The road was long and the hours were short. Winter was scratching at the door, and soon the deep cold would settle into the bone of the land.
Perhaps I ought to have bought myself a proper blanket, Vilon reflected as a slender breeze kissed the nape of his neck, sending a shiver down his spine that left a trail of gooseflesh in its wake.
He could have bought one easily enough. Along the Magna Strata, he had passed a dozen small villages, and in nearly every one of them, a herd of fat, gray sheep choked the lanes. Where there was wool, there was a loom, and Vilon knew for a fact that silver coin was always welcomed by smallfolk when the frost set in. Winter was the time when people starved. He had never starved himself, he had known the hollow, gnawing ache of an empty belly during his youth, certainly, but he had never reached the desperation of eating boiled leather or grass.
