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

of her, grabbed a stack of cakes. She eyed him, picked up the bacon.

“Someone’s in a good mood today,” she said. But her voice was asking, What exactly did you do last night?

Sorrows sighed. Thought again about his decision. Was feeling somewhat better about it. Somewhat. Wanted to see Mig.

“A better mood than him,” Sorrows said. He nodded in Oray’s direction. “That’s for sure. Did he eat already?”

“Doubt it. I’ve never seen him eat.”

“Same with Jace. Must be an elf thing.”

Davrosh gave a sharp laugh. “Ostev is always eating.”

“That’s a Walker thing,” Sorrows said. “Mig eats more than I do.”

“Fair enough.”

They each grabbed a cup of coffee and walked to Oray.

“Good morning, La’Jen,” Davrosh said.

“Good morning, Remma, Sorrows,” Oray said.

“You look like all hells, Oray,” Sorrows said. “Trouble sleeping?”

“Sleeping is easy,” Oray said. “There’s just never enough of it. Tell me about Ellebrand.”

“Safe when I left her.”

“Anything suspicious?”

“Nothing.”

“How was her mask?” Davrosh asked.

“At the beginning? Nothing remarkable,” Sorrows said. “By the end, it was just paint smeared on skin.”

“What about Gorsham?” Oray asked.

“Never made it there.”

Oray raised an eyebrow. Which looked a lot like I know. Sorrows thought about Jace. She’d been angry. Maybe she’d talked. He wondered what Oray had heard.

“You have anyone to watch today?” Oray asked.

“Wixfeld,” Sorrows said.

“Remma will go with you.”

“I don’t need another wet nurse.”

“You any closer to finding the killer?”

“No.”

“Then you’re becoming less useful to me by the minute. In fact, you can just leave the bow and get all hells out of Hammerfell, as far as I’m concerned.”

Sorrows shook his head. “If I leave, daughters will keep dying. Maybe instead I should visit the Archmage. Point out the obvious. You’re in over your head and Davrosh should be reassigned.”

“Hey,” Davrosh said. “I was just sitting here, orchole.”

“Remma’s still my best,” Oray said. “And I want her there with you.”

“Then at least give us Ga’Shel,” Sorrows said. “Wixfeld Manor is near two hours away, slow-footing.”

Oray stood. Leaned over the table.

“Keep telling me what to do, Sorrows,” he said. “See how it works out for you.”

He didn’t wait for a reply, just turned and left.

“Leave me out of any future pissing matches with La’Jen,” Davrosh said.

Sorrows sighed, reached across the table, took the last piece of bacon from her plate, shoved it into his mouth.

“Gods, you’re such an orchole,” she said.

He drained the last of his coffee, stood, turned to the door.

“See you at Wixfeld,” he said, and walked away.

✽✽✽

HAMMERFELL TOWER WAS three times as tall as any other structure surrounding it. It had been built twelve hundred years before, when elf seers predicted the rise of the dwarf city. Some suggested their prediction had been more of a self-fulfilling prophecy. The dwarves spent three years cutting into the mountain to pull the stone for the tower. Additional homes were built to house additional workers. Additional workers had additional appetites which required additional bakeries, butchers, taverns, farms. More dwarves came. More goblins came. Additional homes were built to house additional families. Self-fulfilling prophecy. The tower rose from the center of the growth, tall, proud. A testament to dwarf craftsmanship. Windows spiraled along its circumference, tracking the corridor that climbed skyward to the tower’s battlement. Below the battlement, a ring of tall windows offered unhindered views of Hammerfell in all directions. This morning these views saw snow and little else. Swirling, blowing flakes hid the shops and homes below, allowing only glimpses of stone silhouettes that stood like ghosts under a dull sun. Ivra Jace looked out from a window into the snow and sighed.

“Why, Solomon?” she asked the empty room. “Why would you turn me away? Do you suspect me? Do you know why I’m here?”

She stepped away from the window, traced the stone wall with her finger. Walked along the perimeter of the room.

“Will we dance again?” she asked. “Could we hold each other again?”

She turned away from the walls and windows. Crossed the room to a desk set near the center. She lifted a coil of wire from its surface, brushed her thumb along the tightly wound strands until one drew blood. She studied the bright, red bead welling on her skin, healed the wound with a thought and put the coil away. She sighed again.

“Could you learn to love me?”

✽✽✽

HE FOUND HISroom eventually. Inside, the bow was propped in a corner, curves gleaming in the light of the glowstone lamp, cloak hanging on a chair beside it. The room was cold, quiet. His breathing was loud in his ears. He heard every scrape of his boots on the floor. He sat on his bed, forearms on knees, hands clasped, thinking of what to do. He was alone.

And then he wasn’t alone. Two green hands took his, pulled them apart. A body slipped forward into the space between his knees. The hands moved to his face, soft, lifting his chin, lifting his eyes. Mig.

They stared at each other. Her thumb brushed the side of his face. He waited for a slap, but it never came. He wiped away a tear that slipped onto her cheek. He waited for her rebuke, but she didn’t speak. He wondered how long she had been with him. What she had seen. He searched her eyes, but they revealed nothing. He searched her face. Wet cheeks, lips tight, chin trembling. But not angry. Eyebrows lifted. Nostrils flaring with shallow, rapid breaths. Afraid. He looked closer. She wore the same cloak she had in Mishma Valinor’s tomb. Her hair was done in the same loose braid hanging down her back. The collar of the buttermilk dress was just visible at the base of her neck.

“Where have you been?” he asked.

She looked at him, shook her head slowly. Hesitated. Her body language said she knew. She knew everything. Guilt knotted his stomach. He took her shoulders. Had to explain. She’d left. Jace was aggressive. He’d resisted as well as he could.

“Mig, I—”

She pressed her fingers against his lips, stopping him.

“She’s dead.”

Her voice was little more than a whisper,