Arrow on the String: Solomon Sorrows Book 1

by Dan Fish

  Mig sighed. “I know, but still. It doesn’t feel right.”

  “None of this does. I’m missing something. It’s right in front of me, and I’m not seeing it.”

  “That’s why you want to see the daughter?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What if you don’t find anything?”

  Sorrows shrugged. “Then we walk back to the Quarry. Between us going thin and Bex going thick, Jace will only think a second or two have passed. I’m out an hour of daylight, and you and I got to take a walk together. Seems a decent price to pay to eliminate some questions.”

  Mig smiled. “I suppose. I hope it works.”

  “It’ll work,” Sorrows said. It has to, he thought.

  Chapter 18

  THE TOMB OF House Valinor sits on the southeast corner of the Valinor estate. The land surrounding the tomb is flat, and the tomb rests beneath the ground, like Bex’s shack but on a grander scale. The entrance is inside a marble mausoleum with a peaked roof, columns, oak door stained dark. Perfect lines, perfect symmetry. Dwarf magic. Dwarves hunting stags in bas relief; an evergreen backdrop of pine and spruce; the Valinor family crest carved into each column. The mausoleum is an imposing structure, beautiful in design, solemn in purpose. The catacombs beneath are an expansive web of corridors to guide the living, and shelves to cradle the dead. Stone is cut and hauled away with the passing of each generation. This meant Mishma would be resting far from the entrance, far from discovery, but far from escape.

  Mig stood at the top of seventeen granite steps. She looked down at Sorrows, shaking her head.

  “This won’t work,” she said. “I can’t go down there, Sol.”

  Sorrows looked up, offered a smile, extended a hand. “Sure you can.”

  She shook her head. She was lit by glowstone in the mausoleum. Her skin looked soft and gray in the light, like wool or river rock.

  “I can’t.”

  Sorrows felt the current of the gods-stream swirling around him. If he moved further away, he’d slip back in. Without Mig, the experience would be unpleasant. He’d be torn apart, scattered across Hammerfell. And it wouldn’t kill him, which would make it worse. He was immortal, not invincible. He preferred to avoid any unnecessary lingering pain. He walked up the steps.

  “That’s fine,” he said, reaching the top.

  “Really?” she asked, taking his hand.

  He scooped her from the ground and tossed her over a shoulder.

  “No, not really,” he said.

  She kicked and screamed as he walked back down the stairs. When he reached the bottom, he sat on a step and set her down beside him, putting an arm around her shoulders. She hit him in the chest, forced his amulet into his sternum.

  “Orchole,” she said.

  He winced, rubbing his chest. “That’s Davrosh’s pet name for me. If you ladies keep calling me the same thing, how will I keep you all straight?”

  She glared at him. He squeezed her and smiled. She glared some more, then sighed.

  “Fine. Let’s go.”

  He stood, took her hand to offer comfort. And to make sure she didn’t panic and run. They walked among the dead, who rested on shelves cut three-high into the walls. The top shelf was eye level with Sorrows, the middle shelf just below Mig’s chin. She kept her gaze forward, avoided looking at the bones to either side. Mishma was easy to find. She rested at the far end of the catacombs, where the stone was fresh cut and rough. She lay by herself at the start of a corridor which would have held her lineage. Her shelf was set apart, ornate, alone on the wall. She was a daughter. She was special. Revered. But she was alone and would remain that way. Her line was broken, a branch of House Valinor that had withered before it bloomed.

  A dwarf was there, leaning against the lip of the shelf. Dressed in black, veil over her face. Mishma’s mother. Her own shelf was behind her, still empty. Her corridor would end with Mishma, unless she had another daughter. Unlikely. Mig stopped when she saw Mishma’s mother. Sorrows released his grip on Mig’s hand and moved forward, stepped through the mother and studied Mishma in the dim light of sparse glowstone.

  “Get back, Sol,” Mig said.

  Her voice was low, urgent. She gestured for him to step back.

  Sorrows shrugged, didn’t turn around. “She can’t see me, can’t hear me. I’ll only be here for a minute of her time.”

  Mig sighed. Sorrows ignored her. He looked hard at Mishma. A layer of fine dust coated her dress. The Maiden’s Dress. Blue, elegant. It covered her arms, covered her legs to her feet, which were wearing matching shoes. The braids had been brushed out of her hair. It lay coarse and black beneath her. Her hands were folded across her stomach. Sorrows shook his head. The rest of her was unrecognizable. Skin stretched over bone.

  “I can’t see anything like this.” he said.

  “Too dark?” Mig asked.

  “Too late. There’s not enough left of her. Just a dress and shoes and hair and her Stone Mother’s Mask. No flesh. And I couldn’t spot a skin wound unless it was sizable. I’m guessing that even Davrosh would’ve noticed a cut from a blade.”

  “What about the arrow?”

  Sorrows shook his head. “Doesn’t matter, can’t see it. The paint restored itself once the arrow was removed.”

  He stepped back, passed through Mishma’s mother, turned to Mig. She glanced at the mother, then looked up at him.

  “So, nothing?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” he said. “Waste of time. Let’s head back.”

  ✽✽✽

  THEY WALKED IN silence for a spell. Mig reached out, took his hand. A skin of clouds still hid the sun. Dwarves still crowded the streets. Snow still drifted in lazy swirls. Mig wasn’t as strong as Ga’Shel, but Sorrows estimated ten minutes in the gods-stream for the walk from Bex to Mishma, a minute not finding clues, and ten minutes back. If Bex kept up her side of it, Jace wouldn’t notice more than a flicker in the dim light of Bex’s shack.

  “Why does he kill them?” Mig asked.

  They were passing by a group of dwarf children, who chased each other through the streets with slow strides and silent laughter. Mig’s gaze fell on a smiling girl in a yellow hat, then drifted to the boy running after her.

  Sorrows shrugged. “Don’t know. The Mage Guard don’t even know how he’s killing them.”

  Mig squeezed his fingers, leaned against him.

  “Could it be the Seph?” she asked.

  “No,” he said. “They need a body that lost its soul, but one that’s still alive. The daughters all had an arrow in their head.”

  “But you said the arrows were added after they were already dead.”

  They stepped onto the gravel. Sorrows put his arm around Mig, shrugged.

  “I’m as quick to cry 'Seph' as anyone, but this doesn’t feel like the Seph.”

  “But there are Seph in Hammerfell?”

  Sorrows tapped the amulet resting against his skin. “As far as I can tell.”

  They passed the tavern, walked through crowds of half-born. Shoulders were hunched against the cold, faces turned from the blowing snow.

  “I’m worried about Jace,” Mig said.

  “Bex is harmless,” Sorrows said. “At least as far as the Mage Guard is concerned. Jace can take care of herself.”

  “I’m not worried for Jace. She worries me.”

  “She’s just a pretty face, Mig. A distraction.”

  Mig stepped away, looked at Sorrows. “I’m serious, Sol. You dismiss her because she’s pretty. Maybe that’s exactly what the Archmage wants.” Someone who knows what you like.

  Sorrows shrugged, said nothing. They walked. The side of the mountain turned to lines and corners, slanted roads and terraces. Bex’s tangled shack appeared, they approached, they entered. Sorrows sat on the same cushion, laid his bow down to the side.

  “As soon as you’re ready,” he said.

  Mig stood behind him, bent over, kissed him on the cheek.

  “I’ll see you tonig
ht?”

  Sorrows nodded. “As soon as I can.”

  The smell of stone and damp returned to Sorrows along with the ringing of iron outside. Dust swirled around fragments of glowstone scattered on the walls. His back grew cold without Mig leaning against him. He held his breath, expecting Jace and Bex to reappear.

  He was still alone when the burning in his lungs reminded him to breathe, and a voice in the back of his head told him to start counting. Was still alone at one hundred. At two hundred he picked up his bow. At three hundred he left the shack and emerged into blowing snow. He stopped counting and started working his fingers. Where are they? He waited, but Mig didn’t show. He tried again. Come back. Need to talk. He started counting.

  Every hunter misses on occasion. Loose enough arrows, and you’ll know a miss before the string slips off your fingers. At ten, Sorrows pulled up his hood and slid his bow into the bindings on his back. At thirty, he started running. He passed the tavern, kept running. He passed from gravel to paved stone, kept running. He ran until the tower loomed before him and didn’t stop until his hands grasped iron. He opened the doors wide while two elf guards leveled blades at his throat. He stopped, but he saw inside. Saw Jace waiting.

  And she saw him.

  She waved the guards away and walked across the stone floor. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair wild, like she had just come in from outside. She came close, took his arm, pulled him inside, turned to face him. Her eyes were glistening.

  “How could you?” she asked.

  She kept her voice low, lips close together. Her chin quivered. She was trembling.

  “What do you mean?”

  It was a weak deception and one he didn’t bother trying to sell. She slapped him. Hard.

  “Why do you hate me?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “I don’t.”

  “You’re wrong about us, but you’ll never see it,” she said. “Not now.”

  He didn’t know what she meant, and at that moment he didn’t care. Guards were taking interest, and he was feeling outnumbered. He reached out, took her elbow. She gave a half-hearted attempt to pull away.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “I am too,” she said.

  “For what?”

  She stepped forward in a rush and pressed her mouth against his. She brought her hands to his head, threaded her fingers through his hair. Her tongue slipped through his lips, past his teeth. She kissed him hard, then pulled back, stared at him.

  “I hope she was watching,” she said. Her voice was tight, angry. “She deserves it. You both do.”

  Jace turned and walked away.

  ✽✽✽

  HE FOLLOWED JACE into the spiral corridor. She turned left, headed down. She said nothing; he said nothing. One door on the right, one on the left, two on the right, three on the right, two on the left. She was walking fast, angry. She stopped in front of a door. He’d lost count again. She opened it; he walked into his room; she closed the door.

  He set the bow down on the bed, then sat beside it and waited for Mig. He expected yelling, maybe another slap. He’d explain, she’d forgive him. Eventually. Maybe before he was taken away again. Definitely before he fell asleep tonight. No way in all hells was he going to bed with an angry goblin watching him outside the gods-stream.

  But when she didn’t reappear, he worried that the shaft had snapped. The arrow had been loosed one too many times. Maybe she saw the kiss, turned around, and left. Maybe she was already on the road outside Hammerfell. He thought of her walking alone, obsidian eyes wet with betrayal. He was an orchole. He should’ve turned away from Jace when she stepped close. Should have shoved her away. Should have reacted. But he didn’t do any of that because he wanted the kiss. Maybe not all of him, but definitely a part of him. The loose hair, the flushed cheeks, the red lips. More of him had wanted Jace than he realized. More of him wanted her to come back through the door, blue eyes flashing with anger, full of passion, hungry. He realized then that Mig had been right, and he had been outplayed.

  He flashed some signs with his hands. Sorry. Surprised me. Wasn’t thinking. Mig still didn’t show. He took off his cloak, unbuttoned his jerkin, fell back on the bed, watched the lamplight flicker and dance on the ceiling.

  Hours passed by. The door opened, Jace stepped in. She’d taken off her cloak, smoothed her hair. Her cheeks were pale, her eyes placid and composed.

  “Is she here?” she asked.

  Sorrows shrugged. “If she is, she’s not talking to me.”

  Jace leaned against the door, closed her eyes, shook her head slowly side to side.

  “I shouldn’t have done that,” she said. “I lost my composure. I came to apologize.”

  Unexpected. Elves never apologized for anything. One benefit of complete arrogance is a conscience unburdened by the belief you are ever wrong. Sorrows watched Jace, said nothing. She kept her eyes closed, like she couldn’t look at him when she was this vulnerable.

  “You’ll learn things about me, Solomon,” she said. “Things I’d hoped we could get past. Now other things will make that difficult. But I need you to know I’m not a monster.”

  “I believe you,” he said. “I do.”

  She opened her eyes, looked at him, nodded, gave a small smile.

  “Thank you for that,” she said.

  A knock sounded on the door. Jace slid away as it opened. Davrosh stood in the doorway, jerkin askew, hair like a bundle of dirty straw. She looked from Sorrows to Jace to the bed to Sorrows.

  “Uh,” she said.

  “I’ll bring him up in a moment,” Jace said.

  Her voice was hard with command, her eyes said and that’s all you need to concern yourself with. Davrosh nodded and left. Jace held the door open, motioned for Sorrows to follow. As he approached, she put a hand on his chest, looked at his mouth, then found his eyes.

  “One more thing,” she said. “You should know, it’s always been like this for me. Since the moment we first met.”

  “Maybe the Archmage should assign someone else. Give you new orders.”

  She pressed closer. “If it were only orders, I think it would be easier to resist. Don’t you?”

  He nodded, said nothing, felt the pull of her body through the touch of her fingers. Knew she was right.

  And knew he was in trouble.

  Chapter 19

  ORAY LOOKED LIKE he’d aged ten years since breakfast. Not a good look for an elf. Not a good sign for his meeting with the Archmage. Davrosh slumped, shoulders sagging, eyes dull. Defeated. Only Ga’Shel looked unaffected by whatever bad news had been shared. But his smug indifference was all elf. Expected. They were back in the room with the polished granite table and padded chairs. A decanter of wine was on the table, four goblets and a glass stopper resting beside it. An arm’s length of parchment lay next to Oray, covered in fine script. A list of names.

  “They didn’t go for it,” Oray said.

  “What do you mean, they didn’t go for it?” Sorrows asked. “Make them go for it.”

  “We tried,” Davrosh said. “There are seventeen birthdays in the first week. We saw seventeen families today. One by one, they all but laughed us out of the room. Each family thinks it will be someone else.”

  “They’re not wrong,” Sorrows said.

  “Yeah, but they’re not right. It’s a gamble.”

  “That’s one hell of a gamble,” Oray said.

  Davrosh nodded. “It’s stupid. Our last family was the Gorshams. Ga’Shel suggested that I do Zvilna’s mask and then we stick around for the rest of the day to keep an eye on things.”

  Sorrows looked at Ga’Shel. The elf shrugged. “I thought it was worth a shot. They took Remma up on the painting.”

  “Right,” Davrosh said. “Then I suggested that Zvilna spend the night in the great room with us, her family, any close friends. I was told to piss off.”

  Ga’Shel cleared his throat. “Not in those exact words.”

  Sorrows reached for the pa
rchment, pulled it across the table. He didn’t count, but it looked like there could be eighty-three names. Each had a date next to it. The list progressed from the closest birthday to the furthest away. Nisha Davrosh was near the middle. He tapped his finger on the name at the top of the list. Shealu Hallovel. Two weeks, five days away.

  “What about number one?” he asked. “Are you doing her mask?”

  “No,” Davrosh said.

  Sorrows turned to Ga’Shel. “How about you? Are you applying magic or whatever it is you do?”

  Ga’Shel shook his head. “Her family couldn’t afford either of us.”

  “What about guards, Oray?” Sorrows asked.

  “Two,” Oray said. “They’ll keep watch during the celebration, and when Shealu retires for the night, one stands guard outside her room, one is stationed within.”

  “Make it three,” Sorrows said.

  “I can’t. Two guards that day, six the next, four the day after. Eighty-three birthdays in one month. I don’t have the guards.”

  “You’ve got one more now,” Sorrows said. “I’m in.”

  Ga’Shel looked annoyed. Davrosh looked skeptical. Oray looked tired.

  “Why help now?” Davrosh asked. “What changed?”

  “I saw someone today who changed my mind,” Sorrows said.

  “Who?”

  Sorrows shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. All you need to know is I’ll help.”

  “We don’t know who he’s going to target next,” Oray said. “He might wait, keep us guessing.”

  “No way,” Sorrows said. “Not this guy. He’s smart. Smart enough to not leave clues. A guy like that is always looking ahead to the next target. Always thinking. Always planning. A month gets to be a long time. Makes him anxious. And he’s smart, he knows anxious makes him sloppy. So, he’ll choose an early target.”

  “You’re grasping, Sorrows,” Oray said. “We don’t have motive. We don’t have means. And now you’re talking behavior like you know what the guy eats for breakfast.”

  “If I’m wrong, seventeen daughters are alive at the end of the first week. If I’m right, and we don’t stop him, one of those seventeen will be dead. I might be grasping, but that’s what you do when you’re falling. You try like all hells to grab onto something.”