Arrows by K.L. Noone EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Authors: K.L. Noone
- Language: English
- Genre: contemporary romance
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 2 MB
- Price: Free
“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 hairpins and entirely justified arrogance; Lorre did not have the time to
spare for a single faceless bowman in the Queen’s hastilyassembled army. “I know that.”
“So you don’t look, either.” Milo knocked a boot into his,
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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.
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