Adare took a deep breath, quelling her temper, vowing not to let the woman’s gibes get the better of her again. Merchants’ daughters might be proud, but they weren’t as proud as princesses, and Nira’s insults weren’t likely to be the last that Adare faced. She couldn’t afford to explode every time she felt slighted, not if she wanted to survive the pilgrimage. Not if she wanted to reach Olon, Vestan Ameredad, and the disbanded Sons of Flame.

Adare opened her mouth to rehearse her story once more when Oshi, from his perch atop the wagon, abruptly began to weep. He sobbed with his whole body, skinny frame convulsing, hands still clutching the pear just inches from his face.

“No,” he moaned. “No, no, no . . .”

Nira grimaced and turned to the wagon, Adare forgotten. With surprising nimbleness, the old woman climbed onto the loaded bed and seated herself next to her brother.

“Knock off with that pissin’ and moanin’,” she snapped. “No one wants ta hear a cracked old man sobbin’ over some ’Kent-kissing fruit.”

The words were hard, but Nira slid a hand in gentle circles over her brother’s back as he wept. Oshi’s tears dampened his robe where they fell. Seen from behind the blindfold, those wet patches on the golden cloth might have been stains rather than tears, or burns in the fabric.

“It’s dead, Nira,” he sobbed, holding up the pear. “I killed it.”

“You didn’t kill it, ya old fuck,” she snapped, rooting in the wagon bed as she spoke. “Whoever picked it killed it, and besides, it’s gotta be dead if ya want to eat it, don’t it?”

Oshi just shook his head helplessly, then pressed his furrowed brow against the pear, as though trying to commune with the fruit. After a little more rummaging about, Nira came up with a rough clay bottle, unstoppered it, moved the pear aside, and held the vessel to her brother’s lips.

“Here,” she said. “Have some of this. It’ll make ya feel better.”

Adare caught a whiff of some unfamiliar liquor, both potent and acrid. Even at a distance, it made her eyes water, and yet Oshi slurped at it eagerly, taking the bottle in his own hands and tilting it backward until Nira stopped him.

“That’s plenty now. Bad enough listening to all your groanin’ without having ya piss all over the wagon.”

Oshi relinquished the vessel reluctantly, and Nira recorked it, then set it down inside the wagon’s bed out of the sun.

“Now eat your pear, ya crazy old bastard,” she said, handing back the fruit.

The man took a small bite, tested the soft white flesh on his tongue, then chewed it slowly.

“It’s sweet,” he said, as though marveling at the discovery.

“Of course it’s sweet, ya idiot,” Nira replied, draping an arm across his shoulders. “Of course it’s fuckin’ sweet.”