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

the very most, a risk. An elf who would become a god. As if it were that easy. As if god were a profession. A simple matter of mastery, and the path to godhood an apprenticeship of sorts. Foolishness. It would be easier for the elf to forsake all gods-bonds and become a goblin.

But the biggest problem is the hunter. One who carries the wisdom of ages. One who understands the matters of spirit. The hunter moves with instinct, faster than thought, primal. The hunter’s will is death. And the elf doesn’t see it. Doesn’t sense the approaching danger. The elf is distracted by thoughts of ambition and lust. Yes, the hunter is the biggest problem. One that must be dealt with quickly.

Four problems. Four matters demanding immediate attention. Yet, you are not worried. It is in times like these when your impatience becomes strength. It urges you into action. It moves you forward. Nisha Davrosh is still two days away. Plenty of time. An eternity. More than enough time to deal with four problems.

The hunter will be first. Then the elf. Then the rest will easily follow.

Chapter 38

GRESH LA’GREN WAS blond and tall with amber eyes like glowing coals. He was a century old, at most—young for a dwarf. His skin was sun-kissed, bronze, smooth. His chest was thick, his shoulders broad. He had an easy smile, a beard like a lion’s mane, and a deep chuckle that filled La’Gren Manor with low, rumbling humor. He was a Stoneshaper from a lesser known family who’d caught Sofya La’Gren’s eye, warmed her bed for a spell, then captured her heart and warmed her bed ever since. He’d explained this to Sorrows once at the start of the evening, shortly after they’d first been introduced. He told Sorrows again a few hours and several whiskeys later. He stumbled into Sorrows after the musicians had left and shared the story a third time. The details of his courtship grew more extravagant with each retelling. Rivals emerged, each vying for Sofya’s affections, some from very prominent families. In the end, it was Gresh’s prowess in the bedroom that won the day.

He was a good dwarf. Charismatic. Quick to laugh. For all his boastful swagger, he doted on Sofya. He kept her flagon filled; he joined her in dance throughout the evening; he tugged on her braids and kissed her deeply on more than one occasion. He sang, he toasted, he plucked on a lute at one point, to the delight of gathered family and friends. A good dwarf. Sorrows liked him. Which complicated things.

“Don’t take it personally,” Davrosh said, grinning. Her chin took up half her face. She elbowed Sorrows. “Guess you’re not Freni’s type.”

He shrugged. “Guess not.”

A lie. Somewhat. Freni La’Gren was as uninterested in a human male as any dwarf daughter might be. But Sorrows was a curiosity. Unique. The last of his kind. The Gray Walker. She’d watched him throughout the evening and into the night, stealing sidelong glances when she thought he wasn’t looking. It wasn’t the sort of thing Davrosh seemed to notice. But Sofya La’Gren did. She had pulled Freni aside. They’d traded words. Body language told enough of a story for Sorrows to guess what was said. He was a human; she was a daughter. She would carry on the family name. She should think of her suitors, her future. Freni should trust her mother. It was for the best. But it was a lie. Or, at the very least, a deception.

Sorrows and Davrosh walked the stairs, a landing, then more stairs up to Freni’s bedroom. Freni eyed Sorrows, lower lip protruding in a pout, small and sad. Davrosh still didn’t notice. She carried a chair past Sorrows into Freni’s room and turned.

“See you in the morning, orchole.”

“I’m right here if you notice anything.”

“Sure. We’ll be fine. Enjoy the shadows.”

Sorrows looked past Davrosh and tipped his head. “Goodnight, Freni.”

Freni’s eyebrows lifted, her eyes widened. “Good night, Solo—”

Davrosh shut the door. Her chair scraped, bumped. Sorrows sat, laid his bow across his lap, stretched his legs and listened. The manor was quiet, dark. The Mage Guard sentries scuffed lightly below, from stone to rug to stone. Davrosh talked to Freni for a spell. Two low voices that slipped wordlessly beneath the door. An hour passed. Snoring drifted up the stairs from somewhere below, and with it footsteps.

Slow, patient, practiced. Feet that knew each stone, each step, each tasseled rug. A head appeared in the darkness. One Sorrows expected. One which complicated things.

“I heard you were in Hammerfell,” Sofya La’Gren said. “I thought you might stop by. But then weeks passed, and I never saw you.”

Sorrows said nothing. Sofya stepped into a wash of pale light cast from a glowstone lamp sheathed in silk. She was much as he remembered her. Gleaming raven hair, snow-kissed skin, rose-petal lips. She stared at him with eyes like pools of quicksilver, ghost-like in the dimly lit hallway. She wore a nightgown; black, thin, sleeveless, plunging. It hugged her breasts and fell with tight, twisting lines to just below her hips.

“You say something?” Davrosh asked through the door.

Sofya stared at him, lifted an eyebrow. He shrugged, turned away from her and spoke to the gap between oak and frame.

“Nothing,” he said. “How’s your side?”

“Freni’s asleep already. Sweet thing. She’s exhausted.”

Sorrows turned back around. Sofya stepped forward, threading his leg between hers. Standing, she was a head taller than he was when sitting. The hollow of her neck was close, familiar, tempting. She rested her hands on his chest, pressed against him, moved her lips to his ear.

“I can be sweet, too,” she said, low, urgent. “If you remember.”

“I remember,” he said.

Sofya leaned back, studied him. Her face was a hand’s width away, her brow knit. Her eyes searched his.

“Was it because I’m a dwarf?” she asked.

“Was what?”

She frowned, almost pouted. Dragged her fingers across his jerkin, sighed.

“When you left without saying anything, I thought… others have such different tastes than