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

and stoneshaping. Good dogs. And thirty of them were lying throughout the foyer, great room, and hallways of Gorsham Manor.

The dogs came with ten more City Guard. Thirty dogs, five teams, two dwarves to a sled. They’d make the return trip with three, bringing back the five guards who’d been chosen to keep watch. Two at the party, two beneath the window, one outside the door. Five in total, not including Bo Gorsham. That meant sixteen of Hammerfell’s finest turned as Sorrows and Davrosh entered the great room. A handful spared a glance at Davrosh, but this wasn’t a night for roguish lusts, which meant the majority fixed their gaze on the big human.

“You get the hells out of my house,” Bo Gorsham said.

He set down a tankard, stood up, squared his shoulders. Half a dozen city guards followed his lead. Another half dozen gathered in the hallways. A few of the dogs rose from the floor. A chair tipped over, cracked when it hit the floor. Shoulders tensed, eyes narrowed. Only Davrosh seemed unperturbed. She pushed past Sorrows, grabbed a fistful of his cloak and pulled him toward the staircase.

“Not how this works, Bo,” she said with a dismissive wave. “Death of a gods-born. Mage Guard jurisdiction.”

Gorsham flushed. Sorrows turned away, caught the eye of a guard. He was young. A century at most. His beard was gold-brown like summer wheat. His eyes were orange, faceted, wide, scared. He’d seen Zvilna. Sorrows looked past him to another guard standing further away. Different eyes, same fear. They were all like that. They’d all seen or heard. Gorsham had brought them upstairs. He’d shown them his dead daughter. You could see it plain as beards and braids. Sorrows guess he’d yelled, raged. Demanded an explanation. The young guards still wore the shock of his anger on their faces. But there wasn’t an explanation. They couldn’t find any clues. Sorrows guessed Bo Gorsham had yelled some more. Yelled until his voice had broken. Then he’d looked at Zvilna and simply fallen silent. The older guards still wore the weight of their captain’s burden like it was their own. Shoulders slumped, eyes fixed on the floor.

He and Davrosh climbed the stairs into a different world. A different Gorsham Manor than the one below. The hallway was empty, quiet. Light spilled from a door onto a wool rug running the length of the corridor. Ornate, tassled. Crimson and gold woven into a pattern of thorns and stags. Davrosh walked ahead, Sorrows followed. He continued past the door when Davrosh turned in. Four more doors before the hall ended in a window framed in twisted black iron. He turned around, passed the door again as he walked the opposite length. Six doors, another window at the end. More iron bars. He turned again. Davrosh stood in front of him.

“What are you thinking?” she asked.

He took a deep breath, blew it out slowly through his nose, stared down the hallway. At that moment, he wanted to tell her something obvious. Something that would make her eyes grow wide; maybe she’d snap a finger. Something they’d been missing. All of them. He owed it to Zvilna. He looked over Davrosh to the chair sitting outside of Zvilna’s bedroom. It was in a good spot. Next to the door handle. Full view of the stairs and either side of the hallway with a small turn of the head.

“Can’t get past the guard unless he fell asleep,” Sorrows said.

“No one slept,” a voice said, soft, tired.

Trellia Gorsham stepped into the hallway. Her eyes were red, her cheeks still wet. She wasn’t dressed in black. Not yet. She wore a house robe of gray wool with blue embroidery. The lace collar of her nightgown appeared underneath. Her hair was in a sleeping braid, loose, tied with twine. She had bags under her eyes. She hadn’t slept. She had probably lain awake all night, listening to every groan, every creak. She had probably been there when the door was opened in the morning. She looked at Sorrows, pursed her lips. He saw the question forming in her eyes before it shaped her lips.

“Where were you?” she asked.

“Ellebrand Manor,” he said. Half truth, all lie.

Trellia nodded, tired. “Was it nice?”

It was the kind of question a person asks when she’s only half paying attention. A question to make in polite conversation. A question that didn’t need to be answered. Sorrows shrugged, said nothing. Forced his mind away from the memory of Jace. Trellia nodded again, dazed, turned back to the room. Davrosh glanced at him, shook her head. Orchole. She walked away, and he followed her through the hallway into the room. Zvilna’s grandmother sat in a chair beside the bed: black dress, black gloves, black pins in her silver hair. She’d slept well, confident in her son’s ability to guard her granddaughter. To protect her lineage.

“Where were you?” she asked.

Her voice was sharp. She jutted her chin, clenched her jaw. But her hands were raw from wringing, her eyes red, and the thread of one glove hung loose where she had worried at it.

He ignored her. “Who else has been in here?”

“Just Bo,” Trellia said. “And Lieutenant Dresk.”

“Did anyone move anything?” Davrosh asked.

Trellia shook her head. “Bo said we’d need to leave Zvilna for you. He told us not to touch anything. He said we could stay with her if we left everything alone.”

Davrosh nodded. The night was black, but the curtains had been left open, and fine white flakes swirled against the window. The room was quiet. Just the whine of the wind and scratching of snow against glass.

“Tell me about last night,” Sorrows said. “From the end of the dance until this morning.”

Trellia staggered; he caught her elbow, steadied her. She stared at the floor, searching for words. Zvilna’s grandmother spoke.

“The dance was lovely,” she said. “I spared no expense on Zvilna’s dress or mask. Only the best for our beautiful girl. She looked lovely. All eyes followed her