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

stared at him a moment longer, then nodded. They walked a bit further before Oray stopped beside a door, pulled it open.

“Your room,” he said. “Get familiar, get comfortable. Get ready to work. We’ve got three weeks.”

Sorrows stepped inside, glanced from one side to another. The bow was on a bed in the corner. The room was fifteen paces by ten and another five high. A tapestry on the far wall showed an elf scholar standing beneath a starry sky. It was accommodating enough. He turned to Oray, nodded his approval. Not that it matters, he thought.

“We’ll get together shortly to talk through a few details,” Oray said. He glanced at the bow. “Not enough time for any... meetings.” No time for Julia, he was saying.

“Sure,” Sorrows said. Piss off, he thought.

Chapter 14

ORAY LEFT. SORROWS walked to the tapestry, pulled it from the wall, tossed it on the floor. Disrobed, threw his cloak and clothes onto the image of the scholar. The scent of mint and rosemary filled the room. Pungent. Strong. Elf magic. It had been a long journey. He sat down, grabbed a corner. Something dark with stars. The magic coursed over his body, cold, tingling. It turned the skin on his arms to gooseflesh. Hands slipped over his shoulders, sudden, unexpected. Fingers slid onto his chest. A body pressed against his back, soft, warm. He tensed.

“You got past Pesh?” he asked.

“Yes,” Mig said.

“Fen?”

“A diversion. Was Bex that got me in when the guards turned their backs. And she helped sneak me into the tower.”

“Makes sense. Saw her at the gate. When she mentioned you by name, I figured you two had worked together. She give you any trouble?”

Mig laughed, small. Shook her head. “No. She’s changed. Doesn’t cause trouble anymore.”

Sorrows nodded. “Anyone see you?”

A laugh. “What do you think?”

“I think Pesh might have.”

“Pesh likes me.”

He placed a hand over hers. “Everyone likes you. How long have you been here?”

“Five days.”

“Gods, you must be starving.”

Another laugh. She moved her hands under his arms, across his chest, breathed in his ear. “I slipped, went thick. It’s only felt like a few hours.”

“You can do that?”

“Easy as going thin.”

“No one’s mentioned it before.”

“No one?”

“Not in a thousand years.”

She scoffed, shrugged. Her chest rubbed against his back. “You probably weren’t listening or weren’t interested. Everyone wants to slip to save time.” She bit his ear, light, inviting. Her voice fell to a whisper. “But it can be nice to waste time instead.”

Sorrows pulled gently on her hand, but she unwrapped her arms, pushed away. He turned to face her, confused by her presence, affection, then sudden distance. She wore a gray cloak, not the dull silver of the Mage Guard, but something stone-like, mottled, textured. Her hood was back, her hair in a tight braid, the points of her ears lying against her head. She walked toward the bed and trailed her fingers along the length of the bow.

No loose ends.

“This is the bow,” she said. A statement. Simple. But an implied question. Not as simple. This is Julia? This is why I haven’t seen you in a year?

“Yes.”

“It’s beautiful.” Was she beautiful?

“Very.”

Her fingers stopped on a swirl in the woodgrain. “What will you do?” Will you choose her over me?

“I need to find a Seph,” he said, looking past Mig to the bow. “She deserves to be at rest. It’s time.”

Her fingers resumed their slow, soft, sliding. She smiled. He offered a small grin in return. She looked at him, raised an eyebrow. Took a step closer. Another.

“You’re really ready to finish the job?”

Another step.

“Yes.”

“Well, we were together for a while before the bow came along.” Another step.

“Yes.”

She undid a clasp on her cloak, dropped her hand to the next.

“Have you ever tangled outside the gods-stream?” she asked.

He had, long ago, but he liked where this was going. “No.”

“You’re lying.”

“Maybe.”

There were no footsteps in the hall, no knocking. Just the faint rasping of oiled iron as the door opened. Apparently his limited privileges did not include privacy. Mig slipped the gods-stream and vanished. Sorrows turned. Expected another guard with some minor physical abnormality. Expected someone not quite Godscry material. Expected an anomaly. Instead was greeted by the unexpected.

She had hair like summer sun, tied loose behind her head with black elf cords. Her eyes were like deep water. Her skin like pale sand. Her lips were like a rose-blushed sunset, and parted slightly. She wasn’t wearing a cloak and her jerkin was half-unbuttoned, showing a loose, white tunic beneath. She was at most a handspan shorter than Sorrows, tall for an elf. Long-legged, thin. Gorgeous. She was staring at him, head tipped to one side, smiling. And he was sitting on the floor, clutching a corner of tapestry, clothes in a pile an arm’s length away.

“Hello, Solomon,” she said.

Sorrows said nothing, watched her. Wondered what Mig was seeing.

The elf stepped closer; Sorrows held up a hand.

“I’m not dressed,” he said. An obvious statement.

Her smile grew. “What were you doing?”

“Hygiene.”

She nodded as though the explanation was entirely acceptable. “Continue.”

She didn’t move. Elves.

“Could I have some privacy?”

“Of course,” she said.

She walked to the door, closed it without leaving the room. Turned to face Sorrows. Indicated with a nod of her head that he should proceed. He stared at her. She smiled at him. Impasse. Blades crossed. A battle of wills. He grabbed the tapestry, thought of modesty, then shrugged, stood, and finished cleaning the weeks of travel from his body. The cold of the restoration magic helped calm any lingering thoughts of Mig, any newly formed thoughts of the elf visitor. She watched with casual interest for a moment before her eyes drifted to the bed, the bow.

“You have a name?” he asked. “You know mine already.”

“Ivra Jace,” she said.

“You a Master?”

He tossed the tapestry aside, picked up his clothes, dropped what he didn’t need or wasn’t ready for. Jace gave a soft laugh.

“Master? No.”

“Overseer?”

She smiled. “You flatter me.”

“You keep smiling, I’ll keep flattering.”

Flirting. Instinct. Stupid. He thought of Mig,