“What do you care about my bow?”
“Oh, Solomon,” Eldrake said. “We care about all things elf, I assure you. We like to keep elf things in elf hands.”
“That’s my bow,” Sorrows said. “Might be elf-crafted, but it’s equally human. And I like to keep human things in my hands.”
“Been with you awhile now, has it not?” Eldrake asked.
“I suppose.”
“More than a year, if I’m not mistaken.”
“You’re not.” Sorrows said. “What’s this got to do with anything?”
“Maybe nothing, maybe everything,” Eldrake replied. “What can you tell me about the gods-born, Solomon?”
“What’s there to tell? You both share the same gods, so they split your gifts. Dwarves got all the good stuff and elves got a stick up their collective split.”
“I don’t mean just elves and dwarves, Solomon. Tell me what you know about all the gods-born species.”
Eldrake smiled. Patient. Maternal. Davrosh, Oray, and Ga’Shel were still grinning. Shen's delicate finger traced the swirls on the table’s surface.
“I don’t follow,” Sorrows said. I won’t bite. That’s my business, not yours.
“No?” Eldrake asked in mock surprise. “Allow me to enlighten you. Some believe that elves and dwarves are not the only gods-born species. Another exists, though it’s all but extinct. Down to its last surviving member.”
Sorrows tensed. Fought to keep his expression blank. Failed.
“That so?” he asked. “Sounds like a handsome guy.”
“That would make three gods-born peoples.”
“I can count.”
Eldrake continued. “Yes, I’m sure you can. But did you know there was a fourth? The last gods-born people were called the Seraseph, though their name has been worn short by the passing of time. Tell me, Solomon, what does it take to kill a gods-born?”
“How would I know?”
“Because you’ve already confessed you didn’t kill an orc that night outside the tavern. Because you carry a bow made of havenwood.”
All eyes were on him. Eldrake with her white hair, looking every inch the Archmage. Overseer Shen, golden-haired and disinterested. Overseer Oray, tired. Master Ga’Shel, golden-haired and over-interested. Davrosh, triumphant.
Sorrows shrugged.
“You want me to tell you it takes a gods-born to kill a gods-born, but that’s a lie told to mortals to keep them feeling inferior. Like death wasn’t doing a good enough job. I’ll play along, though. Let’s say we’re talking the Second Death. Well, it takes a gods-born to kill a gods-born. But as you pointed out, that third race severed their tie and became mortal. Which means the last surviving member, the handsome fellow, isn’t gods-born. Which means any animated orc corpse that he stuck with steel wasn’t gods-born either. And you’re back to two gods-born races.”
Eldrake nodded, lifted her eyebrows, acted impressed.
“A wonderful explanation, and you’re absolutely right, Solomon. You are a handsome fellow. I would guess, what, thirty-five or forty years old? It’s hard for me to tell. I haven’t seen a human in such a long time. Am I close?”
Sorrows shrugged. “Close enough.”
“Thirty-five then. Flattery wins friends, after all. Tell me, Solomon, how long have you been thirty-five years old?”
“What’s your point?”
“My point is mortals die. Some might say it is their one, true gift. Yet it is a gift you do not seem to possess. My point is a Seph was slain that night outside a tavern, and that is no easy thing to do.”
“You going to lock me away for killing a member of the species that declared war on the elves?”
Eldrake shook her head. “No. The Seph haven’t sought our aid in bringing you to justice.”
“Can’t imagine the Seph would be in a rush to ask elves for anything.”
“Regardless, no charges have been raised.”
“No accusation, no crime?”
“Something like that.”
“Then why am I here?” Sorrows asked.
“We have questions we’d like you to answer,” Eldrake replied.
“Everyone has questions. Why should I answer yours?”
“We want to know if you’re a problem.”
“What if I am?”
“What if? If you’re this problem, we keep the bow and send you to Hammerfell.”
“And if I’m not?” Sorrows asked.
Eldrake smiled. “Like I said, we have questions.”
Sorrows took a breath, let it out slowly through his nose, grabbed a chair and spun it around. He straddled the seat and rested his arms on the back.
“Ask your questions.”
Oray leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “Where did you get the bow?”
“It was a gift.”
“From an elf?”
Sorrows stared at him for a breath. “From a Seph.”
Ga’Shel snorted. “Was it truly a gift, or was it the spoils of battle?”
“If I bested a Seph who was wielding a havenwood bow, I’d probably deserve whatever I took, don’t you think?”
“Answer the question,” Oray said.
“Like I told you, it was a gift.”
“How familiar are you with dwarf customs?”
“Customs?”
“Traditions,” Oray said.
“The Maiden’s Dance, specifically,” Davrosh said. “You ever see it?”
Sorrows nodded. “I’ve been to a handful. Saw the dwarf daughters in their fancy clothes, faces and bodies painted, hair in plaits and ribbons.”
“They look happy?”
“Of course they were happy.”
“Did you think them pretty?” Davrosh asked.
“What?”
“You heard me, orchole.”
Sorrows hesitated, tried to read Davrosh’s scowl. Images of gem-colored dresses, silver bracelets and anklets, anxious faces flickered in his mind—candlelight memories of events long past. She took his silence as victory. Sat back with a smug grin that made her chin look twice as long.
“You don’t think anyone deserves to be that happy, do you?” Davrosh asked.
Oray watched him closely. Eyes intense. Sorrows could hear the elves breathing. Could hear his own heart pounding. Wondered if they could hear it as well.
“Why didn’t you use the bow on the Seph?” Shen asked. “That’s how it works, right?”
Sorrows turned his head slowly, keeping his eyes on Davrosh for a moment before bringing them to rest on Shen.
“How what works?”
“You need to banish a Seph to free the soul. Isn’t that right?”
Sorrows shook his head. “I suppose. There’s a bit more to it than that.”
“Are you familiar with the name Sturm?” Oray asked.
Sorrows blew out his cheeks, stared through the ceiling in recollection. “It’s been a while. Knew a dwarf tracker who became a Sturm.”
“What about Brightle?” Davrosh asked.
Sorrows frowned. “Never heard of Brightle.”
“How about Haglund?”
“Gorn Haglund?” Sorrows asked.
“Gorn Brightle now,” Oray said.
Shen leaned forward.
