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

there. Like reaching without a hand, stepping without a foot. Julia flickered. Pressed forward to kiss him. Passed through him, faded away. Sharp, sudden.

He sighed, fell backward on the bed, onto his back and shoulders. Grimaced, tensed, swore. Thought of Zvilna. Thought about the victims of her wrath. Thought of facing Julia again after he killed again. Imagined her face, no longer angry; distant, searching, unable to find him. Grown apart.

He didn’t have a god. But he still had a hell.

✽✽✽

A DAY WASTED. The thought angers you. You pick up a chair, slam it against the wall. The thought infuriates you. You pick at the wreckage of the chair, at the spindle back, which has remained whole. You lift it up and bring it crashing down. You look at the floor. The chair is in pieces. Like your plan.

You had four problems and two days to do something about them. Two whole days. You meant to take care of the hunter first. But the elf interfered. The elf, who acted without your guidance. More than a simple nuisance now. Dangerous, unpredictable. Frustrating. And after you spent so long planting so many seeds. After you whispered the idea of mastery. After you found the scrolls and tomes. After you planted the coil of wire. After you prodded and pointed to the Maiden’s Dance. After you curated a series of victims to bolster confidence, refine technique, maintain focus. All that work, that time invested. All lost to ambition and lust. You pick up a chair leg and throw it across the room.

The box bothers you now as well, though you don’t need it. You prefer to keep the dagger close, anyway. But someone stole the box from you. The elf or the hunter, but likely the hunter. And you don’t know why, which concerns you. You’re wondering what you might have missed. You’re thinking the box might serve some purpose. You’re thinking the box might be a bigger problem than you realize.

The only silver thread in this tapestry of misfortune is the sickle sword. You learned of its location. You searched for it. You found it. And in time for Nisha Davrosh, if you so choose. The dagger could hold a second soul, but a second imbued weapon has its advantages, as well. A decision will need to be made. But you are not worried. You have a day to make it. One day. One night to resist the dagger’s pull. And you will resist, despite your impatience. The thought of a second weapon occupies your thoughts, keeps you distracted. You will need to choose between more power or more options. This is an important decision. You could go either way. To be safe, you’ll bring the sickle sword along. Maybe you’ll use it to end the elf. Or maybe you’ll use the dagger. Maybe you’ll make it look like…

You grab another chair leg and throw it across the room with a laugh. You smile. You never smile. The act of it tugs at your face, unfamiliar. Your teeth are exposed to the air, they feel cold. It is an unsettling feeling, smiling. But you find you cannot stop. You’ve had an idea. A very good idea.

You won’t choose between the sickle sword and the dagger. You don’t need to. The elf will die from the sickle sword. You’ll do it in a way that suggests a struggle between Nisha Davrosh and her would-be killer. It will be believable. The sickle sword was in the tower under lock and key. The half-born could be implicated by rumor alone. The killer, the weapon, the dead dwarf. All the clues will be there, in Nisha Davrosh’s room, laid out in the most obvious way. Conclusions will be made. Assumptions will be so natural they won’t be second-guessed. The Mage Guard will close their case; Hammerfell will sleep soundly. You’ll steal the sickle sword from the tower a second time, now imbued with Nisha Davrosh. You’ll carry it with the dagger. The dagger that will hold two souls: the soul of the dwarf and the soul of the elf. It is somewhat blasphemous to tie an elf soul to an elf weapon. But the elf is a nuisance, unpredictable. Dangerous. The elf needs to be killed, and the dagger needs a second soul.

Problem solved.

✽✽✽

“WHAT IN ALL hells are you doing?”

Davrosh stood in the doorway, Ga’Shel behind her. Sorrows kicked at bedding strewn across the floor, kicked at the tapestry lying on top of it, kicked at the chair tipped on its side, kicked at the bed, the table, the empty tub. Kicked the glowstone lamp hard enough to send it bouncing off one wall into the next. Shadows ran across the ceiling, fleeing the light.

“It’s gone,” he said.

“What’s gone?” Davrosh asked.

He glanced at her, said nothing for a moment, then lifted the mattress and looked underneath. Again. Nothing.

“Something important.”

“It’ll have to wait,” Davrosh said. “We’ll be late as it is.”

Sorrows shook his head, shrugged. “Fine.”

He joined them in the corridor. Up. Entrance hall. Out. He’d stayed in the tower too long. He passed Fenia, with her short black hair, violet eyes, gamine charm. He passed Rodolpho, tall and flame-haired. He passed Brenna, whose ears were a bit too pointed, and Gervis, whose ears were a bit too round. He knew them all. And they knew him. These things happened. People became familiar. He knew most of the tower hated Oray, which had been a pleasure to learn. He knew most didn’t know much about Ga’Shel, which didn’t surprise him. He knew everyone respected and enjoyed Davrosh, which might have bothered him before, but which he understood well enough now. He knew things about the tower. Things you could only know if you’d lived there for far too long.

Ga’Shel slipped and disappeared as Sorrows and Davrosh reached their sled. No goodbye or good luck. He’d simply been there one moment, too quiet and too close to Sorrows. The next moment he was gone.

“What’s got