They left Sorrows alone after that. Whatever conversations they were having didn’t require his presence, though he imagined they’d result in his inconvenience. He stretched, yawned, glanced at the bundle on the chair. Thought again about unwrapping the bow. Thought again about losing it. An hour passed, perhaps two. Without the sun, moon, or stars to guide him, it was difficult to know time. The pale stone walls offered no insights beyond lines, corners, and staggered patterns of slab and mortar. But the corridor eventually filled with the thunder of footsteps and conversation, and the door eventually opened. The white-haired elf stood in the doorway.
“Time to take a walk, big guy,” she said.
The two new elves stepped past her and stood to either side of Sorrows. Waiting. He peered up at them, but they were staring at the door, not making eye contact. He sighed. A long exhalation through his nose. One that he hoped would send a message. There had better be a good reason for all of this. He stood, but one of the elves was standing between him and his bundle.
“I want my things,” he said, pointing to the chair.
The elf reached over, grabbed Sorrows' cloak, tossed it against his chest.
“And the other thing,” Sorrows said.
“You can have the bow later,” the white-haired elf said. “First, we talk.”
Sorrows shrugged. There were three of them, one of him. Two had steel, and one was so at ease that it made Sorrows uneasy. Maybe she was a magi and could throw him up against a wall with a flick of her wrist. Maybe she’d do it again and again until his head cracked against the stone. He didn’t want to find out, and elves tended to jump to elf-friendly conclusions quickly.
“Follow me,” the white-haired elf said.
Sorrows was squeezed through the door into a crowd of black jerkins, gray skirts, black boots. The half-born was there, and the elf from the tavern. And the brown-haired elf and the Weaver. At least Sorrows thought her to be a Weaver. She was pretty enough for her looks to be an illusion. He watched her, looking for the telltale ripples of bent light as she whispered excitedly to the brown-haired elf. If she was a Weaver, she was good. The corridor was all elf energy and hushed conversation as the group walked its length. They were anxious, excited. It made Sorrows uneasy. Like he was on the outside of something important while simultaneously being at the center of it. Like the five elves had knowledge he didn’t, but should. He didn’t like not knowing things. And he didn’t like elves.
Which soured his already sour mood. The new elf on his left brushed against him, and Sorrows shifted his weight, snapped his forearm outward, away from his body. Give me space, he was saying. But as big as he was, the move was more like shouting than pleasant conversation. The elf stumbled sideways and caught himself against the wall. Steel rasped, and the group stopped. All eyes were on Sorrows, all hands on hilts. He shrugged.
“Oops.”
The half-born shook her head. They resumed walking. The corridor wasn’t long. He had already traversed it once. He glanced at the tapestries, wondered what fragrance each would make if it was sullied. Wondered if the same elf wove the magic for each tapestry. Maybe the entire corridor. Maybe they found the elf with the best restoration magic and made him do the whole tower. Maybe the whole place would smell of orange blossoms if it got dirty enough. He was near ready to spit and find out when they opened the last door on the right, which had been the first door on the left when he arrived.
They filed into a large, rectangular room. Ten paces by twenty, and another six high. A wooden table in the center, running the length. Chairs on either side. The table and chairs were made of the same wood. Had similar styles. Enough curve to be comfortable, but not inviting. A glossy finish that reflected the light from the sconces on the wall. It was a room for audience and interrogation. Display and spectacle. A room Sorrows wanted no part of. He sighed.
“Let’s get this over with.”
Chapter 5
“HAVE A SEAT,” the white-haired elf said.
“Any seat?”
“Take your pick.”
Sorrows walked to the chair closest to the door and put his hand on its back, ready to pull it out.
“Not that one.”
Sorrows shot her a glance but walked around the table to the chair opposite the first. It was still close to the door.
“Not that one either,” the white-haired elf said. She nodded at a chair in the center of the table. “How about that one? Looks big enough for someone your size.”
Expected. She had been too accommodating at the start. Not at all elf-like. She had an edge to her. An expectation that she was the one drawing the string. Arrows don’t argue. Sorrows didn’t argue. He made his way to the chair and sat down. Restless. Wondering if he would be her arrow or her target. He shifted. The chairs weren’t as comfortable as they appeared.
The room bothered him as well. Sconces, but no tapestries. It made the walls seem endless. Stacks of pale stone with the same lines and corners of the other room, but on a grander scale. Which somehow made it worse. The table’s polished surface reflected a ghostly echo of the lights, the walls, Sorrows. The white-haired elf, brown-haired elf, the Weaver, the half-born, and her companion took seats across from him. As adversarial as possible. Elf-like. The two elves from the stairs closed the door, stayed outside. It sent a message. We’re not needed. The ones in this room can handle you. Sorrows slumped in his chair, clasped his hands, and set them on the table. He stared at the white-haired elf.
