Arrow on the String: Solomon Sorrows Book 1 by Dan Fish (no david read aloud TXT) 📕

wandered the great hall. Ga’Shel had said slipping the god-stream left traces of magic. Sorrows looked without knowing what to look for. A Weaver might leave ripples in the air, like the warping of light above a fire. A Weaver might cause a humming, or she might create a faint sound like the breaking of glass. But Eldrake and Oray had created illusions without so much as a glimmer. It was safe enough to assume Jace knew how to hide her tracks, else she wouldn’t have escaped the eye of the Mage Guard for so long.

Sorrows considered this as he wandered the main level of Davrosh Manor. The din faded behind him. Voices and words muddled together, threads of conversation, became a tapestry of muted sounds. Sorrows found himself walking a dim hallway. Glowstone sconces, half-shuttered. Pale light illuminating paintings of the Davrosh matriarchy. Wooden frames carved into vines, blossoms, clusters of fruit. Hammered gold, with gold flecks in the oil painted onto canvas. Nisha then her mother, Garia, then a dwarf Sorrows didn’t recognize, then another. He walked silently, continued deeper into the hall, further into the past. Generations became centuries. Centuries became a legacy that spanned a millennium. And then darkness. An empty doorway. He remembered Cheshki Ellebrand and Ellebrand Manor. He remembered an ambush. But he didn’t remember soon enough.

Something or someone crashed into him. He remembered Jace doing the same. Remembered stumbling into a sitting room.

Hands gripped his hair, pulled at him. He remembered falling backward, remembered Jace falling on top of him.

Lips found his lips. Soft, urgent, desperate. He remembered Zvilna Gorsham, pale and dead on a cold stone slab.

He stopped remembering. Started reacting. His heart pounded. Chemical. A physiological response. His muscles tightened, swelled. He was angry. He was strong. Stronger than Jace by a good measure. He grabbed her arms, held her fast. Knew he wouldn’t get a second chance. Didn’t need one. He was big. She felt like nothing in his grasp. She struggled, started to speak. He spun, threw her across the room. Hard. It was dark. He heard a crash, heard her cry out. Heard the ring of steel behind him. Turned. Light flooded the room. Davrosh stood in the doorway, glowstone lamp in one hand, blade in the other. She squinted, hurried past him. Sorrows followed. Stopped.

“Is it Mig?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“She wasn’t dead?”

“No.”

“I didn’t kill her, did I?”

Davrosh looked up at him, swallowed.

“I don’t know.”

✽✽✽

YOU SAW THE goblin watching you from the stairs. One foot on the landing, one foot frozen on the step below. She was as surprised as you were. Her eyes grew wide. She ran. And though you had other things to worry about, you didn’t mind adding one more. She’d made herself prey. And you’re not one to pass up playing the predator. You gave chase.

She was down the stairs fast, but you gained on her. You grabbed the dagger from your cloak. She turned down a hall. You were close. You almost had her, but you slowed. The human was there. She leapt into the gods-stream, crashed into him. You stayed slipped, and now you watch as the human reacts. He’s confused, surprised. He throws her like a stone across the water. She flies into darkness. Gods, the irony. You move to see more. You pass through the human into the room. You approach the goblin. She lays crumpled on the floor. A light shines behind you. You turn. The half-born stands in the doorway. But behind her…

You jump to the side, hide behind a sofa along the wall. The elf. Gods. Were you recognized? Gods shun it. Your heart races.

You take a deep breath, gather your thoughts. You creep up the wall, stick to the shadows, bring a shadow with you. The elf is gone. The human is staring at the goblin. The half-born’s face is taut and flushed. She’s screaming something at him, but you’re slipped. You don’t hear it. She moves across the room to the goblin. But you’ve seen enough death to recognize a corpse.

You leave through the doorway and search for the elf.

✽✽✽

IVRA JACE OPENED the hidden door, stepped into the hidden room, stopped. Looked. Frowned. She walked to a corner, knelt, passed her hand through empty air. Shook her head, turned. She wiggled the fingers on one hand, formed a series of shapes and intricate gestures, stared into the room. Her frown deepened. She lifted her hand, gestured again. Kept staring. Kept frowning.

“Not tonight,” she said to no one. “Gods, Mig, not tonight.”

She inhaled, wrinkled her nose, coughed, inhaled again. Left the hidden room, stepped into the alley, sniffed. Turned right, moved fast, kept sniffing. Pushed past barrels of refuse, pulled aside piles of scrap lumber, sent rats scurrying, set dogs growling. Kept moving. Worked her way to the end of the alley, to a set of stairs climbing to the backdoor of a bakery, to the pile of flour sacks piled underneath. Rifled through the sacks, winced, turned away, turned back slowly.

She reached, grabbed hold of a frozen green arm, tossed it aside. Pulled out the remains of a dog, another arm. Stepped back with a skull in her hands. Turned it over until it stared back at her with a single brown eye. Stared at it for a long moment, then shook her head, moved a hand onto her chest, clutched at something resting beneath her cloak, between her breasts.

“Gods shun it,” she said to no one. “Please, not tonight.”

She dropped the skull, turned, and walked back to the hidden door, the hidden room. Gestured again once she was inside. Waited. Sighed.

She was on the rooftops moments later, running, leaping, sliding. She moved fast. Kept hidden. Worked her way north toward the home of Nisha Davrosh.

Chapter 46

MIG WAS BREATHING. Davrosh was yelling. Sorrows was moving, then scooping, then cradling. Mig moaned, Sorrows moved faster. Davrosh yelled louder, rushed past Sorrows to a sofa, pushed away a low table, cleared pillows. Sorrows gently