Arrow on the String: Solomon Sorrows Book 1

by Dan Fish

  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 sunshine so quiet?”

  Sorrows stepped around back, but Davrosh was already there. She pointed at the basket. He didn’t care enough to argue.

  “Lot of blood this morning,” Davrosh said. “Probably upset him.”

  “Has he always been like that? Squeamish?”

  “As long as I’ve known him.”

  “He ever vomit at a crime scene? Or pass out?”

  “Not that I’ve seen. He just slips whenever it gets to him.”

  She pushed, the dogs mushed, the sled slid. They’d arrive at Dennicutt Manor in half an hour. Not early, but not late enough to worry Silpa Dennicutt or her parents. Sorrows leaned back, rested his hands on his knees, stared at the space where his little finger had been.

  “Gods, what a morning,” Davrosh said behind him.

  “Rest of the day hasn’t been much better,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. He narrowed his eyes, blinked, shook his head, turned around. “You worried about tomorrow?”

  “Not thinking about tomorrow until we get through tonight.”

  “You’re a piss-poor liar, Davrosh.”

  Davrosh said nothing. The streets bustled with dwarves and goblins, a handful of scattered half-born. Shops emptied and taverns filled. The sky overhead was dark and clear and filled with stars. The moon was bright and near full, but waning.

  “I want to be with Nisha tomorrow night,” Sorrows said.

  “She’s my sister,” Davrosh said.

  “Half-sister.”

  “That’s half more than you.”

  “Makes sense for me to be there. I don’t think Jace would kill with me watching.”

  The sled turned onto a side street. Sorrows spun in his seat, looked past Davrosh, squinted.

  “You know I’m right.”

  “I know you think you’re right,” Davrosh said. “We could both be with her.”

  Sorrows shrugged. The tower had two mage guards assigned besides Sorrows and Davrosh: Caruvi Rahvel and Yindenna Shelawae. Both were elves of smaller stature. Both had brown hair and green eyes. Both were proficient blades, from what Sorrows had seen in the training hall. Two elves, two blades, two names Sorrows would have preferred not to know. Not that Caruvi or Yindenna were worse than any other elf. He simply felt the fewer elves he knew, the better. But he’d been at the tower too long. He’d met most of the guards. Knew most of their names. These things happened. People became familiar.

  “That could work,” he said. “Caruvi outside the door, Yindenna in the main hallway. You’d be giving up a patrol, but you’d have both of us watching Nisha.”

  “Might jus
t mean both of us dead.”

  Sorrows glanced over his shoulder. “Gods shun it.”

  “What’s wrong with you?” Davrosh asked.

  “More than I care to admit. I need to ask you something.”

  “What?”

  “How good are you with the dogs?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The dogs. I need you to turn sharp left at the next cross street. The one with the stand of trees at the corner. Get as close as you can. Can you do that?”

  “What? Wait, what? Why?”

  Sorrows jutted his chin.

  “We’re being followed.”

  ✽✽✽

  IVRA JACE LEAPT from one rooftop to the next, sprinted its length, dropped near its edge, slid over the side. She fell fast, landed, and rolled. She stood, pressed her back against a nearby wall, sank into the shadows. Six dogs raced by, then a sled. In the sled sat Solomon Sorrows.

  She watched him pass and waited. Watched Master Remma Davrosh turn, look past Jace without seeing. Watched Davrosh’s eyes widen, watched her spin around. Heard her shout at the dogs or Sorrows or both. Jace waited. One breath, two heartbeats; two breaths, four heartbeats. Three breaths and the monstrosity passed her. Half gallop, half lumbering shuffle. Too many limbs. Seven. Too big a body. Elephant-sized. Too many heads. Three.

  The streets emptied. Goblins ran to hide; dwarves ran to seek a blade or an axe; half-born did a little of both. A stench filled the air like mold and rotten meat—the smell of catacombs and crypts and some things long dead, some things not as long dead. Jace followed the monstrosity, running a little faster than she had before; staying in the open a bit more than she had before. No one watched her. They didn’t have time or inclination to watch some elf in a patchwork cloak. Ahead, the dogs turned a corner, Davrosh ducked, the sled clipped a pine tree and disappeared onto a side street. The monstrosity followed shortly after, and Jace shortly after that.

  She slowed as she approached the trees on the corner. The elephant-sized body crashed onto its side. Seven limbs scraped and clawed at snow and stone. Three heads turned. Sorrows stepped out of the pine, just in front of Jace. He was tall, bow in hand, arrow nocked. He didn’t see her. He took aim at the monstrosity, loosed an arrow. It wobbled, then righted, then snapped through the air and plunged into one of three heads. A man’s head, possibly. Its hair looked like the fur of a stray, matted, coarse. Its skin was pink with fine white hair. Pig’s skin. Its eyes were hollow, unseeing, and one of them had an arrow running through it.

  The monstrosity shuddered. A ripple flowed over its body, turning patches of fur and skin to tendrils. The head with the arrow fell free and rolled to the ground. The fur and the skin and chunks of decaying flesh slipped off bone, leaving a grinning skull in a pile of gore. A limb fell free in similar fashion. A portion of the monstrosity’s torso broke away. The monstrosity shrank. Was less. Moved faster.

  It ran, covering the ground in a steady, four-legged gait. Arms with too many elbows and hands with too few fingers pumped; two on the left, one on the right. The monstrosity lumbered forward, racing toward Sorrows. Sorrows had another arrow nocked, took aim.

  Jace approached until she stood behind him. His hood had slipped from his head. His hair was tied back in a leather cord. It hung like shadow against his neck, disappeared into his raven cloak. He loosed a second arrow. It struck a second head. The monstrosity shuddered, more of it turned to piles of bones and rot. He reached for an arrow.

  But she had taken his arrows. She held them in her hands. His fingers passed through air, and he turned instinctively, saw Jace. His expression hardened, his brow furrowing slightly.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  The monstrosity was twenty paces away and moving fast. She offered him an arrow. He took it, nocked it, turned, and let it fly. It struck the third head. The monstrosity fell apart. A cloud rose above the wreckage of its torso, gray and rolling and flashing and crackling. Sorrows lowered his bow, reached for his chest. Jace caught his arm, held it fast.

  “Let me go,” he said.

  He pulled against her, but it was half-hearted. She pulled against him, and it was urgent, strong. He stumbled into her and she let his arrows fall to the ground. She brought her hands to his face, threaded her fingers into his hair, pulled herself up against him. Her mouth found his, lips on lips, tongue flashing against his teeth. He stayed rigid for a moment, then broke like snow shaking free of the mountain. His arms were around her, one hand sliding to her waist, one hand pressed against her back. He lifted her, held her. Her hands moved from his hair onto his back and shoulders, slid beneath his cloak and collar, raked at his skin. His mouth slipped from hers to her neck. She moaned, soft, eyes closed.

  “Hey, orchole,” Davrosh said. She stood on her sled, thirty paces away. “What in all hells are you doing?”

  Sorrows started, dropped Jace, spun around, said nothing. The storm and its crackling flashes of light had dissipated. The dogs sniffed at the wreckage of the monstrosity, whimpered, shifted anxiously on their feet. Davrosh left the sled and walked toward Sorrows.

  “Wasn’t that it?” she asked. “A Seph? Weren’t you supposed to do something with the amulet?”

  Sorrows said nothing, only put a hand on his chest, patting at the layers of clothing.

  “Shun it,” he said.

  Davrosh walked past him, picked his arrows off the ground, brushed off the snow, held them out for him to take.

  “What’s wrong with you?” she asked. “You’re acting strange. I thought I saw—”

  “It was nothing,” he said in a rush.

  “It wasn’t nothing. Not with the way you keep looking at shadows. She was here, wasn’t she?”

  “Yes.”

  “She kissed you again, didn’t she?”

  “She did.”

  “You orchole,” she said. “You let her get away.”

  He said nothing, turned in a circle, eyes searching. Davrosh put her hands on her hips, looked around, frowned.

  “Where’s your bow?”

  “Gods shun it,” he said.

  Jace remained still, hidden. She lingered for one breath, two breaths, three breaths. She took to the shadows and fled. The night was cold and quiet. The streets were slow to fill after the passage of the Seph monstrosity. She turned down side streets, ran across rooftops, worked her way north and east until she slipped down an alleyway and disappeared.

  Had she stayed for a fourth and fifth breath and more, she might have seen Sorrows return to the remains of the Seph. She might have seen him toss aside bones and animal skins, fur and flesh and skulls. She might have seen him tuck something into his cloak before returning with Davrosh and the dogs.

  But she didn’t stay, so she didn’t see—which made what happened the next day seem unexpected and unavoidable.

  ✽✽✽

  IVRA JACE STEPPED into the hidden room, shut the hidden door, and leaned back against it. She smiled, stepped forward, reached over her shoulder and lifted the bow free from its bindings. Ran her fingers along its limbs, tracing the curves of the havenwood maple. Crossed the room, set the bow in a corner, pushed back her hood, knelt.

  “My life would be easier with you out of the bow,” she said. She sighed. “Less complicated. Though I suppose less complicated isn’t always better.”

  She lifted the Grimstone amulet from a pocket, held it in front of her face, and stared at the lights swirling within the black stone; fireflies drifting in the night. She slipped the chain over her head, dropping the stone beneath her cloak and tunic.

  “I want to do something for you. Both of you. Think of it as a gift, though I wonder if Solomon will view it that way.”

  She shivered, rubbed her arms, turned, and sat against the wall. Bumped the back of her head against the planks once, then again, then again.

  “Tomorrow is Nisha Davrosh. I won’t put this off any longer. Tomorrow I ask Solomon if he could ever love a monster.”

  Chapter
42

  DAVROSH MANOR STANDS before a backdrop of oak and ash and white pine. Stacked stone walls, three chimneys, four peaked roofs, steep and slate-shingled. It lacks the scale of the Valinor estate and the humility of Hallovel house. But it is a stylish structure with stylish tastes. Wide windows framed in black iron with arched tops rimmed in brick. Glowstone lanterns adorn the exterior and interior walls. Box-like vessels of metal and glass. Like gifts wrapped with wrought iron ribbon. Most of the estate has been left to forest, but the path which leads from front gate to front door is set upon a wide lawn that affords unobstructed views of the manor. The lawn is all snow now, white and dappled with shadow. It dazzles in the early morning sun, as the manor dazzles with pale creams and golds, topped in dark stone.

  Nisha Davrosh’s room is on the second floor. At one end is a window, taller than Sorrows and wider than the sofa set before it; a long, gray thing of wool and batting and hidden frame. The window offers views of rolling hills and forest, mountains rising gray-blue beneath a clear sky. The bed rests against the opposite wall in a heavy oak frame stained dark, polished to a shine. Nisha might spend her mornings in the bed, propped up by any of the numerous pillows scattered against its headboard. She might take a cup of tea and stare at the mountains. Might set the cup on the table to her left. Might slide out of bed and drop into her slippers, walk across her room toward the window with its views. She might open the door to the left—the door set near the corner, perpendicular to the window and her bed. She might open that door and walk onto the balcony, which wraps the exterior wall for four or five paces along the corner of the manor.