“I miss you,” a voice said.
It was a voice he’d imagined for centuries. A voice he hadn’t heard in over a thousand years. He didn’t turn, didn’t want to risk losing her. Lingered in the nearness and realness of her.
“How?” he asked.
“A gift,” Julia said. “From someone who loves you.”
“Who?”
“Does it matter?”
Sorrows shook his head, felt Julia’s hair brush against his cheek. It didn’t matter.
“How long do we have?” he asked.
“Not long enough, but long enough.”
He lifted a hand to hers.
“I should’ve been there,” he said.
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“I should’ve been there.”
“You would have died as well.”
“Who was it?”
She sighed. “Gods, Sol, think about what you’re asking me. What difference does it make?”
It wouldn’t make any difference. But he wanted to know. “Who?”
“I didn’t see him. Only heard his voice.”
Sorrows nodded. Didn’t know why he'd asked. Didn’t know what he’d expected. Julia tensed behind him.
“I do remember he smelled like sandalwood and cloves,” she said.
He said nothing. She said nothing. Her hand slipped from his shoulder. Her arms wrapped around his chest. She pressed against him. Kissed his cheek.
“This is better than only seeing you,” she said.
The words cut deep. Reminded him of things that had to be done. The job. He sighed.
“My fault,” he said. “I’ve kept you too long. It was selfish of me. I’ll find a Seph. I will, I promise. I’ll bring you peace.”
“No.”
It is a simple thing, the knock of an arrow into its target. Brief, sudden. A sound that faintly echoes in an empty forest. A sound that is swallowed on the battlefield. Too soft a sound for the pain that it carries. Sorrows shook his head.
“Julia, I can’t—”
“I don’t need peace,” she said. Her hands gripped his tunic, pulled him tight against her. “I need you.”
“Julia—”
“I won’t go, Sol.”
“You deserve rest.”
“I don’t want what I deserve.”
“You’d be trapped in the bow. We won’t have this again.”
“We might. You don’t know.”
Sorrows sighed. “Or we might not. We might go back to faded moments. We might lose those. What if I lose you?”
“If you were in the bow and I were in your place, would you leave me?”
“You know I wouldn’t,” he said. The truth. Hated himself for saying it.
“Then you understand.”
He understood, but he didn’t like it. He started to turn, wanted to see her again. But they’d had long enough. She vanished. Left him sitting on the floor. Bow on his lap, ornate box in front of him. He sighed. Forced himself awake. Opened his eyes, saw Davrosh standing in front of him, Mig standing behind her. The room was empty and bright with morning.
“That took a while,” Mig said.
“Zvilna had things to say,” Sorrows said. A half-truth.
Davrosh shifted, glanced at the box in his hand. “Were you able to…” Is Zvilna’s soul at rest?
“She returned to her gods.”
Davrosh sighed, relaxed. Smiled faintly.
“Then we’re good?” Mig asked.
A Mage Guard Overseer dead. A Mage Guard Master fleeing justice. The pair responsible for the deaths of five gods-born. Dwarf daughters. Lineages ended. Big problems.
But it was the hollows that bothered Sorrows. The dagger, the bow, the sickle sword. Killing gods-born was one thing. Imbuing ancient weapons was entirely different. An even bigger problem. And a problem that was likely to find him again in the future. He sighed, nodded.
“We’re good.”
Chapter 48
TWO WEEKS LATER a storm swallowed the city. Sorrows sat with Mig to his left and Davrosh to his right and stared out the windows of the topmost room in Hammerfell Tower. He knew a message had been sent by mind and magic to Godscry following the death of Overseer La’Jen Oray. He knew Godscry Tower had access to its own Walkers. He knew someone had arrived late in the night. And he’d guessed, since they summoned him before breakfast, that Tu’ell Eldrake had made the trip. He’d guessed and, since he was an intelligent man with a fair amount of experience and an abundance of bad luck, he’d guessed right. But he hadn’t guessed Overseer Shen would be with her. That was a surprise. But since looking at Shen was a good measure better than looking at Eldrake, he considered it a good enough surprise. Beside him, Davrosh didn’t seem to mind, as well.
The room was cold, and the wind howled outside. The snow blew sideways against the glass, so that at times it looked like the tower might be spinning in the storm. It matched the twisting Sorrows felt in his stomach. He didn’t like that Mig was caught up in whatever matter was important enough for Eldrake to be seated across from him. Didn’t like it but didn’t much see a way around it. A Mage Guard Overseer was dead, a Master disappeared, and that same Master had been accused of killing five gods-born. Dwarf daughters. A big problem.
No one spoke. No one sighed. No one coughed, smiled, shrugged, or did anything to convey any sort of a message to anyone else. Each seemed equally puzzled at where to begin. Unsure of how they'd ended up at the same table, sitting across from one another in the topmost room of Hammerfell Tower. It seemed as though they would rather be anywhere other than that topmost room. And since Sorrows was sure they were all thinking it, he decided to say it.
But Eldrake spoke instead. Like she had been waiting for him to start just so she could cut him off.
“Oray is dead,” she said.
“Yes,” Sorrows said.
“You shot him.”
“Yes.”
“Gods,” Shen said.
The room fell silent. Davrosh shifted beside Sorrows. Mig sat quietly with her hands folded on her lap. Eldrake took a deep breath. Tapped a finger on the table, slow, like she was counting. Exhaled through her nose, loud, tired.
“Why?”
Sorrows explained the scratches on his face. Described the wire around Ga’Shel’s throat. Described the Overseer who was dead but not dead. Didn’t mention the dagger.
