In the time it took to disguise herself, the girl had made her way to a little, nameless village a span to the north.
The people there were suspicious of Chulla as Syrina knew they would be. Strangers were almost unknown in the foothills except slavers from Valez’Mui. But they didn’t like the girl, either, so she was easy to find among the dozen huts of black stone and thatch that clumped along a narrow, rapid stream flooding from the mountains. Someone had been kind enough to give her a bowl of mashed mountain grains and brook fish—a staple in this part of the foothills—and Syrina found her sitting apart from the village by the stream, eating with her hands.
“At least they fed you,” Syrina said in one of the more distant dialects as she clambered over the tumbled rocks to the girl, wear
