Arrow on the String: Solomon Sorrows Book 1

by Dan Fish

  He ran a thumb along the upper limb of the bow, tracing the contour of the havenwood. The maple warmed at his touch. He knew every inch of the bow. Nock to nock. He slipped his hand down the belly, past the window, over the rest, and onto the handle. Lifted it enough to feel the weight of it in his hands. Light. Balanced. Whatever elf magic had been woven into the bow gave the wood luster, a faint crimson hue like sunset. He imagined the bow alive in his hands, limbs ready, string taut, arrow nocked and resting. He leaned back, looked past the heavy oak beams into the shadows, closed his eyes, focused his breath. He imagined standing atop Godscry Tower, bow in hand, storm raging around him. He imagined the wind at his back, his hood up, the sound of the rain in his ears. He imagined staring out over the city, raising the bow, nocking an arrow, pulling it back. He imagined loosing the arrow, watching it rise and fall and disappear. He imagined nocking another. And another. And another. He tied thoughts to the shafts, questions, worries. He sent them sailing over the rooftops. Time slipped away. His mind cleared. And suddenly, she was with him, there, in the rain.

  She didn’t say anything. Just stood in silence beside him, untouched by the storm. She didn’t look at him. Just stared with eyes like pools of night sky, full of starlight and eternity. She wore a white dress, simple and flowing, shining like moonlight. Her hair was black and long like he remembered. Her skin was like cream and whiskey, and the memory of it lingered on his fingertips. He lowered the bow, held it at his side, reached his hand toward her, palm up, fingers splayed. A question. But one she didn’t notice. Her hands remained clasped behind her back, her dress whipped around her like white flame dancing along the curves of her hips, the lines of her legs.

  “Julia,” he said. His voice echoed back in his ears, hollow.

  She couldn’t hear him, but turned anyway, saw him. Her eyebrows lifted in recognition. Her lips parted. She might have said his name. But he couldn’t hear her either. She glanced at his hand, hurried to take it. Moved her fingers to lace between his. But the storm didn’t touch her, and neither could he. Her hand passed through his. She looked at it for a moment before lifting her gaze. They stared at one another, not speaking.

  “I need to talk through a few things with you,” he said. “Think out loud.”

  She smiled, raised a hand to his cheek, said something. But her voice was lost to him as his to her. Words were nothing more than shapes on lips and the flash of tongue behind teeth. She said something else, and he wanted to kiss her. To hold her again. He sighed, pushed away those thoughts.

  “Someone’s killing the gods-born, Julia. Dwarves. Daughters. On the night of their twenty-seventh birthday. The elves suspect me, but they don’t have proof, and gods know I didn’t do it. They’re holding me in Godscry Tower, and I’m playing along for now.”

  Julia said something, and her lips pursed for a moment before spreading into a smile. The corners of her eyes wrinkled. She kept talking. He watched her. A quick lift of her eyebrows, a shrug of her shoulders. He missed the nuance of her. Missed the sound of her voice, her laugh. Knew what they had now was only a shadow of what had been, but didn’t want to lose it. Knew he had to.

  “They’ll take the bow if I give them reason. Maybe even if I don’t. I can’t let that happen to you.”

  He squared his body to hers. Rain dripped from his hood, blew back into his eyes, blurred his vision. But he wouldn’t blink, wouldn’t risk losing the sight of her, tall and beautiful, untouched by the storm. He took his hands to her shoulders, moved them away when they passed through her dress and skin, held them as close as he could to believe the lie of their nearness. He needed to say something, even if she couldn’t hear him. He needed to hear it himself.

  “I must find a Seph, Julia,” he said. “When I do, I ask you to trust me. If the elves take you, you’ll never find peace. I’ve held you too long. You deserve better than this.”

  She leaned closer. He imagined her breath on his skin. She said something, gave a sad smile. He nodded as though he understood.

  “There’s more at stake,” he said. “I don’t understand what. I met a Seph claiming to know Ashra. She sent a warning, but it made no sense. I don’t know what it means, but it feels wrong. The Seph was in an orc. And I didn’t think that was possible. I think it caught the elves off guard, too. They’re skittish.”

  Julia shimmered. Like the air around a flame. Subtle, brief, but unmistakable. She noticed it as well. She drew closer, grasped at his cloak, his chest, his arms. He lifted his hand to her face. She leaned against it, passed through it. They had little time left. He knew it. She knew it.

  “They’re keeping secrets. They’re desperate. The Archmage was in the room. Asking questions. They wanted to know about the Seph and the dwarves, and they had at least twenty guards as backup. I’m good without a bow, but not that good. They were worried about more than me. Something bigger. They think I might be part of it.”

  She had shimmered as he was speaking. She talked as he talked, their words colliding silently, her mouth moving faster and faster. She stepped closer, leaned in to kiss him. It always ended this way, with the illusion unraveling, and desire pushing aside reason. Her face came close, her lips passed through his. Then she was gone, and he was left standing on the battlement.

  He should have been alone, was always alone in these moments after Julia had left. But a figure stood before him now, clear as glass, but given shape by the rain. Water splattered, beaded, trickled down its body. He could make out a head and arms and legs, but little else. No face, no clothes, no fingers upon its hands. It walked towards him with slow, steady steps.

  “It is time to wake, Solomon,” said a familiar voice. “Julia has left. Come back to the tower.”

  ✽✽✽

  ELDRAKE LOOMED OVER Sorrows, flanked on either side by a guard in black and gray. She stared at him, brow furrowed, hands clasped behind her back.

  “What did you see?” he asked instinctively. A stupid question. One which could only be answered with a lie.

  “Nothing,” Eldrake said. A lie.

  “What do you want?”

  “I wanted to speak with you alone.”

  Eldrake made a gesture with her hand, and the two guards vanished. The room was empty. There had been no warping of light, no faded colors, no colors too bright. The guards had looked as real as she did. She was good. Better than good. She was the best Weaver he’d met. Which made her the best liar he’d met, though she would likely argue the point. She turned and stepped away from him, moved to the wall then returned, and gathered her thoughts as she paced.

  “Did you know before the war, humans and elves often lived in the same cities?” she asked.

  “I remember,” Sorrows said.

  She nodded. “Yes, I suppose you would. The dwarves have always stuck to their mountains, and the Seph wander the planes between worlds. Goblins haunt the forests, centaurs the grasslands, orcs the swamps. The elves have scattered towers throughout, though we prefer to be near oceans. But the humans were different. Humans could adapt to any environment, so they sought the peoples they were most interested in. Most often they favored the elves. And, because we are a somewhat arrogant species, elves grew quite fond of humans.”

  “You had an odd way of showing it. Where were the elves when the Seph declared war against us?”

  “The Seph were never at war with humanity. Their true target was always the elves. They saw us as a threat. They exploited our relationship with humans and used your species as pawns against us.”

  “So we were just mortal fodder caught between warring gods-born.”

  “Something like that. Do you remember how the Seph used humans to attack the elves?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have any idea how hard it was for us to strike down the faces of people we had passed in the streets? Of friends? Do you know how many elves died by their own hesitation?”

  Sorrows shook his head. “Do I have an idea? Gods, Eldrake, do you? We fought the Seph, a
s well. You battled friends. We battled family. Lovers, husbands, wives, children. You have no idea what we faced. And in the end, we still lost.”

  Eldrake said nothing. She stared at Sorrows, hands clasped behind her back. He leaned away, rested against the chair, stared back at her.

  “Why are you telling me all this?” he asked.

  “To remind you of what the Seph were, and to warn you of what they could become again,” she said. “You saw the orc. The Seph have never possessed mortal races before.”

  “They possessed humans.”

  “Humans were different. You were gods-born at one time. But orcs?” Eldrake gave a laugh, short and bitter. “The Seph have learned a new magic, and that is nothing to take lightly.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “Be careful who you trust, Solomon. The Seph wear many faces, but never their own.”

  Eldrake walked to the door, opened it, turned to face Sorrows.

  “You’re free to leave, if you wish.”

  Sorrows stood quickly, bow in hand.

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that. For all the discourse on motive, means, and opportunity, we still lack evidence for now.”

  “Then this was all about the Seph?”

  “Not entirely. We wanted to take your measure. To see what you were capable of.”

  “I didn’t kill those dwarves.”

  Eldrake sighed and looked every minute of her age.

  “I hope not, Solomon. I truly hope not.”

  Chapter 7

  THE STORM DIED as storms do, with a final gasp of wind and sputter of rain. An unnatural quiet followed, as the sounds of life sought shelter in any available spot to escape the fury. The clouds drifted apart; the moon appeared bright in the dark sky; the stars twinkled for an hour or so, then shone steady as the air cleared. The night grew crisp and cold.

  Sorrows huddled under his cloak, bow bundled and strung across his back. A fire struggled in front of him, chewing on dried wood with cracks and snaps, hissing when it brushed against damp spots or bark. It wouldn’t amount to much, but he didn’t need much. It was already more than enough to send a message. He reached into a pouch at his waist, pinched a wad of dried leaves between his thumb and forefinger, tossed them into the flames. The fire sparked and flared purple for a moment before dying down to orange-yellow and orange-red. He settled back, waited.

  He woke feeling eyes on his back. Didn’t remember falling asleep, but that was the nature of sleep. He stayed still, kept his breathing steady, listened. The fire had died. The cold made the night quiet. No snapping of flames, no chirping of crickets, no wind rattling the scant leaves overhead.

  “I know you’re awake,” a voice said. High, clear. Like the whistle of wind through a hollow. Goblin.

  “That didn’t take long,” Sorrows said.

  “Been following you since you were two days out of Godscry.”

  Sorrows rolled over, searched the darkness where the voice had been. A futile effort. A goblin wasn’t seen until it wanted to be seen. Most of the time they didn’t. Fen Costenatti was no exception.

  “You alone?” Fen asked.

  “Of course I’m alone,” Sorrows said. He made a show of pulling back his hood with one hand. With the other, he made a series of quick gestures. Not alone. Elves following.

  He was guessing, but it was a good guess. The type of guess that elf scholars would call educated. The type of guess that had saved him more often than failed him.

  “Good enough for me. I left the stuff you wanted by the tree you marked. Don’t be a stranger.”

  A flash of light lit the woods, painting black silhouettes with green radiance. Silence.

  Sorrows rose to his feet, stretched his arms overhead, yawned, scratched at an itch. He wandered through the woods to some random oak, its trunk covered in a patchwork of rough, gray bark and lichen. He bent over, riddled around the roots of the tree a bit, picked up a stone, and shoved it into a pouch, started back toward camp. He stopped halfway and found another tree, made a show of dropping his trousers enough to piss.

  “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather just grab your hand,” Fen whispered in front of him. “Or a fistful of your cloak.”

  Sorrows blindly extended a hand. He still couldn’t see Fen, despite the goblin being close enough to smell.

  “Let’s go. Get me out of here,” Sorrows said.

  A shadow might show the shape of its master in height and width, but it lacks depth. It is less, in that way, than the one who casts it. Yet, without that depth, the shadow gains a measure of freedom. It moves unhindered across the landscape. It stretches over mountains and lingers in valleys. It climbs trees, crosses rivers, drifts upon the snow. Forest-walking is not so different. The Walker becomes a shadow of sorts, slipping from the gods-stream and losing his depth. But with that loss, he gains mastery. Time becomes his landscape. He stretches over new mountains and lingers in new valleys. Minutes become hours become days. His magic gains potency. He can bring others with him. And so they travel together as shadows through the world of the gods-born and mortals.

  Sorrows woke with a start and found himself walking through shafts of autumn sun, pale golden ribbons that fell from the sky through the patchwork canopy. Forest-walking was a bit like waking within a dream. Everything slowed down, except his guide, who spoke in a rapid, unending string of paranoid observations.

  “You’re awake? Finally. You’ve been sleepwalking for almost an hour. I think we’re being followed. You signaled elves earlier. Was there another Walker? You didn’t say anything about a Walker.”

  Fen looked up at him, black eyes bright and wide, black hair short and messy. Pale green skin turned to silver in the moonlight. He was thirty years old. Was likely a fifth of his life had passed. Young. He and Sorrows had been friends for years. Almost a decade. Great friends. Then he’d introduced Sorrows to his sister. Now he and Sorrows were only good friends. Twin overprotection. A basic concept. Easy to understand. And in his case, somewhat justified. Relationships were always complicated with Sorrows. The one with Fen’s sister made his head hurt. Really made his head hurt. He winced, rubbed his temples.

  “My head hurts. Why does my head hurt?”

  Fen looked away. “You walked into a branch. Sorry.”

  “A branch.”

  “I said I was sorry.”

  Accidents had a way of happening with goblins. Certainly with Fen. He was both aggressive and passive aggressive. Often at the same time. Sorrows stepped sideways, bumped his hip into Fen’s shoulder, sent the goblin stumbling.

  “Sorry,” Sorrows said.

  Fen eyed him sideways. “You’re such an orc split. This wouldn’t happen if you learned to wake-walk. I’ve told you a thousand times—”

  “Can’t.”

  “Did you even try?”

  Sorrows shrugged. “Sure.”

  Fen sighed. “If elves can do it, I’m sure you could too, if you’d just let me teach you.”

  “Not all elves.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Maybe some other time.”

  Fen pulled at his cloak, glanced over his shoulder. “I just know there’s a Walker.”

  “If there’s a Walker, I know who’s following us. Have you seen anyone?”

  “No.”

  “Would you?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Is this guy any good?”

  Sorrows nodded. “He’s good. Hammerfell-in-ten good.”

  Fen shook his head. “That’s not possible.”

  “He said it and I believe him. Ten days.”

  “I don’t give an orc’s split what he said. I’m telling you, Sol, it’s not possible. Unless there was a second Walker and they got real thin.” Fen glanced at Sorrows with wide, anxious eyes like glossy obsidian globes. “Is there a second Walker?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure.”

  “The second will be a half-born.”

  “Elf-goblin?” />
  “Elf-dwarf.”

  Fen blew out his cheeks. “Thank the gods. Does he know any magic?”

  “She. And no, I don’t think so.”

  “Good. If there’s just the one, then I should be able to keep us a step ahead. We’ll need to be careful about where we rest. I know a little magic that can help us there too.”

  “Good. That’s more than I can do.”

  “Chin up, Sol. You’re the most magical human I know.”

  “Thanks,” Sorrows said. He looked up at the sky. “Where are we?”

  “Just under a day out from Godscry, slow-footing it. We’ve got another six hours thin before we hit Tam. You in a rush? Or do we have time to circle a bit, try to shake whoever’s playing shadow?”

  Sorrows shook his head. “No rush. It’s just me and the bow and nowhere to go. You lead, I’ll try to keep up.”

  Fen continued talking and Sorrows half-listened, half-admired the scenery. Leaves hung in the air, birds drifted by on lazy currents of wind and dust, deer lay like sculptures in their mid-morning beds. The sun seemed stuck in the sky, as though it had forgotten the path to the opposite horizon. It illuminated the maples, turning crimson and scarlet foliage into frozen flame against silver bark.

  The bow had come to him a year ago when the leaves changed and the mornings woke with frost. He had been working the job for centuries by then, gathering human souls scattered across the world. He was good at it. He knew what the bow was the moment he picked it up. Could feel the soul inside, bound within the wood, haunting the curves of the bow’s limbs. He went to work, cleared his mind, listened to the whispers of the soul, attuned himself to its voice. It was the job. He was good at it. It took weeks, but he eventually saw her one night with a crescent moon hanging overhead. He had traveled to a forest glade which he used frequently for his work. On a clear night like the one he had chosen, the clearing was washed gray by the moonlight. Oaks and maples surrounded him, tall, leaves rustling in a faint breeze. It was peaceful. Serene. It had to be. It was more about him at this point than it was about the soul in the bow. He had to be calm. Like a lake turned to glass. She was hesitant, most were, but after a few hours of coaxing, she appeared. She was beautiful, intoxicating, familiar.