Arrow on the String: Solomon Sorrows Book 1

by Dan Fish

  “Don’t do this,” he said. “Stop.”

  Nothing. He ran to the other side, did the same thing. Nothing. He lay on the bed, spread his arms out wide.

  “Don’t do it, Jace,” he said.

  “What are you doing?” Davrosh asked.

  “Have to get in her way,” Sorrows said. “Have to do something.”

  “Her hands can pass right through you. You’re not solid enough. We’d need to collapse a wall onto the bed. Something that moves slowly in the gods-stream.”

  Slow. Fen had talked about trees, boulders, hills, mountains. Things of substance. Homes were no different. Walls, floors, stairs, doors. All substantial. They needed something strong like that. Something strong enough to hold a daughter. To hold wire.

  Sorrows slipped off the side of the bed and grabbed the frame with both hands. Lifted.

  “Help me,” he said.

  The bed was oak, thick. Heavy. It lay solid outside the gods-stream because it moved slowly within it. Davrosh left the door, ran across the room.

  “Brilliant,” she said.

  She stood beside him. Vanilla and leather. Strong, half-dwarf muscles. They lifted the bed. Lifted it until she was standing on her toes. Just high enough. Half-elf limbs, longer than a dwarf’s. She dropped, flipped her hands so they pressed up against the underside of the frame. Her face was red with effort, her muscles shook.

  His muscles shook. But the bed was almost high enough. A little higher and Jace would struggle to deal with Nisha’s limp body. It might be enough to keep Jace busy until Ga’Shel arrived. If they could just lift it a little more.

  Davrosh vanished. The full weight of the frame weighed against Sorrows. Too much. He strained, it lowered. Slow at first, then faster as he lost leverage. It slipped the last handspan to the floor and fell hard on the stone.

  Boom!

  “Oh, gods,” he said.

  “What was that?” asked Davrosh’s father anxiously.

  The door started to open. Just a crack. A test. Keep the door shut, Sorrows thought. But he didn’t say it. Was too late to say anything. For a second, half a heartbeat, he felt the god-stream slipping away.

  Then the room went black, and he didn’t feel anything.

  ✽✽✽

  IT IS ALWAYS the arrow that kills in the end, after the soul has been torn from the body. It falls within the gods-stream, inevitable. The daughter slips, the point passes through her skin and bone. The daughter returns. Death is sudden. Always sudden. Suffering lingers, but life vanishes in an instant. One moment it is there; one moment it is gone.

  It will be the arrow that kills again, but sooner this time. It will mean less suffering for Nisha Davrosh. A death that leaves her wrists intact and allows her soul to return to her gods. A merciful death from a merciful god.

  You wait, slipped. And you watch from the hallway as the human and half-born tend to the female goblin. You are there when Nisha Davrosh appears, converses with her stepsister. Nisha turns away. One step, two steps, three steps. And you have her. You pull her from the gods-stream as easy as plucking a stone from the river. You take her hand and lead her upstairs. You guide her to her bed, lay her down. You leave her for a moment. Long enough to close the door, lock it. Then you return to her bedside. You bend over, take the arrow you’d left in the morning. You rise.

  She lays still, serene, unaware. Her green eyes sparkle within a mask of painted leaves and blossoms. You breathe. She breathes. You relax. It is always like this in the beginning. Quiet. Peaceful. You no longer hear the songs, the laughter, the murmur of conversation seeping into the bedroom from the party below. You are slipped from the noise and distraction. It helps clear your mind. It helps you to focus.

  But it prevents you from hearing the crash of a body against the door. It prevents you from hearing a heavy boot strike the oak. It is not until the iron pin skitters across the floor like a mouse or roach, catching your eye, that you realize they’ve found you. It is not until you turn and see the human’s eyes that you wonder if you might have a problem.

  ✽✽✽

  IVRA JACE STOOD two paces beyond the front door, just beyond reach of the light spilling from within. Not beyond reach of the sound. She tipped her head, turned her ear, leaned forward. Music, conversation, laughter. Then footsteps. Heavy footsteps moving fast.

  She took a cautious step forward, then a quick step to the side as Solomon Sorrows emerged from a hallway. He turned up the stairs, took them three at a time with long, powerful strides. Master Remma Davrosh followed close behind. Jace raced in, glanced up the stairs, but instead turned down the hallway. She ran down its length. A female dwarf stepped out of a room, forehead wrinkled. Their eyes met; Jace smiled. The dwarf frowned and narrowed her eyes. She was asking, Who in all hells are you? She might have asked it out loud, but a crash sounded upstairs. The dwarf ran past Jace, and Jace stepped into the room. She rushed to a sofa, knelt beside Mig Costennati.

  Jace placed a hand on Mig’s forehead, raised her eyebrows, placed a hand on Mig’s chest. A second crash shook the house. Mig’s eyes fluttered and opened. A third crash. Mig sat up, startled, and turned to Jace.

  “What happened?” she asked. A fourth crash. Metal clanged against stone.

  “Do you have the bow?” Jace asked. She brushed away a strand of Mig’s hair, ran her fingers along Mig’s cheek.

  Master Remma Davrosh’s shouting carried from upstairs.

  Mig nodded. “I do. I’m sorry. I was afraid for him.”

  “It’s fine. I understand. But right now, Solomon needs us. How do you feel?”

  “Like I was hit by a gods-shunned dragon. He threw me. Sol did. I startled him.”

  “It’s not your fault. He probably thought you were me. You should be fine in another minute. Once you are, I need you upstairs. Bring the bow.”

  “I will. Is he up there?”

  “They both are,” Jace said.

  “What if he recognizes you? Won’t he realize what’s happened?”

  “He’s seen me before. Briefly. He doesn’t remember this face. He remembers Ivra Jace as someone old. Like her sister in Godscry.”

  “Her twin. The one who betrayed her.”

  “Not so much betrayal as ideological disagreement. But there were rather severe consequences.”

  “Gods,” Mig said. “If she knew.”

  Jace smiled. “If she knew.”

  A fifth crash. Something heavy landed on the floor above.

  “I need to go,” Jace said. “Join me as soon as you can.”

  “What about the dagger? Aren’t you afraid?”

  “Very.”

  Jace disappeared.

  ✽✽✽

  YOU SLIP INTO the room behind the half-born just before she closes the door. The elf turns, locks eyes on the human, doesn’t see you sinking into the shadows along the wall. Doesn’t see you creep slowly to the vanity, take a length of wire made to look like a jar of paint. The human plays his part perfectly. He moves about the bed, worried Nisha Davrosh is already bound. But she’s not, and you wonder at that. The elf has had more than enough time to prepare. You see the arrow in the elf’s hand and you wonder at that as well. No binding, no rush, and an arrow. Curious.

  And obvious. You bite back a curse. The gods-shunned selfish fool was going to kill without severing the gods-bond. You’re sure of it. After all your hard work, you were to be cast aside. After all your guidance, your reward would be withheld.

  You don’t remember winding the wire around your gloves, but it bites into the leather as you pull it taut. You don’t remember stepping from the shadows, but you’re already halfway across the room. The elf’s back is turned. The human and the half-born are lifting the bed. It is a simple thing. Laughable. But without the wire wrapped around the frame and flesh, Nisha Davrosh begins to move, to right herself. The tipping of the bed must be dealt with. You know it. The elf knows it. So you are not surprised when the half-born and human are slipped from the gods-stream. Not surp
rised at all.

  Instead, you are disappointed. You had hoped to bury the dagger in the human’s chest. You wanted to see what would happen when a soul-imbued weapon was used against the immortal Gray Walker. You had thought it might be a fun experiment. But you lack any real skill in manipulating the gods-stream. And once the elf dies, well. It will fall upon you to push the human, the half-born, and Nisha Davrosh back in.

  You’ll do your best, but without a true Walker, you just know they’ll be torn to pieces. You have that feeling.

  ✽✽✽

  IVRA JACE STEPPED into the hallway and approached the crowd gathered outside the door to Nisha Davrosh’s bedroom. She did not slip the gods-stream. She did not weave illusion. She walked where eyes weren’t watching. She made sounds, touched shoulders, arms, waists. She drew attention away, then stepped into the void left in its absence. She could be difficult to see when she wanted. She was through the door and into the room within two breaths.

  She pressed her back against the door, took a third and fourth breath, and stared into the empty room. She waited.

  ✽✽✽

  THE HUMAN AND the half-born are slipped, disoriented. They stare forward with blank expressions. Nisha Davrosh stares forward with a blank expression. You glance from one to the other, thinking. It will take mere seconds to kill Nisha Davrosh, but to do so you’ll need to enter the gods-stream again for a second. You’ll enter, drop the arrow above her head, slip and watch it fall, then enter again once the arrow passes through her skull. It’s a clever thing that takes deft skill and impeccable timing. It’s a thing you’ve done five times already.

  But you’ve never done it with witnesses. And the disorientation which protects you outside the god-stream will leave immediately once you return. Nisha Davrosh will see you for a fraction of a second, but that doesn’t matter. The dead keep their secrets. But the human and the half-born present a problem. Problems need solving. So you stop and you think. You are patient. It is your one, true gift. A solution will present itself if you don’t panic. You take a deep breath and calm yourself. Think, think, think.

  The wire flashes over your eyes and closes around your throat before you have time to react. You feel it biting into your skin; you work your hands to your throat, claw at the wire. Your fingers turn slick with blood. They slip and scrape uselessly against your skin. You flail, kick, struggle. But the hands that grip the wire are strong, and there is nothing you can do to escape. There is nothing you can do but wait for death.

  ✽✽✽

  THE ELF STRUGGLES, tries to turn, tries to pull at the wire. You could end it quickly. The wire is strong, fine. It would cut easily if you pulled hard enough. But you enjoy the struggle, the thrashing of prey as it attempts to free itself from the jaws of the predator. And with the human, the half-born, and Nisha Davrosh still disoriented, you have time. You might be impatient, but you have never been one to pass up an indulgence when offered. So, you squeeze, the elf struggles, you indulge.

  In the end, the indulgence is your mistake. You are caught up in it. So caught up in it, you don’t notice the gods-stream returning. Don’t notice the half-born’s eyes widen. Don’t notice her mouth opening. You don’t notice Nisha Davrosh screaming or the human turning.

  And you sure as all hells don’t notice the hunter approaching from behind and taking the dagger at your hip.

  But you notice when she thrusts it into your back, through your heart, and out again through your chest. It hurts. As though it sends fire coursing through your body. You let go of the wire. The elf staggers forward. You fall to your knees, feel the blade pulled out. Feel blood rush from the wound, hot and wet. And then you feel nothing. The pain falls away, shadows rush in from the edges of your vision.

  You think of the dagger, then Eldrake, then the Seph. You think about Godscry Tower. Wonder what Eldrake will do now. You’ll die for her mistakes, her ambitions. You decide she’s a splitting whore. You feel a spark of hatred somewhere inside you, but it fades quickly. And then you feel cold and tired. And you stop thinking about Eldrake and the Seph. You stop thinking about the dagger. You stop thinking about anything but sleep. So cold. So tired.

  You sleep.

  Chapter 47

  SORROWS CROSSED THE room fast. Caught Ga’Shel as the elf staggered free of Oray’s hold. Oray fell to his knees, then slumped onto the floor. Sorrows reached past him, grabbed Jace’s wrist as she pulled the dagger free. She stared at him. He stared back. Too many questions. No good answers. He pushed Ga’Shel toward Davrosh, then grabbed the hilt of his sword with his free hand, pulled the blade from its sheath, held it low. Jace shook her head.

  “It’s not what you think,” she said. “There are layers to what you’re seeing here. I can explain.”

  Davrosh cradled Ga’Shel as he stared at Jace. “Why would we believe you?”

  “We wouldn’t,” Sorrows said.

  “Then don’t,” Jace said. “Ask him.”

  She jutted her chin at Ga’Shel. Ga’Shel glanced from her to Sorrows, shook his head, put a hand on his throat.

  “He’s not in the mood to talk,” Sorrows said. He squeezed Jace’s wrist. “I can’t blame him. Why are you here?”

  “I came for Mig,” Jace said. She winced. “You’re hurting me, Solomon.”

  Sorrows squeezed harder. “Why Mig?”

  “She took the bow. I was afraid—”

  “Afraid she’d give it back?” Davrosh asked.

  Jace shook her head, nodded at Oray. “Afraid he’d get it. He’s been gathering hollows. I couldn’t let him have Julia. I know what she means to you, Solomon.”

  “I thought you’d killed Mig.”

  “What? Why?”

  “The pin.”

  “The pin? I gave you that so you’d know she was with me.”

  Sorrows stared at her, said nothing for a breath. “You should have just told me.”

  “Yes, I should have, but I was in a rush. I had to follow Oray. And you befuddle me. You make it difficult to talk.”

  “We’re talking now.”

  “It’s different now.”

  “How?”

  “It’s different. After Beggar’s Hollow, I wanted to see you again, but then I learned you’d come to think I was the killer, and I didn’t have any evidence to the contrary.”

  “Do you now?”

  Jace glanced at Oray, then at Ga’Shel. “Don’t I? You saw me take the dagger from Oray.”

  “I didn’t see anything.”

  “I saw it,” Davrosh said. “Dagger on one hip, sickle on the other.”

  Sorrows glanced down, saw a crescent blade sheathed at Oray’s waist. He relaxed his grip. Jace swallowed, stepped closer to Sorrows.

  “He was imbuing hollows, Solomon, and Ga’Shel was helping him,” she said. “First, the dagger. Next, the sickle sword. And you know he coveted your bow.”

  Davrosh snorted, put a hand on Ga’Shel’s shoulder. “Go to hells. Ostev wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

  “It makes sense,” Sorrows said, still looking at Jace. “You must have suspected Ga’Shel for some time.”

  “Since Zvilna Gorsham,” Jace said.

  “Then why not tell someone?” Davrosh asked.

  “She couldn’t be sure,” Sorrows said. “Oray can wakewalk. Forestwalking leaves traces for hours, maybe a day. He’d have opportunities without Ga’Shel.”

  “Right,” Jace said. “And I’ve been more focused on the hollows than the daughters. But then, Ga’Shel was here tonight when he didn’t need to be. Ask yourself why.”

  Why? A good question. A question that Sorrows had been asking since he returned to the gods-stream. Since he woke from his stupor to see Oray strangling Ga’Shel with wire. The two shouldn’t have been there. Had no reason to be in Nisha Davrosh’s room. No reason but the obvious one. Sorrows frowned, turned to Ga’Shel. But it was Davrosh who spoke.

  “Is that true, Ostev?” she asked. “Did you kill those daughters?”

  Another good
question. But one without a good answer. And one which had inadvertently become a distraction. Sorrows was looking at Ga’Shel. Davrosh was looking at Ga’Shel. Which meant neither of them was looking at Jace. Which meant neither of them could warn her about the blade swinging at her thigh. A blade gripped by the hand of Overseer La’Jen Oray. La’Jen Oray, who was dead, but not dead.

  Jace cried out. Blood spattered. Sorrows turned, dropped his sword, let go of Jace. Dove at Oray, knocked him back. Oray twisted free, scrambled on top of Sorrows, clawed at his face, digging his fingernails into his cheek and jaw.

  “Where were you?” Oray growled.

  Sorrows felt blood oozing down his neck. He stared at Oray, saw the wolf gone rabid, gray eyes dilated to black pools. Saw the snarl on his lips, felt his muscles straining, trying to overpower Sorrows.

  But Sorrows was a big man. A head taller than Oray. He had longer arms, longer legs. He was human, not elf. His body was thick with muscle. Powerfully built. And Sorrows was angry. Oray had been a step ahead at each turn. Sorrows didn’t see it, and Zvilna Gorsham paid for his ignorance with her life and soul.

  He shoved Oray up and away, sent him toppling backward toward the door. Sorrows scrambled to his feet, reached for the blade at his hip. Missing. Glanced at the floor to see where it had fallen. Gone. He looked up. Saw steel in Oray’s hand. Saw him rush toward Jace. Saw the blade coming up fast. Knew he wouldn’t get there in time. Felt the room go cold, like Mishma Valinor’s tomb.

  An arrow knows only the will of the hunter. Point, shaft, and fletching are instruments of thought and desire. The string of the bow is a whispered command. The draw, the release, the arrow’s arc; these are not spontaneous. They are the culmination of thought and decision. Of careful measure and calculation.

  Sorrows didn’t question how the bow arrived in his left hand. Didn’t think about how it had been strung. He didn’t wonder how the arrow appeared in his right hand. He measured the distance between Oray and Jace. Between the tip of the blade in Oray’s hand and the slender line of Jace’s neck. He measured the distance between himself and Oray. He measured Oray’s height; he considered his own. He did it with a glance. His mind produced the calculations in an instant. Faster than the flash of lightning beneath a storm. He knew the shot, knew where he’d release, pictured the strike of the arrow before it was nocked.