Say what you will about Vilon, but say he was not a man to let sound counsel go completely unheard. There was a hard, flinty truth in the words Rosh had spoken at the gatehouse: this southern land was as deeply accursed as it was dangerous.
He had harbored a faint, desperate hope in that miserable refugee camp that they might find clear, definitive directions toward Scidna. Unfortunately, he had achieved precious little success in that endeavor. Instead, he had been forced to part with an entire silverii just for a single sack of winter oats and a few meager travel rations.
A whole silverii! Too big a sum for such wretched fare. Vilon could not fathom how money was so dreadfully hard to come by, yet whenever it settled into a man's pouch, it seemed to trickle down and vanish like water held in open palms.
