“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.
At that first glimpse, when she was a mere flicker, translucent like morning mist, Sorrows knew the bow would be different. He recognized the flowing raven hair, the graceful lines of a neck and chin he had kissed. He recognized the curve of lips that had found his own. He recognized the faint swell in her belly which had brought him so much joy and later so much pain. It had started as the job, but it had become personal.
He became obsessed. He stopped sleeping, stopped eating. He poured himself into the bow. A day passed, then another. The back of his eyes ached with fatigue, dehydration. He couldn’t die of thirst, but it could torment him.
He couldn’t die of hunger, but it could drive him mad if he ignored it long enough. It clawed at his stomach, demanding his attention, and he tore himself away from Julia to wander into the woods. He spotted a deer. Lifted the bow. Loosed an arrow. A quick kill, clean and easy. Sorrows had shot a hundred different bows, a thousand. None like this. Elf-crafted from havenwood maple and imbued with magic, it was light, responsive, balanced. It would be easy enough to end a Seph with it. Easier than a sword. Much easier than a dagger. Easy. It was the job. He was good at it. But he didn’t want to be good at it. Not now. Not when he could see Julia any time he desired. Not when they could be together again, smiling and standing close enough that he could convince himself she was there. With each summoning, she became less like mist and more like the woman he had known.
But a lie is like a flaw in shaft or feather. The bow is drawn; the string is taut; the arrow loosed. But the arc is wrong, poisoned with subtle twists and bends. The arrow will never strike its target. It falls short, goes long, veers to one side or the other. Julia became more difficult to summon. She faded quickly. Where once they had spent hours together, soon she disappeared after minutes. He was lying to himself, ignoring his duty. He wasn’t doing his job. And he knew it.
The lie lingered in his mind, distracted him. He wandered north when he should go south. South when he should go north. He fixated on love in the past, and ignored love in the present. He knew he should find a Seph and free Julia. Knew that to do so would put her soul at rest. Knew that it would mean reliving his loss. And Sorrows learned something about himself. He wasn’t so brave. He wasn’t so strong. When faced with losing Julia forever, he could accept the brief minutes they spent together. He could accept missing the target. He would be given other weapons, surely, and he could keep the bow as his own. Could keep Julia close to him.
Another weapon never came. Sorrows had never gone more than a month without a new soul to collect. Now a year had passed with only the bow to show for it. And Ashra was searching for him. Something was wrong. He had made a mistake. And with the elves threatening to take the bow, he was faced with losing Julia and knowing she was not at rest. They would be apart again, imprisoned. He needed to find a Seph.
“Right there, Sol. Do you see him?”
Sorrows blinked his eyes into focus. Fen was pulling
