Eriloyn stood in the shadow of the building where he had once apprenticed a blacksmith. The roof, along with the blacksmith, had been destroyed the day of the attack. Coincidentally, that had also been the last time Eriloyn had seen food. He’d always been a tall, strong boy, but since the destruction of Waikein he’d been whittled away to painful thinness. His stomach had ceased to bother him, but his brain had been enveloped in a fog that was just as dangerous. In this state, he knew he could easily make mistakes, but he was desperate. Only the day before he’d been drinking from a dirty puddle of water in the street, mad for some kind of moisture, and had nearly been run over by a carriage. Some small instinct of self-preservation had jerked him back out of the way, and the dark shape had rattled and bounced past him. He’d only caught a glimpse of the crest on the door; the mayor of Waikein’s pair of crows holding a massive yellow wedge of cheese.
