Daughter of Moth (The Moth Saga, Book 4) Read Online Free

garb, the dirt beneath his fingernails, and
his humble demeanor dreadfully embarrassed Madori whenever they
visited the courts of Arden—and even here in Mageria. Torin smiled
grimly.
    Good.
It's a father's job to embarrass his children.
    The
houses and shops rose three stories tall around him, their windows
displaying wares from across Mageria—rich woolen fabrics to rival
even those from his village of weavers, statues and paintings of
landscapes, armor and weapons, and all manner of books and scrolls.
The shops were doing good business this turn; Torin guessed that the
Turn of Trials was their busiest of the year, a time when the
wealthiest parents across the world came to wait nervously . . . and
spend.
    Finally Torin passed by The
Dancing Wolf tavern again. He decided that more than he cared to
shop, he'd like to drown his worries in a big mug of ale. Worrying
for Madori always gnawed on him—he hadn't stopped worrying about her
since her birth—but now a new concern had risen. The encounter with
Lord Serin still weighed heavily upon him. His cousin's warning
echoed in Torin's mind.
    The
Radian Order rises in the sunlight. The creatures of darkness will
cower before us.
    Torin
grimaced. He had heard similar rhetoric years ago. Last time, such
hate-mongering had led to a war across the world. Torin had feigned
indifference around Madori, not wanting to worry the girl, but now
his belly twisted. The memories of that war years ago—the fire in
the night, the blood on his sword, the countless dead around
him—still haunted his dreams, and now those memories flared even
here in this peaceful, sunlit town.
    Shaking his head grimly, he
stepped into the tavern.
    A large, warm room awaited him.
His usual haunt back home—a cozy little tavern called The Shadowed
Firkin—was a place of scarred oak tables, a scratched floor, and
commoners boasting about the size of their squashes and the longevity
of their sheep. But here Torin found a tavern that looked almost as
luxurious as a nobleman's hall. Tapestries hung on the walls,
depicting scenes of hunters and hounds under a sky full of birds.
Actual tablecloths covered the tables, revealing cherry-wood legs
engraved in the shapes of horses. Armchairs basked in the heat of two
roaring fireplaces, and sunlight fell through stained-glass windows.
Casks of ale and wine rose along one wall, and a bar stood gleaming
with polished brass taps. The tavern was still half-empty, but every
moment the bell above the door rang as more parents shuffled in.
    Nodding at a few other
fathers—their cheeks were already red with ale—Torin made his way
to the bar. He sat on a stool, placed a few coins on the counter, and
ordered a dark brew.
    He raised the drink in the air,
silently making the same toast he always did—a toast to old friends.
To Bailey. To Hem. To lost souls, old memories.
    "It's been seventeen years,
friends," he said, his voice too low for anyone to hear. "I
still think about you every turn."
    He drank for them, thinking of
home, missing that old tavern near the dusk, missing his old friends.
    Snippets of conversation, rising
from the armchairs by the fireplace behind him, reached Torin's ears,
interrupting his thoughts.
    "Now the Radians!" one
man was saying. "There are some folks with sense to them, I say.
Proud. Get things done. They're doing some good work in Timandra."
    A second voice answered. "I've
been saying it for a while, I have. Can't trust the nightfolk. Damn
'lorians moving into the sunlight now—I saw some myself, right here
in Teelshire! You let in a few, soon they'll swarm. Let the Radians
deal with them."
    Torin twisted in his seat,
glancing toward the hearth. Two noblemen sat there, holding tankards
of ale, their cheeks ruddy and their bellies wide. They noticed his
glance and raised their tankards.
    "Oi, friend!" said one
of the pair, his yellow mustache frothy. "You agree with us,
don't you? You're a man of Arden; I can tell from the look of you.
Right