the mountains had an old-fashioned cadence to Lizzan’s ear, as if she spoke to her mother’s mother, or watched a mummers’ play set in the near past. And those from the far south used heavy, ancient-flavored speech—and Lizzan had only heard it a few times, spoken by Parsathean mercenaries.
These people spoke as those from the near south did. And they did not yet possess the hardened, weary look of travelers who’d spent more than a full turn of the moon upon the road. A few of the stragglers who’d joined the tail of the caravan did—and they had been welcomed into the larger group for the midday meal, she saw now.
Sharing was a kindness woven into the fabric of the law of the road, yet one she rarely saw. Especially as travelers’ supplies dwindled. This caravan’s supplies had not yet.
“I am Mevida,” said the brown-haired woman, taking her seat at Lizzan’s left. “My mother, Carinea.”
Whose skin seemed as fragile and crinkly as a fallen autumn leaf, though nothing else about her seemed frail. Her gaze was as steady and direct as her daughter’s, though also sharper and brighter—as if the mind behind those dark eyes were an unsheathed blade.
Or perhaps by Carinea’s age, whatever once covered the blade had simply worn away. Lizzan’s own blade had been scraped clean by anger and pain, and was kept honed by all the chafing that followed, but she did not think the sharpness shone through her eyes as this woman’s did. Instead every slice and incision was aimed at the foolish matter within Lizzan’s own skull, delivered by too many thoughts with razored edges. The only thing that dulled them was enough drink.
Which the boy quickly brought in a clay mug with a rounded bottom that nestled comfortably in Lizzan’s hand. Generous he’d been, filling it nearly to the brim.
Sheer relief lightened the urge to gulp the wine. Oh, and it was strong—as strong as palm wine could be without turning over to vinegar. The first sip Lizzan held against her tongue as long as she could, watching as the boy laid out the other provisions. Already the sun seemed not so bright, the air not so humid.
The women sipped from their own cups—of the sweet and mild variety, Lizzan noted, and theirs only containing a few swallows. Truly they must believe that Lizzan knew more than she did.
Though if they were from the south, they likely knew very little. “Why do you go north? Have you family in Koth?”
Which was so unusual as to be almost unheard of. Before the passageway had opened, Lizzan had personally known not one person who had been south of the flaming mountains. Tales she had heard—of the monoliths of Par and of the Dragon Sands, of the Farian savages and of the Bone Fields and of the Boiling Sea—yet much like Anumith the Destroyer, that was all they were. Tales and legends, something that occurred elsewhere and to people wholly unrelated to anyone she knew.
“No family.” Mevida’s smile tightened. “But surely you have heard that the Destroyer returns?”
It seemed that was all Lizzan had heard of late. “But are you not from Blackmoor?”
“Near to it.”
“It was Blackmoor’s king and queen who slew the demon from Stranik’s Passage. You do not think that of all realms, Blackmoor is not the safest and their protection the strongest?” Most of those who traveled south seemed to believe so. “There is also word that a great alliance forms, and that the southern realms are uniting to stand against him.”
Which sounded to Lizzan a marvelous idea. Especially if the realms in the north would create a similar alliance, but she could not imagine how that would happen. The smaller realms were in turmoil as everyone fled south. And the larger realms offered their protection, but with no agreement between them. Koth believed the only safety would be found on its island. The monks of Radreh spoke of using dark magics to fight the Destroyer on his own terms—a tactic that Koth and Krimathe vehemently denounced—and Lith was lost to the battle between its warlords. But even if it had not been, no alliance would ever form between Lith and Krimathe. Not after Lith’s former king had invaded the broken realm and sought to finish what the Destroyer had begun.
“It’s true that an alliance forms,” Mevida said. “But what of it? They all fell before the Destroyer before: Blackmoor, the riders of the Burning Plains, every realm between the Fallen Mountains and