Touch of Iron (The Living Blade #1) by Timandra Whitecastle Read Free Book Online Page A

fucked our father,” Owen said.
    Cold gripped her heart and squeezed. Nora struggled for air as though she were underwater. Mechanically she gripped the straps of her backpack and twisted the rough hemp as though it were a lifesaving rope. She opened her mouth. He didn’t believe that. He couldn’t! It was too…too… Her head reeled.
    You never called him Father, only Rannoch. I did, though. And that’s all he ever was. She wanted to say that. But nothing came except the salty taste that heralded vomit. She shut her mouth again. She wanted to hit him. Wanted to shake him until his teeth rattled. But nothing she could do would make him take back the monstrosity of what he’d just said.
    So she left. One foot in front of the other. First the right, then the left. Looking ahead, she saw nothing but dead grass and forlorn windswept trees dotting the Plains. There was nowhere to go and nowhere to hide. She would be one tiny speck in the vastness around her. She didn’t look behind her until night had fallen and she was sure she wouldn’t see anyone. Owen never called out after her, anyway.

Chapter 6

    M aster Telen Diaz sat on top of the collapsed stone aqueduct, legs crossed and palms open to whatever the heavens had to offer. Night had fallen around him, but it didn’t make much difference to his wight eyes as he gazed over the emptiness of the Plains.
    The world melted away beneath him and he saw himself from far above, outlined in a pale blue light. His condensed soul light pulsed steadily. The wights believed that all souls were of the essence of the stars and that everyone could tap into their innermost being and draw strength from the eternal stillness within if they so wished. But decades of watching humans had led Diaz to the conclusion that if they did know how to go far without and deep within, most chose not to know. They were content to be distracted, unfocused, carried about hither and thither wherever the winds would blow them, like the autumn leaves that swept past his lone figure. Few were like the stars above, striding in their set path untouched by any wind, a law unto and in themselves, unshackled by actions and words. How long had he let himself be bound, not giving heed to what his body did or said? When had he last gone far without and deep within? He had become too human, too much of a leaf.
    He hovered over his body for a long time, lingering in the light and undisturbed quiet of the stars, and contemplated the web of interconnected cords surrounding him, some strands thicker than others. All the oaths he had chosen to take. The thickest was the cord that bound him to the pilgrim order, of course. It led from his body below him to the north in a faint blue line. To the north where the Shrine of Hin stood. With Master Darren dead—obviously not of old age—Diaz was the next eldest master in the northern realms, and thus he should be at the shrine. Should be. The pilgrim code was clear in this matter. Punish the wicked. Protect the innocent. Guide the lost. The daily grind of upholding law and order, passing out judgment, giving women over in marriage, and giving over the dead to the silent road in burials. Important, yes. Especially now that the north was without leadership. Moorfleet gone, the empire withdrawn, and the order’s representative killed. However, perhaps there’d be someone more suited to take up that role of oversight. All these years, Master Darren had been doing Diaz a favor. Unknowingly, but still. Diaz should at least hunt for his murderer. A thin strand divided itself from that thick one. One more obligation. Yet it was one of need.
    The next strongest cord was the oath he had sworn to Bashan. The two men’s methods were different, as were their motives, yet perhaps their goals were still the same. Bashan was on a quest to regain all he had lost, however the young man defined that: mostly it was his right to rule the empire, yet some days it seemed to be only the loss of