by Dan Fish
“Don’t roll your eyes at me. You know nothing of my life.”
“And you know nothing of mine,” Sorrows said. “Look at you. For an elf, you’re still young. Too young to remember humans. Too young to know what I’ve lost.”
“I know enough. More than you realize. I know Mig is a distraction. I know you’ll grow apart quickly as she ages and you don’t. I know she’ll pass away alone, wondering if you ever truly loved her.”
“Go to hells.”
Jace leveled a finger at him. Stared hard.
“No, you go to hells, Solomon Sorrows. After everything I’ve done for you, you still turn me away. I’m tired of it. Tired of hurting. Tired of the way you look at me. I’m sorry you lost your people, but it wasn’t my fault.”
An arrow doesn’t know hurt or anger. It doesn’t seek revenge. It has no will of its own. But Sorrows wasn’t the arrow. Not now. Not as they discussed humans and elves and events in the past. In all things humanity, he was the hunter. The only hunter. And hunters could be very angry. He straightened, towered. Stared down at Jace.
“Your people killed my people.”
Jace also straightened. Eyes like blue fire. Held his gaze.
“My people. Not me.”
“Leave.”
“I think I will.”
“I think you should.”
She turned, opened the door, slipped into the corridor. Sorrows stared for a breath, another. Then he crossed the room, closed the door, stepped back. Stared at the oak and iron, thought of Zvilna Gorsham. Knew he wouldn’t be leaving the tower. Not now. Not with his temper flaring and his knuckles white with fury. She’d be fine. She had the City Guard. And, truth be told, her father would be safer without Sorrows there.
She’d be fine.
Chapter 24
YOUR TIME IS now. No one has noticed you. They never notice you. You’re too good for that. The Mage Guard has been turned away. The human never showed. You hear Zvilna’s father boasting about it to whoever will listen. He thinks of it as a victory, an accomplishment, something to be proud of. As though being an orc split was his mastery. He’s a fool to think it is any of his doing. The gods have guided you to this moment. They remove obstacles; they illuminate your path. Your time is now. The musicians stop playing. The guests depart one after another. You reach into your pocket. You feel the coil of wire. Zvilna’s bedroom is on the second floor. With a window overlooking a garden. You decide you will leave the curtains open when you go. Death is a terrible, ugly thing, but she will look peaceful in the morning light.
Zvilna’s parents lead her upstairs. She drags her feet. She does not want the night to end. Or she is frightened. She keeps glancing over her shoulder, looking toward the front of the house. Toward the front door and foyer. You leave. You are in the bedroom before they arrive. Her mother kisses her on the cheek. Zvilna hugs her father. She smiles, but it does not reach her eyes. She is nervous. She wrings her hands; she worries at the hem of a sleeve. She wipes away a tear. Her mother says something. You can’t hear the words. Her father points to the door. Speaks more silent assurances. A guard appears in the doorway, smiles at Zvilna, salutes her father. Her parents leave, closing the door on their way out. Zvilna is alone.
You slip into the moment like a stone sinking into water. You take Zvilna’s hand, lead her to her bed. She follows, doesn’t question, doesn’t resist. You help her lie down. She stares at you, doesn’t comprehend, doesn’t recognize. You brush your thumb across her lips. She smiles, but it’s only a reflex. You didn’t do that with the first. A mistake. These are not rats or strays. Not lesser creatures. They plead, they question, they cry out. They distract. Better to trap their tongues and mute their words.
She’s lying down now. You take the coil of wire, pull a length free, and lay it across her forehead. Her Stone Mother’s mask is pristine. No smudges, no break in the design. It is artistry made eternal by magic. It is essential. You slide the coil beneath the bed, loop it up and over the bridge of her nose, under the bed again, around an ankle, under the bed again. You bind her, cut the wire, pull it tight, tie it off. You cut a second length from the coil. A shorter length. But long enough to wrap around your hands and one of her wrists.
The gods watch you throughout. You can see the shadowed presence of one standing in the corner. You know what is expected. Zvilna screams when her gods-bond is broken. She arches her back, convulses. The wire cuts into her forehead, her face, her ankles. The god approaches, all shadow and terrifying power. It holds a dagger in its hand. You have seen the weapon before. It is slender and silver with a pearl inlaid handle. It is beautiful. It is to be your gift when your mastery is fully realized. You wait. You don’t speak. You have tried before, but the gods do not respond. Not yet. But someday. Perhaps soon. When the presence finally leaves, a sense of satisfaction fills the room. This is new. Encouraging. You hear voices outside the door. The guards are playing cards to pass time. You pull an arrow from your cloak and hold it above Zvilna’s body. It is weak from loss of blood, but still breathing. It is without a soul now. Only a body. You realize you never spoke Zvilna’s name. You whisper it as you let go of the arrow. It falls quickly, then slowly, then stops. You leave the wire. It is sticky with blood. No matter, you will obtain a new coil for your next target. Mastery is not without its costs. You have one last step before the end. You brush your thumb across Zvilna’s lips once more and her mouth opens as though taking her last breath. But she doesn’t breathe, and you are finished. The horizon grays as you wait. The sun has already risen when the door finally opens. You pass through the guard as his eyes grow wide. You walk down the stairs and wait by the front door until you hear the shouts from upstairs. You open the door and leave.
✽✽✽
SORROWS LAY ON his back, staring into darkness. The room was quiet and smelled faintly of wildflowers and honey. He was alone. Wasn’t sure why. Wasn’t sure he had made the right decision. He sat up, turned, set his feet on the floor. Reached a hand to the side, fumbled with the glowstone lamp until the iron hood came off and pale light filled the room. He glanced at his clothes lying in a pile halfway between bed and door. Strip, sleep, forget. That was his method. He’d be here before. Only ever accomplished two of the three. Naked was easy. And sleep always found him.
But he never forgot. Not one of them. Their lips, their laughs, their tears. Live a thousand lives. Lose a thousand loves. Remember them all. The plight of the reaper. A fate worthy of song. A fate he never asked for.
He stood, crossed the room. The door was ajar, unlocked. Unexpected. Jace had been in a hurry. She’d been angry. And maybe she was afraid she’d be seen. He dressed enough to be decent and stepped into the spiral corridor, cold beneath his bare feet, air cool on his chest and shoulders. He walked upward, approached the first door on his left, opened it to find bare stone. Dwarves, he thought. A second door revealed a dim room filled with rows of wooden chairs turned to face a wall painted in lines and shapes, roads and shops—Hammerfell seen through the hawk’s eye.
The third door opened with the ringing of steel, the crack of hardwood, the thud of arrows into tightly woven straw. Sorrows set aside thoughts of coffee and bacon, walked back and forth and back again past staggered walls into a room twenty paces tall, deep enough to hold a line of forty archers, wide enough to take targets at fifty paces either side of center. Swords and staves rested on shelves. Bows and arrows stood in barrels. The walls were rough-cut granite; the floor was smooth and polished to a shine that reflected glowstone high overhead. Some guards sparred in pairs and triples. Others worked bow or spear. One familiar figure stood on the far side of center, taking aim at stacked straw thirty paces away. Her form was good, her lines strong, confident. She loosed an arrow, was rewarded with a distant thud. Heads turned, appreciative murmurs followed. Sorrows smiled and made his way over.
“Nice shot,” he said.
“Thanks, orchole,” Davrosh said. “You come here to tell me how to shoot a bow?”
/> “Don’t need to, clearly.”
She glanced at him, stared for a moment. Gestured to a barrel. He lifted a bow, strung it, searched for arrows.
“Where will you be today?” she asked, notching her next shot.
“Wixfeld Manor,” he said.
“Just the one?”
Her bow snapped, the arrow hissed across the distance, struck the target a handspan off center.
“The other two will keep their daughters close to family,” he said. “Wixfeld’s the only one to worry about.”
The targets were simple coils of straw woven one around another. Black in the center, then straw, then blue, then straw, then red. Three rings. Simple. The red encompassed an area as big as a man’s chest. The blue, his heart. The black, his eye. Davrosh had scattered seven shots on the target already, four in red, three in blue. She was good. He’d known it by her stance. Didn’t need to see the target, wasn’t surprised when he did. He loosed his arrow, had another notched before the first hit, released it when he heard the point hit straw. A second thud a second later. The arrows were two finger widths apart, high left of center, but within the blue ring. A guard whistled low behind him.
“How’s Cheshki?” Davrosh asked.
Sorrows picked through the barrel, dropping arrows at his feet. “Twenty-seven and still breathing when I left her. Lovely woman.”
“She and Nisha are close. Good family, the Ellebrands.”
Sorrows nodded, turned away from the barrel, and knelt beside the dropped arrows. Davrosh released her bowstring. The shot hit within three fingers of center. She grinned, pleased. She turned to face Sorrows as she unstrung her bow.
“How’s Zvilna?”
Sorrows paused with his next arrow drawn. He shook his head.
“Didn’t make it to Zvilna.”
“What do you mean you didn’t make it?”
“I mean Jace and I came back to the tower after Ellebrand.”
“Why?”
“Sleep.” A lie.
Sorrows let his arrow fly, watched. It struck the center of the target with a dull thud. Davrosh turned, nodded.
“Nice shot. Zvilna was talking about you while I did her mask. She had hoped you would show.”
He shrugged. “I can’t be everywhere.”
Sorrows reached down and spread the remaining arrows apart. Eight left. He looked down the line of targets, saw some good shots. But didn’t see too many arrows in the small, black circles. In fact, he only saw one. And he had just put it there.
“True,” Davrosh said. She sighed. “I was looking forward to hearing how Bo and Zvilna’s grandmother would react to you showing up. Can’t stand that woman. Rules with a granite will. It’s a wonder Zvilna turned out as sweet as she is.”
Sorrows took a deep breath, let it out slowly through his nose. He closed his eyes, imagined the line of targets. Took another deep breath, let it out slowly, imagined the eight arrows at his feet. He opened his eyes, reached down, grabbed the far arrow, notched it, drew the bowstring back. He turned right, loosed the arrow, reached for another. He was reaching for the third arrow when the first hit. He spent the line of eight arrows in as many seconds. Looked down the line of targets. Saw eight shafts buried in small, black centers.
“Gods,” Davrosh said. Her mouth hung open.
Sorrows stood, unstrung his bow, returned it to a barrel. He looked at Davrosh.
“Where’s your shadow?”
She was still staring at the line of targets. “Who?”
“Ga’Shel.”
“Took the guards to Wixfeld this morning. He’s sealing Lira’s mask. Why did you shoot at the other targets?”
Sorrows shrugged. “Lots of open centers.”
“Thank the gods no one was pulling arrows.”
“I don’t shoot when I’m not supposed to,” he said.
“Do you ever miss?”
“Sometimes.”
She shook her head, still staring at the targets. “Gods.”
“You ready to grab breakfast?”
“Why?” she asked, turning to him. “You want to fight me for bacon?”
Sorrows shook his head. “I don’t know which door to open.”
She snorted. “Can’t your elf friend take you?”
“Don’t know where she is.”
Davrosh looked at his chest, his bare feet. “You can’t go like that. Why aren’t you dressed?”
“Door was unlocked. Felt like looking around.”
“Find anything interesting?”
“Not really.”
“Where are the rest of your clothes?” she asked.
“In my room.”
“We’ll stop there first. Don’t get any ideas.”
It was his turn to snort. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Orchole,” she said, but it was half-hearted, distracted. Her eyes wandered back to the line of targets. They pulled their arrows and left.
Chapter 25
THE DINING HALL had a sort of hierarchy to it. An expression of needs demonstrated by physical proximity to the tables of food at its center. The further away from the food, the less immediate the need. A seat near the middle said, Can’t talk, eating. A seat further out said, Eating, can talk between bites. Oray had taken a seat that said, Here to meet someone. And the scowl on his face added, Pray to the gods it isn’t you. Davrosh caught his eye and waved, but he looked past her to Sorrows.
Sorrows ignored the stare, followed Davrosh to the food. He grabbed a plate of bacon before she could reach it.
“Orchole,” she said.
“Relax,” he said.
He set the plate in front 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.
