He heard an owl outside. Then a wolf, distantly. Night sounds in the countryside. He really didn’t like it. He’d rather hear drunken singing from a street outside. Instead, here, there was also the steady passage of guards below, boots crunching on gravel. All of this registered clearly. He was too far from sleep.

He was adjacent, it seemed, to very great events. Plans were being swiftly made. The king was back among them. A blessing of Jad. Thierry had gone with others to the sundown rites in the sanctuary here. He’d stood with Silvy towards the back, and chanted the responses as a tall cleric led them.

The king had been at the front. Returned to himself, and to them.

Later, he had asked Thierry Villar for a poem.

They’d finished the banquet in the dining hall. It had been the queen who’d summoned Thierry from where he was seated down the long oak table.

He had risen, dry-mouthed, to approach the table at the top of the room, nearest the windows. He had walked past stags on the walls, the one over the fireplace utterly magnificent—so many tines to the horns. He didn’t know hunting, or stags. He only knew Orane.

He was presented (he was presented!) to the king, sitting amid those of his court who were here. He saw Marina sitting near the queen. She smiled a little, but he could see she was apprehensive. The Maiden, Jeanette, was also at that table, looking lost, he thought.

She’d rather be outside, he was sure, among her own army, in a tent or under stars.

The king of Ferrieres said, “We have been told, Thierry Villar, that you did us loyal service after the foul murder of our brother. We are grateful.” He paused, smiled, continued in the beautiful voice, “We had not thought tavern poets could do that.”

He knew of Thierry?

“Your grace,” he stammered, saying the thought aloud, “I am honoured you know who I am. It is far beyond what I deserve.”

Another smile. “We are told otherwise. But…if we have poets here, they should be put to use, surely, at a banquet. We know that in the taverns the fashion is to improvise verses. We have even heard some of yours, profane as they are.”

Thierry winced.

King Roch continued, “So, a poem, if you will, Villar, to celebrate our return. But perhaps…not profane this time? We await you.”

Dear Jad, Thierry thought.

But he was a poet, and he did do this, had done it so many nights in so many taverns, drunk or sober. This was the same thing, wasn’t it?

It wasn’t, but he needed to act as if it were.