"The people of the Four Kingdoms must be strong and proud to have wrought such works!" Rhia breathed. "Mine live only to endure. Perhaps when they see this, they will find the strength to endure even the Demon King's malice. What of your people?" she asked Amrhost, who, lost in thought, was riding nearby.
Amrhost turned and focused his gaze on her, slowly. "My people are strong. But pride . . . that is something they can ill afford."
Nylandor, who had overheard his remark, slowed his pace to match theirs. "I do not understand you. As I see it, some semblance of pride is necessary if one is to maintain a sense of purpose."
Amrhost grimaced at this. "Purpose is for those lacking in guile. My people, as you are well aware, are anything but guileless. One cannot regain innocence once it becomes lost, any more than one can restore a wholesome fruit that has gone rotten. A tree with a rotten heart isn't fit for kindling."
"Yet the seeds from such a fruit, or such a tree, will yield new life," said Nylandor. "Such is hope, if not purpose."
Late that day, they came in sight of the East Grey. They were about to leave the road and make camp, when they were forced to pull to one side to allow the passing of a large company that was moving north along the road. They were dwarves from Croft, a city of Darkhun to the south. Rhia had never before beheld dwarves, and found that their actuality bore little resemblance to the folk tales she had heard as a child. Like the people of Woodfalen, they were of hard-bitten, taciturn stock, and seemed on the surface to look upon strangers with an unfriendly eye.