They broke their fast that morning on dried plums , the last of some family's hoard, most likely, traded to Owen by Pip and little Branden in exchange for the old arming sword the boy had claimed for himself after the Ford.
It would be months yet before the trees bore fruit again. The blossoms of spring hung thick and pale on the branches around them now, delicate as a promise not yet kept, but it was only come summer that plums would swell heavy and dark where those flowers presently bloomed.
These must have been the last the family kept in their larder, Vilon reasoned, popping one between his cheek and gum. It was dry as its name implied, tough as old leather at first bite, and only after some patient chewing did the lingering sweetness of true plum finally emerge, faint and stubborn, like a memory of sun resurfacing from a night of storm.
The gift had been well meant. It was also, Vilon privately thought, a poor trade.
