by Dan Fish
“You would’ve used it if you knew the orc was a Seph?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Wasn’t the right time.”
Shen stared at him. Gave a quick sigh through her nose.
“Did you know Gorn had daughters?” Davrosh asked.
Sorrows nodded. “I caught word his wife birthed twins a while back.”
A dwarf daughter might be rare, but twin daughters were unheard of. They might come around once in five generations. Twins meant a new family name, a new lineage. One daughter to keep the old, one daughter to spawn the new. News like that gets around, even if you’re not listening for it.
Davrosh stared at Sorrows. “That must have made you angry. A guy like Gorn being shown the gods’ favor.”
“Not really,” he said.
“No? Why?”
“Why would it? They’re not my gods.”
Oray, Davrosh, Ga’Shel, and Eldrake were studying him. Looking for something. Shen pursed her lips, stopped tracing circles on the table. She slid forward, half-sprawling across its surface.
“Who told you not to banish the Seph?” she asked.
“Nobody. Like I said, the timing wasn’t right.”
“Orcpiss,” Shen said. She shook her head. “You find a scrap of village on the Edge. Stake out a tavern for a month. A Seph shows up in an orc, which I’ve never seen before. I didn’t even know they could wear anything but human skin. You go to meet it, but don’t use your bow. None of it makes sense unless you’re not telling me something. Someone’s pulling your strings, Sorrows. Are you willing to take the fall for them? Why not give them up? The Mage Guard make powerful allies.”
“No one’s pulling anything,” Sorrows said. “Unless you’re volunteering.”
“Because you work alone, right?” Davrosh asked.
“Most of the time.”
“Alone. The last human. Nothing left to live for. You just nurse your grudges and follow your own rules, right?”
“Something like that,” Sorrows said.
All five sat back simultaneously. An unsettling demonstration of unspoken agreement. Oray smiled, Shen rolled her eyes. Eldrake nodded to herself, tapped her finger on the table. Soft and slow, like she was counting.
“Tell me about Sturm and Gorn,” she said.
“What’s left to tell?” Sorrows asked.
“Did their situations remind you of your loss?”
Sorrows sighed. “I suppose.”
“Did it make you angry?”
“Not really. Why would it?”
“It’s normal to covet that which we can never hope to obtain, is it not?” Eldrake asked.
“If you say so.”
“It’s normal to harbor resentment. It’s normal to let it build up over the years.”
Sorrows shrugged, said nothing.
Eldrake tilted her head, watched him. “And that could be a problem for you, wouldn’t you say? It has been a very long time since any human has lived as long as you, Solomon. The species might have been intended for immortality at one point, but a god has died, and eons have passed since then.”
“What’s your point?” Sorrows asked.
“Tell me about your amulet.”
Sorrows stared at Eldrake for a moment before retrieving the chain beneath his tunic. He took the Grimstone and let it fall against his chest, starlight twinkling beneath its surface.
“What do you want to know?”
“Everything.”
Sorrows shook his head. “Gods, you know everything worth knowing about me, but you don’t know about the amulet?”
“Humor me. How did it come to you?”
“It was a gift.”
Oray shifted in his chair. “Another gift? I’m starting to wonder if gift means the same thing to humans as it does to elves.”
Eldrake held up a hand, gave a small shake of her head. Oray shrugged. She turned back to Sorrows.
“Who gave it to you?” she asked.
“A Seph.”
“But you say it was a gift.”
“Yes.”
“Like the bow.”
“Right.”
“And you’ve had other similar gifts throughout the years, have you not?”
Sorrows shrugged. “That’s the job.”
“All from the Seph?”
“Yes.”
“The same Seph?”
Sorrows sighed, shook his head, stared at Eldrake. “Yes.”
Shen rushed forward, leaning onto the table. “Was it the same Seph you let go at the tavern?”
Sorrows turned to her, thought he saw a ripple of light playing around her eyes. Studied her for a moment before answering.
“No,” he said.
“It’s strange, Solomon,” Eldrake said. “That you would accept gifts from a member of the species that slaughtered your own.”
“Elves slaughtered humanity, not the Seph.”
“The Seph had entered the human dead. They gave us little choice.”
“You didn’t seem too shook up about it.”
Oray frowned, Shen smirked. Davrosh and Ga’Shel whispered back and forth. Eldrake shook her head.
“You know the history as well as I do, Solomon. The Seph stole elf weapons and attempted to use them against us. The same weapons you accept as gifts today.”
Solomon shrugged. “That’s the job.”
“The job?”
Sorrows shook his head. “Gods, it’s no secret. If you know anything about me, you know what I do.”
Eldrake spread her hands out wide, raised her eyebrows in feigned ignorance. “If I didn’t?”
“Then I’d say you’re out of luck, because I’m out of answers.”
Eldrake frowned. “You would refuse me?”
“Seems I just did.”
“She’s the Archmage of this tower,” Oray said.
Sorrows turned to him. “And I didn’t ask to be brought here.”
“So you get to decide when you’re done answering questions.”
“Something like that,” Sorrows said.
Oray’s smile returned, along with more whispering between Davrosh and Ga’Shel. Shen was looking at Eldrake, an eyebrow lifted in an unspoken question. Eldrake held up a hand to Shen, patted the air. Shen slumped back in her seat, rolled her eyes.
“Solomon, earlier you seemed impressed that Master Ga’Shel could make Hammerfell in ten days. Why?”
“It’d take me three months.”
“Surely a man such as yourself knows a Walker or two.”
Sorrows knew three goblin Walkers. Two who would take him to Hammerfell or beyond. One owed him favors. One would do it because she liked him. But none of them could make the trip in ten days. Typical. Everyone knew a bit of magic. Even mortals. But where dwarves, goblins, or gnomes had limited talents specific to their individual species, elves mastered it all. Anything a goblin could do, an elf could do better. And elves made a habit of pointing it out. It was one of many reasons the elves were generally disliked.
“I know a few,” he said. “But none that could swing ten days.”
“You mentioned fighting with Sturm. The Cursed, I assume?” Eldrake asked.
“Right.”
“Do you still fight?”
“Are there still Cursed?”
“Fair point. What’s the best way to kill a Cursed?”
“For you? Magic, I’d think.”
“And for you?”
“Arrow through the eye, sword through the heart.”
“Do you know any other ways?”
Sorrows shrugged. “A few.”
Davrosh leaned over the table. “You’re a real orchole.”
Sorrows looked at her, said nothing. Oray put a hand on her shoulder, pulled her back. He turned to Eldrake.
“Convinced yet?”
Eldrake soft-tapped her finger on the table. Counting. After a moment, she nodded. Oray glanced at Davrosh, took a deep breath, turned to Sorrows.
&n
bsp; “Immortality without invincibility breeds distrust, Sorrows.”
“If you say so,” Sorrows said.
“Do you know how elves and dwarves protect their immortality? Their sanity?” Oray asked.
Sorrows nodded. Every member of every race, mortal or gods-born, knew the cost of breaking gods-law. Knew the shining towers with the black and gray elves would come hunting. Knew they never returned empty-handed.
“Vengeance of the gods-born.”
“Have you ever wondered how we do it?”
“I always assumed you use magic.”
“We do sometimes. Those cases are easy. Magic leaves behind a residue. A mark unique to the one who called forth power. A trail that lingers in the air, earth and water. It might smell, it might glow or waver, it might make a sound. Sometimes obvious, sometimes not so. Easy to discern, either way. But sometimes magic doesn’t help. A blade in the gut, for example. That’s just steel and flesh. The only residue is the aftermath of the act itself. Blood, gore. In these cases, magic doesn’t tell us anything more than a pair of eyes would. If we have the weapon, we might deduce its age and origin. We might find witnesses who recognize it, know its owner. We turn our search outward. We look for clues that might tell us what happened.”
Sorrows nodded. “Motive, means, opportunity.”
“Precisely. As you can imagine, we’ve become very skilled at finding these clues. There are only so many ways to kill someone, after all.”
“That so?”
Oray shrugged. “It is. Motive is more difficult to ascertain. But once we have an idea of motive, the rest falls into place quickly.”
“Last chance, Sorrows,” Shen said. “Tell me why you spared the Seph. Perhaps I can help you out.”
“Help me out of what?”
“You make me sick,” Davrosh said. “They were daughters. A family’s hope.”
Every hunter misses on occasion. The string is taut, the bow raised, the target sighted. It’s a shot he’s hit a hundred times before. A thousand. But this time feels different. Maybe he picked the wrong target. Maybe the wind shifted. Maybe he misread the distance. He hesitates. Doubts. The inner voice tells him to swallow the shot, step back, breathe. But he ignores, releases, fails. Sorrows had missed enough to know when a shot felt wrong. He felt it now. The missed shot resting between his fingers.
“What’s she talking about, Oray?”
“Sturm’s daughter was found dead three months ago, the morning after her Maiden’s Dance,” Oray said.
“Gods,” Sorrows said.
Ga’Shel leaned forward. “No signs of struggle. And the family didn’t hear any shouts or other noise during the night.”
“So we started thinking about motive,” Oray said. “Started asking questions. Maybe someone had a grudge against the victims. Perhaps the family.”
Sorrows shook his head. “You wouldn’t find that. Trailswell’s a good dwarf. My guess is the same holds true for his family.”
Oray nodded. “You’re right. We couldn’t find anything that made sense. Then a month later, Brightle’s twins were found the same way. Dead the morning after their Maiden’s Dance.”
“All three bodies showed no signs of struggle.” Ga’Shel said. “All three were left in the same position.”
“Clues?” Sorrows asked.
“One,” Ga’Shel said.
“Orchole,” Davrosh said, staring at Sorrows.
“The killer knows what he’s doing,” Ga’Shel said. “He gets in and out without being seen. He leaves no traces behind, save one. An arrow in the center of the victim’s forehead.”
“The wound is clean,” Davrosh said. “Precise. He knows how to kill. Like he’s been doing it for most of his life. Like he’s had a lot of practice.”
“And we think we know the motive,” Oray said. He spread his hands wide. “All the pieces are coming together.”
“Vengeance of the gods-born,” Davrosh said. “Inescapable.”
An arrow moves fast along its arc, like a bolt of lightning beneath the storm. If you’re paying attention and know what to look for, you might catch the hint of its passing. But for the target, the arrow is near invisible. A single point that rises and falls mere inches once released. The snap of the string is heard, the impact is felt. No time to react.
Eldrake nodded. “Inescapable.”
She tapped her finger twice on the table then flattened her hand, rested her palm on the glossy, honey-colored surface. Slowly, like fire spread across parchment, a ribbon of warped light writhed and spread, turned the table to gray stone. The ribbon moved faster, slipped beneath Sorrows. His chair became weathered oak, the floors turned to pitted granite, the walls crumbled, revealed more room beyond. A host of twenty or thirty elves watched in silence, all donning the black and gray raiment of the Mage Guard.
“We have three dead daughters, Solomon. That’s a big problem indeed,” Eldrake said. “And as you were so quick to point out earlier, you are bigger than any of us expected.”
Davrosh leaned forward, spat on the table in front of Sorrows.
“Orchole.”
He stared at her. Felt the arrow’s point pressing into his chest. Let the scent of orange blossoms fill his nostrils as he considered his options.
Chapter 6
“YOU’VE GOT A bigger problem,” Sorrows said.
“What’s that?” Eldrake asked.
“You’re mistaking means for motive. And ignoring opportunity entirely.”
“You have ties to all three families,” Oray said.
“That’s orcpiss, Oray,” Sorrows said. “I’ve fought beside hundreds of dwarves. Thousands. How many elves have joined the war against the Cursed? I’d bet my bow you did at one point.”
Oray said nothing, just stared at Sorrows. Sorrows turned to Ga’Shel, who shrugged, then Shen, who nodded.
“There’s bound to be an elf somewhere who knows the same three families,” Sorrows said.
“But an elf wouldn’t envy a dwarf for settling down, building a family,” Davrosh said.
“Envy?” Sorrows asked.
“Envy.”
He stared at her for a long moment. “Which is the elf, Davrosh, your mother or your father?”
“That’s none of your gods-shunned business.”
“I’m guessing mother, from the way you do your hair and from the little bit of elf magic you manage. I’m guessing she tired of raising you, because elves are like that. Fickle. I’m guessing by the time she gave you back to your father, he’d married and started his own family. I’m guessing his wife didn’t think too highly of having the evidence of his indiscretion joining her household. Guessing you lived on the outside of her affections. Rejected by two mothers. I’m guessing envy has been a close friend most of your life.”
“Solomon,” Eldrake said. She was looking hard at him. Eyes burning. Shut your mouth. He ignored her.
“People envy what they could have, but don’t. I lost my chance at envy before you were born. So keep it to yourself. I’ll have no part in it.”
Davrosh clapped once. Waited. Clapped again. Waited. Clapped again and leaned back in her chair.
“Almost convincing, orchole,” she said. “Almost. But we know about Julia. And if your whole argument against envy is based on impossibility, well, then Julia presents a problem, don’t you think?”
“If you knew about Julia, you’d know better than to mention Julia,” he said. “You’d tread carefully. You’d know the past is still the past, and regret is a far cry from envy. But here you are blustering and distracting and speaking names best left unspoken. Which tells me you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“We know enough,” Ga’Shel said. “We know you’ve had that bow for over a year. That’s a long time to hold on to a soul.”
“Too long,” Davrosh said. “Made us wonder whose soul might be trapped in the bow. Oray suggested it might be someone who had been close to you. Ga’Shel found the name Julia buried in some ancient t
ome.”
“So, we guessed. But judging by your reaction, it was a good guess. We’ll leave the motive as it stands for now, if that’s fine by you,” Oray said.
“And even if it’s not,” Davrosh said.
“Which brings us to opportunity,” Oray said. “Tell us about Fen.”
Motive, means, and opportunity. Three strands of a braid. Without one, the rope unravels. When all three come together, the bond is strong. Stronger than any single strand.
Sorrows knew two Fens. Elyan and Costenatti. Both goblins. Both friends. And one was a Walker. Not a Hammerfell-in-ten-days Walker, but not much slower than that. And with the killings spaced a month apart, the elves had him on opportunity.
And if they had already talked to Trailswell or Gorn, they had him on means. Because the only thing dwarves loved more than telling tales of past battles was embellishing tales of past battles. Sorrows had performed his fair share of heroics on the frontline, but if Trailswell told the tale, Sorrows would seem a god incarnate.
Which left motive. And envy was too common a thing to dismiss. It was expected. It guided thoughts, actions, biases. Like feathers on the shaft. Sorrows might not envy any gods-born or mortal, but Davrosh did. And Oray, Ga’Shel, Shen, and Eldrake did, too. Maybe not enough to kill, but enough to believe someone else might. And that left Sorrows with a choice. He could either wait it out, and hope Trailswell or Gorn defended his character, or he could try to escape. But one thing was for certain, he wouldn’t let the elves near Julia. Not now. Not ever. Not if it cost him his life. He turned to Eldrake.
“I want my bow back,” he said. “Now.”
✽✽✽
SORROWS RETURNED TO the first room escorted by a trio of elf guards. Two joined him inside, taking up positions on either side of the door. The other remained in the corridor. Two knocks from the guards inside. All’s well in here. Two knocks echoed by the guard outside. Heard and understood.
Sorrows sat in the chair, bow across his lap. They’d taken the quiver. Expected. In their eyes, he was a killer. A man who had slain three gods-born, not someone to take lightly. The guards watched him closely for the first hour. Maybe two. No sun, no stars, no time. Eventually they adopted the stone-faced forward-stare of duty and disinterest. Sorrows knew the look, had worn it himself more than once throughout the years.