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

the thud of arrows into tightly woven straw. Sorrows set aside thoughts of coffee and bacon, walked back and forth and back again past staggered walls into a room twenty paces tall, deep enough to hold a line of forty archers, wide enough to take targets at fifty paces either side of center. Swords and staves rested on shelves. Bows and arrows stood in barrels. The walls were rough-cut granite; the floor was smooth and polished to a shine that reflected glowstone high overhead. Some guards sparred in pairs and triples. Others worked bow or spear. One familiar figure stood on the far side of center, taking aim at stacked straw thirty paces away. Her form was good, her lines strong, confident. She loosed an arrow, was rewarded with a distant thud. Heads turned, appreciative murmurs followed. Sorrows smiled and made his way over.

“Nice shot,” he said.

“Thanks, orchole,” Davrosh said. “You come here to tell me how to shoot a bow?”

“Don’t need to, clearly.”

She glanced at him, stared for a moment. Gestured to a barrel. He lifted a bow, strung it, searched for arrows.

“Where will you be today?” she asked, notching her next shot.

“Wixfeld Manor,” he said.

“Just the one?”

Her bow snapped, the arrow hissed across the distance, struck the target a handspan off center.

“The other two will keep their daughters close to family,” he said. “Wixfeld’s the only one to worry about.”

The targets were simple coils of straw woven one around another. Black in the center, then straw, then blue, then straw, then red. Three rings. Simple. The red encompassed an area as big as a man’s chest. The blue, his heart. The black, his eye. Davrosh had scattered seven shots on the target already, four in red, three in blue. She was good. He’d known it by her stance. Didn’t need to see the target, wasn’t surprised when he did. He loosed his arrow, had another notched before the first hit, released it when he heard the point hit straw. A second thud a second later. The arrows were two finger widths apart, high left of center, but within the blue ring. A guard whistled low behind him.

“How’s Cheshki?” Davrosh asked.

Sorrows picked through the barrel, dropping arrows at his feet. “Twenty-seven and still breathing when I left her. Lovely woman.”

“She and Nisha are close. Good family, the Ellebrands.”

Sorrows nodded, turned away from the barrel, and knelt beside the dropped arrows. Davrosh released her bowstring. The shot hit within three fingers of center. She grinned, pleased. She turned to face Sorrows as she unstrung her bow.

“How’s Zvilna?”

Sorrows paused with his next arrow drawn. He shook his head.

“Didn’t make it to Zvilna.”

“What do you mean you didn’t make it?”

“I mean Jace and I came back to the tower after Ellebrand.”

“Why?”

“Sleep.” A lie.

Sorrows let his arrow fly, watched. It struck the center of the target with a dull thud. Davrosh turned, nodded.

“Nice shot. Zvilna was talking about you while I did her mask. She had hoped you would show.”

He shrugged. “I can’t be everywhere.”

Sorrows reached down and spread the remaining arrows apart. Eight left. He looked down the line of targets, saw some good shots. But didn’t see too many arrows in the small, black circles. In fact, he only saw one. And he had just put it there.

“True,” Davrosh said. She sighed. “I was looking forward to hearing how Bo and Zvilna’s grandmother would react to you showing up. Can’t stand that woman. Rules with a granite will. It’s a wonder Zvilna turned out as sweet as she is.”

Sorrows took a deep breath, let it out slowly through his nose. He closed his eyes, imagined the line of targets. Took another deep breath, let it out slowly, imagined the eight arrows at his feet. He opened his eyes, reached down, grabbed the far arrow, notched it, drew the bowstring back. He turned right, loosed the arrow, reached for another. He was reaching for the third arrow when the first hit. He spent the line of eight arrows in as many seconds. Looked down the line of targets. Saw eight shafts buried in small, black centers.

“Gods,” Davrosh said. Her mouth hung open.

Sorrows stood, unstrung his bow, returned it to a barrel. He looked at Davrosh.

“Where’s your shadow?”

She was still staring at the line of targets. “Who?”

“Ga’Shel.”

“Took the guards to Wixfeld this morning. He’s sealing Lira’s mask. Why did you shoot at the other targets?”

Sorrows shrugged. “Lots of open centers.”

“Thank the gods no one was pulling arrows.”

“I don’t shoot when I’m not supposed to,” he said.

“Do you ever miss?”

“Sometimes.”

She shook her head, still staring at the targets. “Gods.”

“You ready to grab breakfast?”

“Why?” she asked, turning to him. “You want to fight me for bacon?”

Sorrows shook his head. “I don’t know which door to open.”

She snorted. “Can’t your elf friend take you?”

“Don’t know where she is.”

Davrosh looked at his chest, his bare feet. “You can’t go like that. Why aren’t you dressed?”

“Door was unlocked. Felt like looking around.”

“Find anything interesting?”

“Not really.”

“Where are the rest of your clothes?” she asked.

“In my room.”

“We’ll stop there first. Don’t get any ideas.”

It was his turn to snort. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Orchole,” she said, but it was half-hearted, distracted. Her eyes wandered back to the line of targets. They pulled their arrows and left.

Chapter 25

THE DINING HALL had a sort of hierarchy to it. An expression of needs demonstrated by physical proximity to the tables of food at its center. The further away from the food, the less immediate the need. A seat near the middle said, Can’t talk, eating. A seat further out said, Eating, can talk between bites. Oray had taken a seat that said, Here to meet someone. And the scowl on his face added, Pray to the gods it isn’t you. Davrosh caught his eye and waved, but he looked past her to Sorrows.

Sorrows ignored the stare, followed Davrosh to the food. He grabbed a plate of bacon before she could reach it.

“Orchole,” she said.

“Relax,” he said.

He set the plate in front