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

with less vigor, cared less about adjusting her pack. Dark circles lined her eyes. The light made it difficult to sleep. An inconvenience of forest-walking. By the time they reached Hammerfell, their bodies would feel fifty days of travel, but their minds would only perceive the passage of five days on the road. Not a basic concept. Not an easy thing to understand. Sorrows had asked Fen about it once, Mig about it twice, and decided afterward to never ask anyone about it again.

But he thought about the not-knowing sometimes. Thought about it a lot when he stepped onto water. Was thinking about it and only it as he followed Davrosh onto a river. Ga’Shel fell in step beside him. The three hurried across, moving quickly to avoid sinking into the sluggish waters.

“Bet your goblin friend can’t do that,” Davrosh said when they reached the opposite shore.

“I’ve crossed rivers with Fen before,” Sorrows said. “Though, I’ll admit they didn’t feel as solid. Sunshine knows his stuff.”

“A compliment?” Davrosh asked, feigning mock surprise. “I’m shocked.”

“Why? I’m not going to lie.”

“You never have anything nice to say.”

Sorrows shrugged. “Like I said, I’m not going to lie.”

Ga’shel and Sorrows continued walking, Davrosh continued stomping. They returned to the gods-stream in Vesh to restock. The city was like Tam, though smaller. It sprawled within a forest of hardwoods and evergreens, walls woven from trees. Most goblin cities had the same feel, the same erratic flow, the same narrow paths winding between shops and homes, the same welcoming smiles and bright, black eyes. Sorrows thought of Fen and Mig, and wondered when he would see them again. Wondered if he would still have the bow. Wondered if Julia would be trapped within its maple limbs or at rest inside the Grimstone.

He’d visited Vesh enough to know its charms. A chill wind blew through the trees, ruffling his cloak. He took a deep breath, filled his nostrils with the scent of resin and rain. Davrosh was arguing the price of something with a seller. Ga’Shel was watching with arrogant disinterest. Sorrows left them to find a butcher he remembered. He returned with the bottom of his pack heavy with sticks of cured meat. Davrosh and Ga’Shel were gone. No matter. Sorrows found a tavern built into a copse of black walnut, ordered a tankard of something dark and foamy, and drank and waited. Davrosh found him halfway through his ale.

“Where did you go?” she asked.

Sorrows patted the bulge in the bottom of his rucksack. “A butcher.”

“You need to stay with us.”

“Why?”

“Because quite frankly, I don’t trust you,” Davrosh said.

She was staring hard at him, eyes burning like evergreen fire. Ga’Shel stood beside her, said nothing. Sorrows shrugged.

“That’s your fault, not mine,” he said. “You still think I killed those daughters.”

Davrosh shook her head. “I know you didn’t.”

“First impressions, Davrosh,” Sorrows said. “You might reason that I’m not the killer. But you formed an idea of who I was before you met me, and that idea shapes how you see me. Natural instinct. Say a year from now I meet a nice half-born woman. Dwarf-elf. Face like a smiling potato. If I’m not careful, I’ll just assume she’s secretly in love with me.”

“I’m not in love with you, orchole.”

The tavern hummed with low conversation. A goblin lutist sat in a corner, plucking a song Sorrows had heard before. Something soothing that dawdled in low, hushed tones before rushing into a flurried crescendo, only to fall back into quiet contemplation. He nodded at two chairs.

“Whatever you say. Sit. Have a pint or two.”

Davrosh shook her head. “We need to get back on the road.”

“Takes less than an hour to finish an ale,” Sorrows said. He jutted his chin toward Ga’Shel. “Sunshine has kept us thin. We’re making good time despite your stomping.”

“We can afford to rest a spell, Remma,” Ga’Shel said. He pulled out a chair and sat.

Davrosh glanced at him, brow furrowed, slight frown. Traitor, she was saying. But she conceded and sat down. And when a goblin server stopped at their table, she was quick to order an ale and a loaf of bread. Her eyes followed him as he wove his way past crowds and tables and disappeared into the kitchen. She sighed.

“They’re a beautiful species,” Sorrows said.

“They are,” Davrosh said.

“He’s what, thirty or forty years old? Just entering the prime of his life.”

Davrosh looked at Sorrows. “I suppose. Why do you ask?”

“Goblins typically live a few decades past a century. A half-born might live a few decades past that, if one side is gods-born. You’ll probably see two centuries, if Ga’Shel doesn’t kill you first.”

Ga’Shel straightened, pursed his lips. Elf lack of humor. Davrosh rolled her eyes.

“So what? Why bring it up now?”

“Each species is different. Elves linger for millennia, well past their welcome. Dwarves return to their gods after about five hundred years.”

“Where are you going with this?” Davrosh asked.

“Why twenty-seven?”

The age bothered him. It was specific, consistent. All four daughters had died the night of their Maiden’s Dance. Not the day of. Not the day before. Not a fourteen-year-old, not a seventy-year-old.

The goblin server returned with two ales, a loaf of bread, and a wink for Davrosh. She blushed as he walked away, hid her face behind a tankard for a sip. Ga’Shel noticed, frowned.

“You fancy him?”

Davrosh shook her head. “No. Just reminds me of someone.”

Sorrows looked at Ga’Shel, raised an eyebrow. Ga’Shel shrugged. Davrosh frowned.

“Moving on,” she said.

“Right,” Ga’Shel said. “Twenty-seven. We think it has something to do with opportunity. A Maiden’s Dance draws dwarves from all over Hammerfell. Most are attended by dozens of family and friends.”

Sorrows shook his head. “Why kill the daughters? They’re the center of attention. If the crowd provides the opportunity, then why not choose a random guest?”

“The crowd provides the cover,” Davrosh said. “But he uses the room to perform the task. He needs privacy.”

“But they were still in their dresses, no signs of struggle.”

“Nothing happens before the kill,” Ga’Shel said. “He’s not forcing himself