Shadeborn: A Book of Underrealm Read online

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Get More

  Shadeborn

  one

  two

  three

  four

  five

  six

  seven

  eight

  nine

  ten

  eleven

  twelve

  thirteen

  fourteen

  fifteen

  sixteen

  seventeen

  eighteen

  nineteen

  twenty

  twenty-one

  twenty-two

  twenty-three

  twenty-four

  twenty-five

  twenty-six

  twenty-seven

  twenty-eight

  twenty-nine

  thirty

  thirty-one

  thirty-two

  thirty-three

  thirty-four

  thirty-five

  Get More

  DVD Extras for Books

  Connect Online

  Other Books by Garrett Robinson

  About the Author

  Epilogue

  SHADEBORN

  Garrett Robinson

  Copyright © 2015 by Living Art Books. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events or locales is purely coincidental. Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.

  The author greatly appreciates you taking the time to read his work. Please help spread the word by leaving a review wherever you purchased it.

  To my wife

  Who gave me this idea

  To my children

  Who just make life better

  To Johnny, Sean and Dave

  Who told me to write

  And to my Rebels

  Don’t forget why you left the woods

  GET MORE

  Legendary Books is home to the very best that fantasy has to offer.

  Join our email alerts list, and we’ll send word whenever we release a new book. You’ll receive exclusive updates and see behind the scenes as we create them.

  (You’ll also learn the secrets of what make great fantasy books, great.)

  Interested? Visit this link:

  GarrettBRobinson.com/join-legendary

  shadeborn

  one

  Loren sat slouched in her seat, searching and failing to find any reason why today should be better than the one before.

  Her companions still lay sleeping upstairs. Even Albern had not yet risen, though the bowyer always woke before sunrise. Loren had not stirred before them—instead she had stayed awake through the night, unable to close her eyes for fear of what she might see in her mind. A cup of wine had turned into two, and then a bottle as the moons set. Now the sky was creeping toward the grey of another dirty dawn.

  The innkeeper Mag used a damp rag to polish the counter, though to Loren’s mind it shone bright already. Every so often, the woman would lift her gaze to survey the room, observing the early risers who had joined Loren for breakfast, or the nighttime arrivals who had traveled to Northwood for reasons unknown—and, mayhap, best not asked after. Mag’s gaze never sought Loren in particular, but neither did she ever shy from looking at her.

  In the days since their arrival at the inn, that was something Loren always appreciated: Mag kept many thoughts to herself, and she never treated Loren different from any other customer. She could not say this for the others, who mostly sought to avoid her, if not pull her into conversation with soft words she was not ready to hear.

  All except Chet, of course.

  This time, Mag’s keen eye found Loren’s empty goblet and bowl. She sidled out from behind the thick oak counter, crossed the room, scooped up the empty bowl from the table without a word, and scraped it free of the remaining stew.

  “Will you be wanting anything else, love?” Her words held neither judgement nor too much care, spoken as though Loren were any other girl visiting the inn. Yet in that plain tone, Loren heard another kind of concern.

  “Another glass of wine would suit me well, except that I feel my debt is growing too large. When will you let me ease my burden and pay for my custom like the rest of your patrons?”

  “Another time, mayhap. But not yet.” Mag swept up the cup, dropped it in the bowl, and returned to the bar. She pulled a clean cup from the shelves, followed by another. She filled both, returned to the table, and then to Loren’s surprise took a seat.

  Now at last she means to speak her mind.

  Loren should have expected it. Mag had seemed more understanding, less intrusive, than any of the others. But she must have felt the way they did all along and chosen now to finally say something. Why she had waited so long, Loren could not imagine.

  “I have heard what the others say, urging you toward better spirits. You must know they are wrong, and that this is not something to hasten.”

  Loren blinked, and after a moment said, “Those are not the words I thought to hear.”

  “I imagine not.” Mag smiled gently and sipped her wine. “You thought I would lend my voice to theirs.”

  “Indeed, they seem to think they know what is best for me, no matter my wishes.” Loren swigged from her own cup—a deeper, longer drink than Mag’s.

  “Yet you will note that Albern has not joined their insistence. Nor would I. We are alike and have seen many dark times together. We have felt loss and done deeds we wish we could not recall for their haunting.”

  Loren saw a broken body draped in red. An arrow protruding from a thigh. A hateful man crawling through the dirt. She shivered, blinked hard, and drank again in desperation.

  Mag’s hand came gently to rest upon hers, stretched out on the table. “Only time can rid us of these aches. You are fortunate to have that time. Take it—as much as you need. Let the pictures fade from your mind, one by one, until they trouble you no longer, neither in sleep nor waking hours. ’Tis not something you should try to hurry.”

  Loren picked at her sleeve. Though it had been only a few days since their arrival in Northwood, she had seen no improvement in her mood, nor in the dark thoughts that never ceased their plaguing. “And what happens then? What did you and Albern do, when your darkness refused to leave?”

  “Only then are you near to the end. Embracing our grief plants the seed of healing, and once it is well laid we must take it upon ourselves to foster the growth. An untended crop twists in the earth. A sorry harvest, and one you have likely seen before: the drunkard who cannot think to spend his time anywhere but the tavern, his coin invested in oblivion alone.”

  Wine soured in Loren’s mouth. “You might as well say what you mean: her coin. Yet you will not take mine.”

  Mag frowned. “If I meant to rebuke you, I would do it without bandying words. Only you can know when you are ready for your next step. I only mean to say that when the time comes, take it you must, or you will find that losing yourself comes too easy. Action can help you along the road—any action, though deeds of purpose are best. Or sometimes, the comfort of another can be medicine true. Like that boy Chet.”

  “He is trying. Often have we walked in the Birchwood, and under its leaves I find something closer to peace than I do with the others, with their soft words and cautious glances.”

  Mag gave her a look that lasted a moment too long. Loren blushed and quickly took another swallow of wine.

  “You should embrace anything that helps.” Loren thought she heard a smile’s tease in the innkeeper’s simple words. “Remember: do not let the others push you sooner than you are ready
. There will be time enough for their cares. But you must first tend to yourself.”

  Boots tromped heavily down the stairs. Loren turned to see Albern descending into the common room with a quick glance and a halfhearted smile. Mag rose and met him at the bar to take the bowyer’s order and fetch his breakfast. Loren sat in the quiet, considering her words.

  Loren did not enjoy her solitude long. Albern joined her at the table with his eggs and a rash of bacon. He said nothing but did not have Mag’s skill at disguising his curious eyes. Soon, Loren heard the thumping again and looked up to see Xain glowering down.

  The wizard’s limbs had gone thin and bony, his cheeks so gaunt that Loren half imagined she could see his teeth pressing against the flesh inside. His hair was thinning. It would surely come out in clumps if she tugged upon it. He was a specter of death, and the effect was not lost on the room’s other inhabitants. Some had drunk too much to care, but others averted their eyes or stood to leave with muttered excuses, even with no one near enough to hear them.

  Xain failed to notice, or cared not. He stalked toward Loren, pulled out the chair beside hers, and slouched in his seat, eyebrows drawing together. He leaned close, his voice a harsh whisper, though Loren was sure it carried to the quiet room’s every corner.

  “Tell me you have finally had enough of this skulking and are ready for the road.”

  “Xain,” said Albern in a warning tone. His fingers tightened on the handle of his mug.

  “A good morrow to you, fair sir.” Loren tried to make the words light but could not keep their edge away. “Eat with us, I pray, and help yourself to some wine.” She raised her cup and wiggled it back and forth.

  Xain failed to hear the joke, snatched her cup, and drained it in a gulp. “I take it you do not mean to move on, then. Do you think we have eternity to squander?”

  “Have we spent an eternity here already, Albern?” Loren looked toward the bowyer with feigned interest. “Sky above, I thought but a few days had passed us.”

  “Your jests are stale and grow more with every passing of the sun,” said Xain. “When will we speak, away from this room and its many prying ears? Days pass, and yet still you will not tell me that which you once thought so urgent.”

  Loren knew full well what the wizard meant. They had yet to decide upon their next destination after leaving Northwood, and Loren had grave words for the wizard indeed. But those words had come from Jordel the Mystic, and he had died moments after they sputtered from his lips. Recalling the words meant remembering the man, and Loren could not think of Jordel without her heart wanting to break. Nor had the past week made it any easier, for in Northwood she had learned a horrible truth, about herself and the cruel man she had shot in the thigh. The man she had once called Father, but whom—by her own hand—no one would ever speak to again.

  “Soon,” said Loren, in a quieter voice than she intended. “I promise you. Just give me more time. My grief still presses too close upon me.”

  Xain growled, eyes darting about as though searching for another argument. His fingers picked at his coat sleeve. A deep hunger gnawed at his insides, and Loren knew the wizard’s mind was not entirely his. She was grateful it was not like last time, when Xain’s mind had grown so dark that she would have feared to share a room.

  “Good morn,” said a familiar voice, warm and welcome. Chet stood by Loren’s side, appearing as he often did as if from nowhere.

  “Good morn,” said Loren, rising from her seat before Xain could choose his next bitter words. But she moved too fast and had forgotten her many cups of wine. Loren lurched and nearly fell. She would have if not for her seizing the table’s edge as Chet took her gently by the arm.

  She steadied herself, flushing with embarrassment. “I thought to greet the sun from the Birchwood. Would you care to join me under the solace of its branches?”

  Chet looked worried. “Are you sure rest is not needed? Did the night’s sleep find you at all?”

  “Who needs sleep when the world is waking? Come.”

  Loren seized Chet’s arm and nearly dragged him from the table, taking each step carefully to make sure she did not stumble. As they walked off together, Loren was sure she saw Albern hiding a smile.

  two

  The crisp morning air did much to clear Loren’s head, and she drank it in with long appreciative breaths. It felt better to be walking with Chet than sitting alone at her table nursing wine, but sometimes the drink was easier.

  Dawn’s thin grey light was creeping into the sky from the east, and Northwood was stirring into the morrow. She heard the sharp hiss of a smith’s forge firing up and the first tentative cocks crowing to greet the day. New faces upon the streets made Loren feel grateful, for there were fewer curious eyes upon them. She no longer held much fear that her many enemies had followed them, and yet the more meager the number of their observers in Northwood, the better.

  A single guard sat at a table by the open gate. She was well accustomed to seeing Chet and Loren take their walks, and gave them little more than a cursory glance and a quick nod before returning to her game of moons. A few moments later, they found themselves among the forest trees they had once called home. A few steps farther still, and Northwood had vanished behind them, blocked from view by an army of trunks.

  Now Loren felt herself truly relax, like the last cobwebs had been swept from the edges of her mind. Here within the wood, her eyes saw things differently. Bent blades of grass spoke of passing deer, and when she heard a skittering within a bush, Loren knew it at once for the rustling of a vole. The forest was altogether different from the world of men, a place she had greatly missed in the months since leaving, and all the more enjoyable because she knew Chet saw it the same.

  Sometimes, they spoke as they walked. Others, as now, they strolled in silence, allowing their wandering feet to carry them where they may. They found a narrow brook, eagerly running to join the Melnar, and turned in silence to find a spot upstream to cross.

  Soon they found it: a place where the banks rose high above the water’s surface, drawing together, close enough for a long jump to send them across. The sun peeked above the branches of eastern trees as they reached the other side, and the Birchwood’s birds burst into song together.

  They walked until they found themselves in a clearing some thirty paces across, with a great stone in the middle, sitting like a tombstone. There they sat together, backs to the boulder, its cool surface chilling them after their walk.

  Loren loved their forest strolls in part because Chet seemed as content to silence or speech as she wished. He would eagerly converse with her or answer questions about what had happened in their village since her flight. From him, she had learned of her mother, who had vanished without a trace the day after her father’s funeral. Loren had some half-remembered notion of family in one of the northern outland kingdoms and assumed her mother had gone to find them. Good riddance, to Loren’s mind. She had also learned that after Chet’s mother passed, his father had courted Miss Aisley. A fine pairing, Loren thought. Chet himself was unsure what to think.

  But when Loren wished for silence, Chet left her in an elegant quiet. He simply stared into the trees beside her, hands toying with a stick he had snatched from the ground. Together, they found comfort without words. Lacking pressure to speak, Loren found her tongue moved freely.

  “In the city of Wellmont, I was caught trying to steal a man’s purse.”

  Chet glanced at her, smirking. “I thought you were a great thief. Is that a lie, for you to be so easily caught?”

  “I was not easily caught,” she said with a gentle shove. “I was betrayed by my own kindness. I saw the man beating his child and thought to relieve him of his coin—but then at the last moment, I thought the child might relish a life free from his father. That was a mistake. The moment I offered, he told his father, who called the constables.”

  “A foolish boy. He could have gone with you, running headlong into mortal danger. At least you wou
ld not have beat him.”

  “Mayhap.” Loren had not meant to turn the conversation toward a father and his child, for that subject took her toward things she would rather not consider. “But in any case, the constables brought us to their quarters within the city. And there, to his surprise as well as mine, I found Jordel waiting. I will remember his surprise—and anger—forever.”

  Chet grew quiet, as he always did when Loren’s words turned to Jordel. He had never met the Mystic—something she desperately regretted. Everyone should have known the man, for his greatness, for his quiet and heartfelt praise, for his cold and terrible wrath. Loren doubted she would ever meet his like again.

  “What surprised me then, though it should not have, was how quickly he guessed at what was happening. Once he heard that I had been caught stealing from the woodsman, his eyes grew sharp with suspicion. With barely a glance, he seemed to know the entire tale of man and boy and dealt with the father as cruelly as with his son. And though his anger with me lingered, it also softened and turned to something more like annoyance, as though he thought I was right to do as I had, though his duty forbade him to say so.”

  Loren’s voice edged a tremble, so she stopped and bowed her head. A single tear leaked from her eye.

  Once more, the clearing was silent save for morning birdsong.

  Into the stillness, Loren spoke, and again her voice was steady. “Where did they find my father?”

  Chet glanced at Loren from the corner of his eye for a moment before looking away. “’Tis no tale for a day so beautiful.”

  “I should guess it is too ugly for any day outside a storm. Tell me then, and let its darkness fade forever into our past.”

  “You have seen too much darkness. I would not invite more upon you, not at least until you are ready. I wish to tell this tale but once, and in full, so that we need never speak it again.”