wished, for an instant, that he could've woken with someone there to hold him. That someone—Lorre—would have cared.

Of course that was ridiculous. Lorre had better things to do. Like stopping a war. An evening's plaything was nothing, next to that.

He wondered suddenly whether Lorre even knew his name. He didn't think he'd said it. Lorre hadn't ever asked.

Sitting up against a heap of the magician's pillows, Van put both hands over his face and pushed back unruly emotion, until he was sure he wasn't going to cry. And then he got up, because he was a bowman in Her Majesty's army, and he had joined up because their home needed protecting, and he was here to do what he could.

His clothes were on the floor where he'd left them. Van pulled them on, gingerly, and ran a hand through his hair. The colors of Lorre's world—striped tent, flamboyant rainbowed bed-linens, that pink marble—wreathed him in unsettling decadence. The morning was quiet as a theatre the moment before a curtain, nothing visible, no actors on the stage.

He discovered, upon noticing a drift of steam, that Lorre had left him tea in the ruby teacup. And two enormous filled pasties, one savory—some sort of spiced vegetable mash—and one that contained a sweet creamy cheese. Those also clearly had not come from the Army stores; Van thought they might be some sort of Northern specialty. His stomach growled.

He felt more stable after breakfast. Lorre hadn't left a note, and had left him alone, but had cared enough to feed him. That was something, wasn't it?

He pulled on his boots, wondered whether Lorre owned any footwear at all or if magicians had some arcane prejudice regarding cobblers, and finished off the tea and went out into the dry grassy amber of the sun.

Familiar sounds bounced and rattled through the day: orders, drills, cooking-fires, the whickering of horses, calls for assistance with a tent-post or a piece of harness. Not at war yet, then. Lorre's diaphanous veil hung like a drawn sword across the field.

The field had some different shadows. An edge of blue. Van turned to see more clearly.

He'd known—he'd known—but he hadn't known, not really. Lorre had even told him to look, while tracing new lines across a map.

Those hadn't only been lines.

The glinting silver-blue ripple of river, where no river had been, rushed down along the western edge of their encampment. It flowed out of new small hills, and through a merry channel, and under Lorre's shield. It slid into the dry grasses and scrubland, on its way to solve Penth's drought problem.

Van couldn't take a step. Couldn't even hold the immensity of it in his head. Lorre had—had been touching a map, and talking to him, carrying on a conversation, while—

Magic. Sorcery. And the stirrings of awe and fear scratched at his bones. Lorre could do anything, could have anything. Had wanted him. Had fucked him, casually, and then reshaped the world.

One figure detached itself from a group around a fire, and ran his way, up the short path. Van hadn't managed to move, trapped by hills and a river and recognition of what he'd just done, by the time Milo arrived in a breathless hurricane of red hair and starburst freckles. "Van!"

"I'm here, I'm sorry I'm late—"

"Don't apologize—" Milo gazed at him, then pulled him into a whirlwind embrace, quick and forceful. And then let go fast. "Are you hurt? Did that hurt? Should I not touch you? What did he do to you?"

"Milo—" That embrace had left brightness along his body. Imprinted there. Exactly what he'd needed, except he wanted more. Closeness. Security. "I'm not hurt. I'm fine."

"I wanted to come up and be here. Waiting." Milo kicked a clump of grass with one boot. "The General ordered me not to. No disturbing you, she said. If Lorre was—was using you."

"I wouldn't say using…" But maybe it had been. "He was gone when I got up. I'm not sure whether he's done with me."

"He and the Queen went to look at the river. You look tired. Come here." Milo put a hand under Van's elbow. "Can you tell me about it? Are you allowed to?"

"He didn't say not to…"

Milo's expression softened with concern, then got harder: anger at a magician. Van wondered what his own face was doing, to prompt that reaction.

"Come on." Milo started walking them back to the archers' tents, not fast, hand remaining in place. Van did not need the help, unless maybe he did, because at the touch the hollowness in his chest had begun to fill up with blossoming closeness.

As they got nearer, they drew a small crowd. Fellow recruits, not only the archery division, swarmed. Wide eyes, wide mouths. So much attention. Clamor. Curiosity. All directed at Van.

Claudette demanded, "Was it magical?"

Thom asked, "What's he like? Impressive, scary, giving orders—he seems like he'd give orders—"

Someone Van didn't recognize shouted, "Did he shapeshift? Were there animals?"

"What," Van pleaded. "No. No shapeshifting. No animals."

"What's he look like?"

"He just looks human—"

Robert arrived to say, "He's not, though, is he? And you let him fuck you." His eyes were iced-over emeralds of disdain.

Someone else called over, "How good was he? That mouth, that arse—"

"I'm not sure I should say anything," Van attempted.

"I heard he used to be the lover of the Baron of Variennes," someone else contributed. "When he was younger. New at Court."

"That's true, my granddad saw him."

"And then the old King himself. And the Queen. In that one story."

"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.

Robert grumbled, "Convenient," and everyone adjusted the bewilderment that way. He explained, "For him. Not like anyone can verify that, can they? And, sorry, Van, you've only got his word for it. And he was busy seducing you."

"That's not what it was like—I mean it was, but—" But they weren't listening; Van sighed, and said, to no one, "I believe him."

Milo, watching his face, nudged an elbow into his arm. "I believe you."

"Oh. Thanks."

"Ignore the idiots." Milo drew him out of the crowd, which had begun noisily speculating about what animals Lorre could turn into, in bed; Milo's hands were steady and sure, and got Van back to their small simple shared tent, their straightforward bed-rolls.

No mountains of silk. No fresh strawberries. But Milo closed the tent-flap, blocking out the world with a shield of oiled canvas, and Van sat down hard, exhaustion slicing through his knees. And then he winced, because his backside remembered the night before.

Milo swore under his breath. "Lie down. What would help? Green mint salve, bandages, willow bark for the pain—"

"It's all right."

"He did hurt you. What can I do? What would feel good? I can try to shoot him in the prick. I'm good at long distances, with that bow. He'll turn me into a newt, but I'll try if you want. Or I can get you a physician. Or more tea, or whiskey, if that would—"

"No. None of that. I just…it's just…it's stupid."

"No," Milo said, and sat down with him, wrapped both arms around him, and held on tight. "Whatever it is, it's not stupid."

"I knew," Van whispered, "it wouldn't matter. I knew he wouldn't—of course he wouldn't think I was important."

"You are important. You are, Van."

"Not to him. I just thought—after the night, after everything—but he left, this morning—he didn't even come to sleep next to me, after, he didn't talk to me, I woke up and he was gone and I don't think he knows my name—"

Milo made very many soothing noises, and held him, and rubbed his back, and Van fell apart for a while, not entirely full of tears, mostly overwhelmed and shaking with aftermath.

"I'm here," Milo said, and, "I'm right here, I know you and I know your name, and I'm not going anywhere," and, "He's a fucking bastard, even if he is here to stop a war, and I seriously will try to shoot his prick off if you say so." His hand stroked Van's hair. His shoulders were firm and elemental and unshakable even with Van clinging to them. "If he can't see how wonderful you are—if he doesn't want to see it—he doesn't deserve you. Everything you gave him. All of you."

Van let his head rest on Milo's shoulder. He could stay there. Safe. "It's more complicated than that."

"Not sure it is."

"He doesn't want to care because…because he's used to being alone, I think. He doesn't have anyone."

"According to Thom, he's had half the Court."

"Maybe. But I think that's about…I don't know. Power. A place. Or not. I don't think he's found it."

"What?"

"Whatever he needs. I know it's not me. Not for more than this. I wish—but it doesn't matter. He doesn't need my help."

"You deserve better." Milo's fingers slid through his hair again. "You deserve someone who wants you. Who doesn't ever make you think you're not important, because you are, you're the best person I've ever met, the way you always want to help people, even if they're selfish magical bastards who aren't worth the fucking mud on your boots."

Van tried to laugh and sob at once, which turned into a messy inelegant sort of snuffle against Milo's shirt. "You're always here when I need you. How are you so good at being here?"

"It's you and it's me," Milo said, simply. "I'm where I'm supposed to be."

Van felt the knot snarling his throat. He moved enough to swipe a hand across his face. "You volunteered. Like I did. For this. The army. But we're not staying in. You're going home after. Like I am."

"Maybe I am. We'll see."

"Aren't you? Your family farm, your brothers and sisters…"

"There're six of them taking care of everything, and the farm's doing fine. I'll come back to visit, but they don't need me."

"Oh. What—what will you do, then? If you want…something else?"

Milo's hand, the one rubbing Van's back, came to a halt. Then got back to gradual motion. "Maybe I'm not sure yet. Working it out. Depends on some things."

"Oh. You…you'd be good at something with people. Being nice to them."

"Not a job, is it, just being nice to people." But Milo's eyes were sky-lit with amusement, the shared kind, inviting. "No, if you want to know…something, only an idea…I'm good with a needle. Fabric. Measurements. Clothing. Style. I like fashion. For other people, I mean, making them look their best. Not that I've ever been to Court or anything, I don't mean that, I mean for people like us. The local innkeeper's daughter on her wedding day. A fisherman who likes to wear fine shirts on a day off. Like that."

"You could do that," Van said, bolting upright. "You could. You'd be so good at—look at everything you did for me, the shirt and the hair and—you should absolutely do that!"

Milo was laughing more. "Ah, Van."

"I'm serious!"

"Of course you are. I don't have any money to begin with and I'm a farmer's son from Bretalyn. Like I said, it's all only an idea."

"But you could, if—"

The clear brass call of the summons cut through Van's sentence, and the dim refuge of their tent, and the world.

Orders. Happening. Now.

Milo's freckles stood out amid new paleness, scattered stars against sudden dread. Van recognized that emotion, because he shared it; it must be scrawled across his face as well.

It might be that fight at last. It might not be. It might be some other command. Either way, the fishing-line had been cast, and the stream was in motion.

"I didn't think I'd have to kill anyone." Milo's lips barely moved. "I'm not sure I can."

"I know," Van breathed. "Me too. But—maybe it won't be that. Lorre said he doesn't want a war. He doesn't like it."

"He changed the world. Without asking."

"If he can start a war, he can stop one."

Milo nodded, though he didn't look much better.

"It might be something else. We don't know yet. We can't know unless—unless we answer. Like we signed up to do. What we promised." He was trying to find the words. The courage. For Milo, for himself. "Trying to help."

"You and me," Milo repeated; and, on that promise, they scrambled up, hand in hand.