They stopped to watch a farmer open a floodgate, to let water flow down a shallow canal toward his orchard. The orchard astounded Toren even more than the plowed fields. Trees, deliberately placed in rows, instead of allowed to sprout at random as nature intended. Even when they grew honest food, they did it sacrilegiously.
As the sun grew swollen and red in the west, they reached the edge of a small village. Two armed men met them at the perimeter.
"Your business?" the taller one asked. They startled Toren by using Deena's language.
"We were told to ask for Mayor Korv," Deena replied. "And to show him this." She held out a copper coin. Toren briefly glimpsed the engraved image-a frog.
The sentry took the coin. His eyebrows raised. "I will fetch him. You can wait at the inn. Vodd will take you there."
"Our thanks, Goodman."
The first man strode away. Toren, Geim, and Deena followed Vodd toward the hamlet's only two-story structure. The town bustled, full of laborers done with their day's work in the fields, or wives gossiping before preparation of the evening meal. Toren couldn't keep up with the new sights-people in skirts, men with beards, walls of clay brick, oeikani much larger than those of the Wood. The citizens blinked and pointed at the golden skins of the Vanihr. They made less of a fuss about the hair, though villagers who were blond tended toward darker, honey tones, rather than the brilliant yellow of the southern race. Toren could not help but notice that an unusual number of the inhabitants carried weapons.
He picked up snatches of conversations-twice he heard "faces like boys" murmured behind his and Geim's backs-but for the most part the chatter blended into a chaotic buzz. Some of the people spoke the language that Geim and Deena shared, which, other than the familiar sound, completely washed over him.
"What is this place?" Toren asked Deena.
"The village is called Greenfield. Struth has an arrangement with the local officials-they keep watch on the portal exit, and provide hospitality for those who come through, in exchange for gold and certain gifts of sorcery."
"Why are so many of them armed?"
"Greenfield is near the border of Mirien, my homeland," she said wistfully. "Many of the people living here are refugees from the Dragon's invasion. They are wary of further incursions." That explained the presence of two languages.
A pretty tavern girl greeted them inside the inn. "Visitors for the mayor," Vodd announced.
"Then they'll want to sit in his booth," she replied, and showed them to an alcove. Toren chose the seat against the far wall, behind the table, grateful to slip out of conspicuous view.
"We'll get you some new clothes soon," Deena said. "It will make you feel a little less out of place."
"I like what I'm wearing now," Toren said.
The front door opened, letting in Vodd's companion and a stout elder in a well-tailored shirt and kilt. The latter joined them in the alcove.
He lay Deena's coin on the polished wood. "I'm Mayor Korv. How may I serve the emissaries of Struth?"
"Food, a night's lodging, and a few supplies for the road," Deena answered. "We'll leave for the temple in the morning."
"A modest request," Korv declared. "I'll tend to the first right now." He beckoned the serving girl. "You've just come from Talitha?" he asked when she was gone.
"Yes."
"Then you'll want news."
"Yes. How go the Dragon's conquests?" Deena asked.
The mayor's face clouded. "You've heard that he took Tamisan?"
"Yes."
"His main force is now moving slowly into Simorilia." He tugged his kinky, disarrayed beard. "We seem to be safe here for the moment. I hope it lasts."
"It won't," Deena said.
Toren had to listen attentively to be able to follow the dialogue. His command of the tongue still wavered, and Korv spoke with a different accent than Deena. He gave up, which was just as well because the conversation soon shifted into the other language, which the mayor seemed equally comfortable speaking. Geim asked him several questions.
The girl brought bowls of stew. The rising steam smote Toren with the sharp, bitter aroma of unknown spices. He guessed that the meat came from the small, woolly grazing animals he had seen earlier that day. The vegetables looked like some sort of roots or tubers.
"Are these grown in open fields?" he asked Deena, poking at a vegetable with a two-tined fork.
"Yes," she answered. "That one is called nioc. It's very good."
He glanced at Geim. His fellow Vanihr was shovelling his portion down with gusto. Toren did not know what to do. Every bit of the recipe offended the religious laws of his people. Even the meat came from livestock raised on treeless land. Yet he had to eat something sooner or later.
Geim nudged him. "You're not going to start this nonsense again, are you?"
Toren scowled, and took a bite.
"You see?" Deena said encouragingly. "When I was a child my mother fed us nioc every day. She taught me how to prepare it a dozen different ways."
He grimaced as he swallowed. "That must be why your skin is so pale."
"Try the mutton, then. These spices are delicious."
"I'd really prefer some snake," Toren said, but he relented and began eating everything. It filled his belly with a soothing heat, and it did curb his hunger. However, he could not muster the enthusiasm Geim and Deena were displaying.
Half an hour later, his stomach suddenly spasmed. The mayor quickly directed him toward the rear door. He staggered away and, once free of the shame of observation, he lost the meal.
I will never eat sinner's food again, he vowed.
When he didn't return, Geim came to find him. Toren was leaning against the outhouse, letting the cool twilight air calm the fierce heat in his neck and cheeks.
"You don't look like much of a dragon killer," Geim said.
"I'm not," Toren said stiffly.
"Don't be embarrassed. Strange food often does this. You'll adjust."
"Did it ever happen to you?"
"Of course. My first meals in three different ports. But that was when I was younger. Now I can eat anything."
"Then I look forward to my old age," Toren quipped.
"Come back inside," Geim suggested. "Perhaps if you ate bread only…"
"I'm not hungry anymore," Toren said, but he followed Geim inside, no longer nauseated. The tavern girl tried unsuccessfully to suppress a sympathetic grin as he passed. He blushed. His throat stung. He still felt queasy. A warrior should not have to feel so miserable in front of women.
Korv reassured him, and tore off a quarter loaf of pale brown bread. More sin, but what did it matter? Toren nibbled at it. He found it much lighter than the dense cakes of his homeland, and though the flour tasted of field grains rather than seeds and nuts, it went down easily. He supplemented it with ale, a light, pleasant brew, the first thing he had genuinely liked all evening. It cut the sour film at the back of his mouth.
A small, tousled head suddenly appeared over the table's edge. A young boy stared at Toren and Geim with bright, wide eyes.
The mayor chuckled and patted the child on the head. "My grandson, Pell. I apologize. He's never seen Vanihr before."
Toren's gaze lingered on his awed observer. "I have a boy your age," he told him, suddenly guilty. He had not thought of Rhi all day.
Made bold by the comment, Pell blurted, "Is it true that in your country, you sleep hanging from trees?"
Toren smiled. "Sometimes." But clearly the boy had the wrong idea. How to explain? He turned to Geim. "Do they have a word for immei?"
Geim told Deena the term. She translated it for Pell.
"Oh," Pell said, crestfallen. "Hammocks. We have those."
Toren could not face such disappointment. "One of my uncles was stolen from one by a mooncat when he was a baby," he added.
"Really?" Pell gasped. "Did he die?"
"No. Mooncats sometimes catch prey and don't make the kill until they get hungry. My grandfather found him in time."
Pell produced a dozen eager questions about mooncats almost before he took another breath. Toren patiently answered them, assisted by Deena when his vocabulary fell short. A pair of intrigued adult patrons shifted nearer the table. The topic evolved to other points. By the time the second pitcher of ale was empty, Toren felt a little less out of place.