Valkwitch (The Valkwitch Saga Book 1) Read Online Free Page B

‘the pretty one’. Tyrissa didn’t see it.
    “Call it a merchant’s nature, Ty. It can’t be
helped, only indulged.”
    Liran stepped over to her and they embraced. Upon
pulling way he looked her over and said, “My how you’ve grown, a lmost as
tall as me now.” Tyrissa would have to dispute that later, as they were clearly
eye-to-eye. Liran’s face was sun bronzed from the trip north, a long journey
through the vast emptiness and supposed dangers of Vordeum. The last two years
had been kind to his beard, finally filling in the gaps and patches that
haunted him from youth.
    “What happened to your arm,” Liran motioned at
the fresh bandages around her forearm and hand.
    “Dinner,” she replied with a wicked smile.
    “I’ll let it be a surprise,” he said with a
laugh.
    “Is this horse yours?” Tyrissa patted the mare’s
neck and traced her hand along a splash of white running down the snout. This
far north, horses were a rarity, the property of lords and the king, a symbol
of wealth. Most Morgs used kaggorn as haulers, the burly beasts slower
than horses and hardier against the fierce Morgale winters.
    “The Guild’s, but at least she makes me look all
the more impressive.”
    “She’s beautiful.”
    Liran chuckled and said, “I suppose. The novelty
wears off quick when you’re around them for enough time. Maybe I’ll take you to
the caravan while it’s camped over in Tav and you can get your fill of them.”
    “I’d like that.”
    “I thought you might. Let me stable Izzy and
we’ll head home.”
     
     
    The Jorensen family sat hand in hand around the
table and dinner began with ten seconds of silence for the ten silent Morg
gods, a practice done more out of tradition than reverence. The Cleanse
shattered what remained of anyone’s faith. What good were nameless gods that
cared nothing for their people in their darkest times? Tyrissa ticked the
seconds off in the back of her head, paying more attention to the feel of her
father’s hand in her left and Liran’s in her right, the contrast of calloused
versus smooth, of wildly different paths in life.
    Ring-shaped wurm steaks lay in a stacked line
atop a central platter ringed by a smattering of side dishes, mostly summer
vegetables and a plate of pungent kaggorn cheese. Everyone save Sven had
a glass of premium mead from the western Morg city of Stalven, the drink
stained a murky blue from the berries used in its creation.
    “It looks wonderful Iri,” Orval Jorensen said
after the blessing. Tyrissa’s father was a broad-shouldered man, the source of
his children’s height and bright blue eyes. Well into his middle years, his
blonde hair was thinning, or perhaps merely migrating to his thick beard that
looked as youthful as ever. Tyrissa thought he always smelled of sawdust, as if
fresh from the shop.
    “Thank you dear,” her mother said, “It was Ty,
Oster, and Sven who brought in the wurm, though I’d prefer to not know the
specifics on how.” Iri’s bandana was off, which was common in the evenings.
Faint tan lines showed on her face, the slash of paler skin evoking the war
paint of clan champions of old.
    Probably for the best mother , Tyrissa
thought to herself. If Sven managed to hold his tongue about the incident,
there might be hope for him yet.
    “A shame that Corgell couldn’t be here,” her
father said, “but I suppose he has a family of his own to care for, now.”
    “The caravan is camped at the Tavleorn festival
grounds, so I paid him a visit on the way in,” Liran said while attacking his
steak. “Little Eirin is talking now, she can barely stop. His shop seems to be
quite successful as well. I managed to score a discount on fair bit of Rhonian
greenwood from the caravan for him. Expensive stuff this far north.
He’ll flip for double making bookends for the nobles in Greden or some such.”
    “He has a pair of hired workers now,” their
father said, voice clearly proud for the son that followed in his