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

Oray kept looking at his parchment, flipped it over. Blank. Grabbed another sheet.

“What in all hells is that supposed to mean?” Sorrows asked.

“Doesn’t have to mean anything. Notice something odd about the arrows?”

“Yeah, I noticed. They’re pristine. That’s impossible. So what?”

“Surprised?”

“‘Not really.”

“Why?”

“Never thought it was a shot that killed the daughters in the first place. Happened in a bedroom, for gods’ sakes. Close quarters, strong target, frightened. You’d need a blade. And you’d need to be good with it. One miss, one scream, it’s over.”

“What about the twins?”

“Still working on that.”

“So are we. Meanwhile, Hammerfell’s on edge. The whole city is tight. Like a wolf ready to lunge.”

“Your point?”

“My point is that it’s in everyone’s best interests to work together.”

“Maybe yours, but not mine. I’d prefer to take my bow and leave.”

“Would you? Are you sure? Talk travels fast in a city like this.”

“Talk travels fast in any city.”

A laugh echoed in the room. Sharp. Lacking humor. Oray shook his head. “Even faster in Hammerfell. Especially now. A rumor whispered in the streets at breakfast is at every dinner table by nightfall. And someone let slip the breaking of the gods-bonds.”

“Someone.”

“Someone. And if someone let slip that the Grim Reaper was here, carrying a soul-imbued bow, well…” Oray spread his hands wide.

“Insinuations might be made,” Sorrows said. That’s how it’s going to be.

“Dwarves do love to insinuate.”

“Two things, Oray.”

“What’s that?”

“You’re a real orc split.”

“I’ve heard worse. What else?”

“Don’t call me Reaper.”

Chapter 15

THE ARROW IS a clever touch. One that keeps them guessing. One that keeps them at a distance, where you’re least vulnerable. An inspired touch. And to think it came to you by accident. Then again, your best ideas have all arrived that way. A glance into the boughs of a tree where an errant shaft caught your eye. A crate of fine dwarven wire meant for the glowstone hanging in the entrance hall but left on your doorstep. Is all mastery left to chance? Or do the gods guide the steps of their chosen?

You decide fate and chance are not the instruments of your ascension. The arrow, after all, is clever, but unnecessary. Your mastery has never been about a single element. Not the slash of a sword or the weaving of a spell. Your talents are modest. It is your patience which sets you apart. Patience which shapes your mastery. You decide then the arrow will not follow you to Godscry. Why should it? The elves will present a different challenge, a different opportunity. They will need a different approach. They will not die as the dwarves do. But they will die. All will die, eventually. Your mastery demands it, and your patience will see it through.

✽✽✽

ORAY LED SORROWS further up the winding corridor. One door on the right, two on the right, one on the left, three on the right. Glowstone above, granite walls, granite floors. Same black veins streaking throughout. Black iron door handles worn to a shine by years of Mage Guard leather gripping and pulling. Sorrows turned to see Jace trailing behind. She met his gaze, smiled. He nodded, turned again. Oray had been in a foul mood when he left the room. He walked past Jace without a glance, didn’t speak to Sorrows, didn’t slow down as he climbed the tower. When he reached the door, seventh on the left from the previous room, Oray flung it open and strode in. Sorrows lingered, waited for Jace, but she shook her head and gestured him in.

The room was eight paces by ten, five high. A stone table stood lengthwise, long enough to fill the room, narrow enough to leave space for chairs and movement. Polished to a shine that reflected the sparse glowstone overhead. It was supported by a pedestal that ran down its center. In the dim room, with dark shadows beneath, the table looked like it was floating. Eight thick-spindled oak chairs were scattered evenly, four to a side. Davrosh and Ga’Shel had taken two seats at the end opposite the door. Their eyes flicked from Oray to Sorrows and back to Oray. Sorrows took the chair farthest from Davrosh while Oray made his way to the center of the room, where he remained standing. The door shut behind Sorrows.

“We’ll start at the beginning,” Oray said, placing his palms on the table. “Mari Sturm. Found four months ago lying in her bed, the morning after her Maiden’s Dance.”

A flash of light, the low hum of magic. The image of a dwarf daughter appeared on the table. Crisp, clear. Like she’d laid a blanket on the stone and fallen asleep. Skin smooth and young. Hair done up in thin braids and blue ribbon, pinned to her head. Her face was painted with a mask of ivy and lilacs. Davrosh’s work. Meticulous, detailed. The blossoms matched the color of Mari’s dress. Sorrows didn’t paint. Didn’t know how to mix colors to create shadow and light, shape and depth. But the detail, contrast, and texture of the mask made him think it would take a long time. He studied Mari’s feet, bare, silver bangles resting on more ivy and lilacs painted around her ankles. Matching bangles and paint on her wrists, which were both intact. The work would’ve taken Davrosh hours to complete. Hours spent talking with Mari. A conversation of opposites. Mari excited, rushed, quick to laugh. Davrosh listening, nodding, speaking in short, distracted phrases while she focused on her craft. Oray cleared his throat, shaking Sorrows from his thoughts.

“What can you tell us about the arrow, Sorrows?” Oray asked.

Sorrows stood, walked around the table, leaned over to study the shaft protruding from Mari’s forehead. The mask was unbroken, as though the arrow were part of Mari’s head and Davrosh had simply painted around it. No depression on Mari’s skin, no indication of a penetrating shot. He straightened, shrugged.

“It’s a distraction,” he said.

“Why do you say that?” Oray asked.

“An arrow splinters when it hits a dwarf skull. Maybe splits, maybe