The first village was called Greywater.
It had been a fishing settlement once, nestled against a narrow river that flowed down from the northern mountains. Now it was a graveyard. Half of the buildings were collapsed. The others showed signs of hasty repair; fresh timber nailed over burned walls, roofs patched with scavenged slate.
Seren rode into the village square with Voss at her right and Lysa at her left. Behind her, the wagons creaked under their loads of grain and medicine. The forty soldiers fanned out, watching the windows, the doors, the shadows between buildings.
The villagers emerged slowly. They were thin, hollow-eyed, dressed in rags that had once been good wool. Some carried children. Others carried makeshift weapons, pitchforks, clubs, kitchen knives.
A man stepped forward. He was old, with a scarred face and a missing ear. "You're the queen," he said. Not a question.
