Nightblade: A Book of Underrealm (The Nightblade Epic 1) Read Online Free PDF

bone-weariness had set upon her. For the first time, she had stood up to her father, and she had emerged alive, though not unscathed. Her mind had not yet decided what to think of the encounter and had settled instead for a comfortable numbness that drained her of energy.
    Loren led the way across the road. She walked it easily enough, but Xain did an odd thing: he skittered across the packed dirt, stepping lightly as though placing a foot upon it would invite the watchful eyes of every constable in Selvan. Then, once crossed, he resumed his stiff gait.
    The sun neared the horizon as they reached the Melnar’s bank. Loren walked downstream until she found a large rock where they could make camp and returned to lead Xain to the place. She threw her travel sack upon the dirt and fell beside it, resting her head on the soft, silty dirt of the riverbank.
    Xain slumped against the rock, and for a long time they sat, neither saying a word nor looking at the other. Eventually, Loren felt her stomach rumble, so she dug into the pack and fetched some salted meat. She cut it with the hunting knife she always kept in her boot—the dagger at her belt was meant for a different kind of flesh—and split it with Xain.  
    She pulled out more salted meat and one waterskin for Xain. He drank as though famished and refilled it from the flowing river. He chewed sparingly at the meat and wrapped the remainder to place in the bags at his belt. Loren felt great relief to see the wizard ration himself. At least she would not have to mother him.
    The sun had vanished past the horizon, but dull orange still glowed in the sky when Xain finally spoke. “Will you never return home?”
    Loren thought hard upon it. “He might die. My mother, too. Not from today—that arrow wound will heal long before his temper. But one day. We never grow younger. One day, I might return. But why would I?”
    “Do you have no other . . . No. I am in the wrong to ask. Some wounds must wait before we can clean them.”
    Loren wondered what he meant. “What of you? You do not seem on a course that bears return. What will you do? Run forever?”
    He did not answer, only turned away and lay upon the ground with a small pillow of torn grass. He fell asleep faster than she could believe.  
    Loren built her own grass pillow and lay upon it, but sleep would not come. She could only stare at the numberless stars as they appeared in the inky night sky. Her mind raced in the silence.  
    She could not think of home. Or remember Mother’s face. She could recall Chet but not his voice. And she could not picture Cabrus or any place else that lay ahead. There was only here and now, and the quiet bubbling of the river close at hand.
    She did not remember drifting off, but had fallen asleep upon her pillow of grass before she knew it. And when she woke, Xain had taken his meat and waterskin, leaving Loren alone by the bank.

six

    Loren waited for nearly an hour before she came to accept that the wizard would not return.
    She spent the time eating more of her rations. She drank from the waterskin, careful not to waterlog herself, and refilled it from the river. And she poked gingerly at the bruises on her ribs and around her eye, probing their extent.  
    When Xain still had not appeared, she cupped river water in her hands to see her reflection. The skin around her left eye had grown black. She let water seep through her fingers.
    All the while, Loren’s eyes avoided the empty spot where Xain had slept.  
    At last, she realized he would not return. She expected the revelation to accompany doubt or fear. Instead, her insides turned to ice, and doubt gave way to resolve. She stowed her waterskin in the travel sack and slung it over her shoulder. Then, hand gliding along her dagger’s hilt, she set off west along the river.
    The Melnar stretched wide beside her, babbling and whispering as it ran the opposite direction of her course. She focused on its sound to bar her thoughts