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

an accomplishment, something to be proud of. As though being an orc split was his mastery. He’s a fool to think it is any of his doing. The gods have guided you to this moment. They remove obstacles; they illuminate your path. Your time is now. The musicians stop playing. The guests depart one after another. You reach into your pocket. You feel the coil of wire. Zvilna’s bedroom is on the second floor. With a window overlooking a garden. You decide you will leave the curtains open when you go. Death is a terrible, ugly thing, but she will look peaceful in the morning light.

Zvilna’s parents lead her upstairs. She drags her feet. She does not want the night to end. Or she is frightened. She keeps glancing over her shoulder, looking toward the front of the house. Toward the front door and foyer. You leave. You are in the bedroom before they arrive. Her mother kisses her on the cheek. Zvilna hugs her father. She smiles, but it does not reach her eyes. She is nervous. She wrings her hands; she worries at the hem of a sleeve. She wipes away a tear. Her mother says something. You can’t hear the words. Her father points to the door. Speaks more silent assurances. A guard appears in the doorway, smiles at Zvilna, salutes her father. Her parents leave, closing the door on their way out. Zvilna is alone.

You slip into the moment like a stone sinking into water. You take Zvilna’s hand, lead her to her bed. She follows, doesn’t question, doesn’t resist. You help her lie down. She stares at you, doesn’t comprehend, doesn’t recognize. You brush your thumb across her lips. She smiles, but it’s only a reflex. You didn’t do that with the first. A mistake. These are not rats or strays. Not lesser creatures. They plead, they question, they cry out. They distract. Better to trap their tongues and mute their words.

She’s lying down now. You take the coil of wire, pull a length free, and lay it across her forehead. Her Stone Mother’s mask is pristine. No smudges, no break in the design. It is artistry made eternal by magic. It is essential. You slide the coil beneath the bed, loop it up and over the bridge of her nose, under the bed again, around an ankle, under the bed again. You bind her, cut the wire, pull it tight, tie it off. You cut a second length from the coil. A shorter length. But long enough to wrap around your hands and one of her wrists.

The gods watch you throughout. You can see the shadowed presence of one standing in the corner. You know what is expected. Zvilna screams when her gods-bond is broken. She arches her back, convulses. The wire cuts into her forehead, her face, her ankles. The god approaches, all shadow and terrifying power. It holds a dagger in its hand. You have seen the weapon before. It is slender and silver with a pearl inlaid handle. It is beautiful. It is to be your gift when your mastery is fully realized. You wait. You don’t speak. You have tried before, but the gods do not respond. Not yet. But someday. Perhaps soon. When the presence finally leaves, a sense of satisfaction fills the room. This is new. Encouraging. You hear voices outside the door. The guards are playing cards to pass time. You pull an arrow from your cloak and hold it above Zvilna’s body. It is weak from loss of blood, but still breathing. It is without a soul now. Only a body. You realize you never spoke Zvilna’s name. You whisper it as you let go of the arrow. It falls quickly, then slowly, then stops. You leave the wire. It is sticky with blood. No matter, you will obtain a new coil for your next target. Mastery is not without its costs. You have one last step before the end. You brush your thumb across Zvilna’s lips once more and her mouth opens as though taking her last breath. But she doesn’t breathe, and you are finished. The horizon grays as you wait. The sun has already risen when the door finally opens. You pass through the guard as his eyes grow wide. You walk down the stairs and wait by the front door until you hear the shouts from upstairs. You open the door and leave.

✽✽✽

SORROWS LAY ON his back, staring into darkness. The room was quiet and smelled faintly of wildflowers and honey. He was alone. Wasn’t sure why. Wasn’t sure he had made the right decision. He sat up, turned, set his feet on the floor. Reached a hand to the side, fumbled with the glowstone lamp until the iron hood came off and pale light filled the room. He glanced at his clothes lying in a pile halfway between bed and door. Strip, sleep, forget. That was his method. He’d be here before. Only ever accomplished two of the three. Naked was easy. And sleep always found him.

But he never forgot. Not one of them. Their lips, their laughs, their tears. Live a thousand lives. Lose a thousand loves. Remember them all. The plight of the reaper. A fate worthy of song. A fate he never asked for.

He stood, crossed the room. The door was ajar, unlocked. Unexpected. Jace had been in a hurry. She’d been angry. And maybe she was afraid she’d be seen. He dressed enough to be decent and stepped into the spiral corridor, cold beneath his bare feet, air cool on his chest and shoulders. He walked upward, approached the first door on his left, opened it to find bare stone. Dwarves, he thought. A second door revealed a dim room filled with rows of wooden chairs turned to face a wall painted in lines and shapes, roads and shops—Hammerfell seen through the hawk’s eye.

The third door opened with the ringing of steel, the crack of hardwood,