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

talked to Trailswell or Gorn, they had him on means. Because the only thing dwarves loved more than telling tales of past battles was embellishing tales of past battles. Sorrows had performed his fair share of heroics on the frontline, but if Trailswell told the tale, Sorrows would seem a god incarnate.

Which left motive. And envy was too common a thing to dismiss. It was expected. It guided thoughts, actions, biases. Like feathers on the shaft. Sorrows might not envy any gods-born or mortal, but Davrosh did. And Oray, Ga’Shel, Shen, and Eldrake did, too. Maybe not enough to kill, but enough to believe someone else might. And that left Sorrows with a choice. He could either wait it out, and hope Trailswell or Gorn defended his character, or he could try to escape. But one thing was for certain, he wouldn’t let the elves near Julia. Not now. Not ever. Not if it cost him his life. He turned to Eldrake.

“I want my bow back,” he said. “Now.”

✽✽✽

SORROWS RETURNED TO the first room escorted by a trio of elf guards. Two joined him inside, taking up positions on either side of the door. The other remained in the corridor. Two knocks from the guards inside. All’s well in here. Two knocks echoed by the guard outside. Heard and understood.

Sorrows sat in the chair, bow across his lap. They’d taken the quiver. Expected. In their eyes, he was a killer. A man who had slain three gods-born, not someone to take lightly. The guards watched him closely for the first hour. Maybe two. No sun, no stars, no time. Eventually they adopted the stone-faced forward-stare of duty and disinterest. Sorrows knew the look, had worn it himself more than once throughout the years.

He ran a thumb along the upper limb of the bow, tracing the contour of the havenwood. The maple warmed at his touch. He knew every inch of the bow. Nock to nock. He slipped his hand down the belly, past the window, over the rest, and onto the handle. Lifted it enough to feel the weight of it in his hands. Light. Balanced. Whatever elf magic had been woven into the bow gave the wood luster, a faint crimson hue like sunset. He imagined the bow alive in his hands, limbs ready, string taut, arrow nocked and resting. He leaned back, looked past the heavy oak beams into the shadows, closed his eyes, focused his breath. He imagined standing atop Godscry Tower, bow in hand, storm raging around him. He imagined the wind at his back, his hood up, the sound of the rain in his ears. He imagined staring out over the city, raising the bow, nocking an arrow, pulling it back. He imagined loosing the arrow, watching it rise and fall and disappear. He imagined nocking another. And another. And another. He tied thoughts to the shafts, questions, worries. He sent them sailing over the rooftops. Time slipped away. His mind cleared. And suddenly, she was with him, there, in the rain.

She didn’t say anything. Just stood in silence beside him, untouched by the storm. She didn’t look at him. Just stared with eyes like pools of night sky, full of starlight and eternity. She wore a white dress, simple and flowing, shining like moonlight. Her hair was black and long like he remembered. Her skin was like cream and whiskey, and the memory of it lingered on his fingertips. He lowered the bow, held it at his side, reached his hand toward her, palm up, fingers splayed. A question. But one she didn’t notice. Her hands remained clasped behind her back, her dress whipped around her like white flame dancing along the curves of her hips, the lines of her legs.

“Julia,” he said. His voice echoed back in his ears, hollow.

She couldn’t hear him, but turned anyway, saw him. Her eyebrows lifted in recognition. Her lips parted. She might have said his name. But he couldn’t hear her either. She glanced at his hand, hurried to take it. Moved her fingers to lace between his. But the storm didn’t touch her, and neither could he. Her hand passed through his. She looked at it for a moment before lifting her gaze. They stared at one another, not speaking.

“I need to talk through a few things with you,” he said. “Think out loud.”

She smiled, raised a hand to his cheek, said something. But her voice was lost to him as his to her. Words were nothing more than shapes on lips and the flash of tongue behind teeth. She said something else, and he wanted to kiss her. To hold her again. He sighed, pushed away those thoughts.

“Someone’s killing the gods-born, Julia. Dwarves. Daughters. On the night of their twenty-seventh birthday. The elves suspect me, but they don’t have proof, and gods know I didn’t do it. They’re holding me in Godscry Tower, and I’m playing along for now.”

Julia said something, and her lips pursed for a moment before spreading into a smile. The corners of her eyes wrinkled. She kept talking. He watched her. A quick lift of her eyebrows, a shrug of her shoulders. He missed the nuance of her. Missed the sound of her voice, her laugh. Knew what they had now was only a shadow of what had been, but didn’t want to lose it. Knew he had to.

“They’ll take the bow if I give them reason. Maybe even if I don’t. I can’t let that happen to you.”

He squared his body to hers. Rain dripped from his hood, blew back into his eyes, blurred his vision. But he wouldn’t blink, wouldn’t risk losing the sight of her, tall and beautiful, untouched by the storm. He took his hands to her shoulders, moved them away when they passed through her dress and skin, held them as close as he could to believe the lie of their nearness. He needed to say something, even if she couldn’t hear him. He needed