At highsun the convoy stopped for a midday meal. The conscripted were given bowls of wet, flavorless rice and some yak’s milk in cups barely large enough for two swallows. Yvenna had a hard time imagining that her sister would have subjected herself to this kind of treatment willingly, even if it meant a permanent escape from what she had once termed “the tyranny of destiny.”
As Yvenna poked at her meager meal, she took time to carefully observe the caravan’s leaders. They supped on dried meats, cheese, and bread, and smirked at all those who stared with hateful envy.