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

point, but a god has died, and eons have passed since then.”

“What’s your point?” Sorrows asked.

“Tell me about your amulet.”

Sorrows stared at Eldrake for a moment before retrieving the chain beneath his tunic. He took the Grimstone and let it fall against his chest, starlight twinkling beneath its surface.

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

Sorrows shook his head. “Gods, you know everything worth knowing about me, but you don’t know about the amulet?”

“Humor me. How did it come to you?”

“It was a gift.”

Oray shifted in his chair. “Another gift? I’m starting to wonder if gift means the same thing to humans as it does to elves.”

Eldrake held up a hand, gave a small shake of her head. Oray shrugged. She turned back to Sorrows.

“Who gave it to you?” she asked.

“A Seph.”

“But you say it was a gift.”

“Yes.”

“Like the bow.”

“Right.”

“And you’ve had other similar gifts throughout the years, have you not?”

Sorrows shrugged. “That’s the job.”

“All from the Seph?”

“Yes.”

“The same Seph?”

Sorrows sighed, shook his head, stared at Eldrake. “Yes.”

Shen rushed forward, leaning onto the table. “Was it the same Seph you let go at the tavern?”

Sorrows turned to her, thought he saw a ripple of light playing around her eyes. Studied her for a moment before answering.

“No,” he said.

“It’s strange, Solomon,” Eldrake said. “That you would accept gifts from a member of the species that slaughtered your own.”

“Elves slaughtered humanity, not the Seph.”

“The Seph had entered the human dead. They gave us little choice.”

“You didn’t seem too shook up about it.”

Oray frowned, Shen smirked. Davrosh and Ga’Shel whispered back and forth. Eldrake shook her head.

“You know the history as well as I do, Solomon. The Seph stole elf weapons and attempted to use them against us. The same weapons you accept as gifts today.”

Solomon shrugged. “That’s the job.”

“The job?”

Sorrows shook his head. “Gods, it’s no secret. If you know anything about me, you know what I do.”

Eldrake spread her hands out wide, raised her eyebrows in feigned ignorance. “If I didn’t?”

“Then I’d say you’re out of luck, because I’m out of answers.”

Eldrake frowned. “You would refuse me?”

“Seems I just did.”

“She’s the Archmage of this tower,” Oray said.

Sorrows turned to him. “And I didn’t ask to be brought here.”

“So you get to decide when you’re done answering questions.”

“Something like that,” Sorrows said.

Oray’s smile returned, along with more whispering between Davrosh and Ga’Shel. Shen was looking at Eldrake, an eyebrow lifted in an unspoken question. Eldrake held up a hand to Shen, patted the air. Shen slumped back in her seat, rolled her eyes.

“Solomon, earlier you seemed impressed that Master Ga’Shel could make Hammerfell in ten days. Why?”

“It’d take me three months.”

“Surely a man such as yourself knows a Walker or two.”

Sorrows knew three goblin Walkers. Two who would take him to Hammerfell or beyond. One owed him favors. One would do it because she liked him. But none of them could make the trip in ten days. Typical. Everyone knew a bit of magic. Even mortals. But where dwarves, goblins, or gnomes had limited talents specific to their individual species, elves mastered it all. Anything a goblin could do, an elf could do better. And elves made a habit of pointing it out. It was one of many reasons the elves were generally disliked.

“I know a few,” he said. “But none that could swing ten days.”

“You mentioned fighting with Sturm. The Cursed, I assume?” Eldrake asked.

“Right.”

“Do you still fight?”

“Are there still Cursed?”

“Fair point. What’s the best way to kill a Cursed?”

“For you? Magic, I’d think.”

“And for you?”

“Arrow through the eye, sword through the heart.”

“Do you know any other ways?”

Sorrows shrugged. “A few.”

Davrosh leaned over the table. “You’re a real orchole.”

Sorrows looked at her, said nothing. Oray put a hand on her shoulder, pulled her back. He turned to Eldrake.

“Convinced yet?”

Eldrake soft-tapped her finger on the table. Counting. After a moment, she nodded. Oray glanced at Davrosh, took a deep breath, turned to Sorrows.

“Immortality without invincibility breeds distrust, Sorrows.”

“If you say so,” Sorrows said.

“Do you know how elves and dwarves protect their immortality? Their sanity?” Oray asked.

Sorrows nodded. Every member of every race, mortal or gods-born, knew the cost of breaking gods-law. Knew the shining towers with the black and gray elves would come hunting. Knew they never returned empty-handed.

“Vengeance of the gods-born.”

“Have you ever wondered how we do it?”

“I always assumed you use magic.”

“We do sometimes. Those cases are easy. Magic leaves behind a residue. A mark unique to the one who called forth power. A trail that lingers in the air, earth and water. It might smell, it might glow or waver, it might make a sound. Sometimes obvious, sometimes not so. Easy to discern, either way. But sometimes magic doesn’t help. A blade in the gut, for example. That’s just steel and flesh. The only residue is the aftermath of the act itself. Blood, gore. In these cases, magic doesn’t tell us anything more than a pair of eyes would. If we have the weapon, we might deduce its age and origin. We might find witnesses who recognize it, know its owner. We turn our search outward. We look for clues that might tell us what happened.”

Sorrows nodded. “Motive, means, opportunity.”

“Precisely. As you can imagine, we’ve become very skilled at finding these clues. There are only so many ways to kill someone, after all.”

“That so?”

Oray shrugged. “It is. Motive is more difficult to ascertain. But once we have an idea of motive, the rest falls into place quickly.”

“Last chance, Sorrows,” Shen said. “Tell me why you spared the Seph. Perhaps I can help you out.”

“Help me out of what?”

“You make me sick,” Davrosh said. “They were daughters. A family’s hope.”

Every hunter misses on occasion. The string is taut, the bow raised, the target sighted. It’s a shot he’s hit a hundred times before. A thousand. But this time feels different. Maybe he picked the wrong target. Maybe the wind shifted. Maybe he misread the distance. He hesitates. Doubts. The inner voice tells him to swallow the shot, step back, breathe. But he