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.
One breath. Only one. The bow and arrow came together, the string drew back. Release. The string snapped forward;
