He’d gone south that time before, for want of a better idea, towards the village where he’d been born, hating every moment. Tilled fields? Oxen and horses pulling ploughs? Hawks circling overhead? Shepherds fucking their sheep? Milkmaids carrying pails? All extravagantly overpraised, in his view. He’d take Orane’s river and bridges and taverns. The bustle of the streets, day and night. The markets. The noise. The street performers. The Great Sanctuary’s dome gleaming in a morning sun. He’d take those any time. Always.

He’d travelled west this time, on Marina’s counsel.

But he had been even more off balance. Irritated and saddened by being away. The need to be, with a killing behind him, and an attempt on his own life. The vastness of the countryside dismayed him.

Then he’d arrived at de Thunier’s château…and the pompous idiocy of Bascot de Thunier had dismayed him even more! A petty lord who thought he was a great one, and a writer. A poet who read his day’s work aloud to those trapped at his table at night after the evening meal. Every Jad-cursed night. The meals were excellent, as promised, the poetry…execrable.

Thierry had said nothing—may the god give him credit for that when he died! For weeks he’d nodded agreeably, murmured a new, benign vacuousness each evening. Until forced to be honest by de Thunier one night. Or, being accurate, was pushed that way by an extremely direct question. He could have lied. He hadn’t had to say what he’d said. Which had been, undeniably, direct in turn. Silencing a dining hall.

“My lord,” he’d said, “you are a generous, gracious host. Everything the lady Marina said you would be, and more.” The small, plump country aristocrat at the table’s head beamed at him. “But my lord, it would be better for yourself, and for the world, if you concentrated your…inner forces on hunting. On collecting art. On patronage. On the affairs of our difficult times, the wars which might now come. On finding pleasing bed partners! My lord, there is neither skill nor insight in your writing. No talent for phrase, or for thought. There is nothing. Words are not of value just for being…words! My most earnest, well-intended counsel, my lord, is to consider a different avenue for yourself.”

There were no words of remonstration at the table that night. De Thunier was, if nothing else, well brought up, and Thierry was his guest.

It was the next morning that the castle steward suggested, politely enough, that perhaps Villar might wish to carry on with his travels. Enjoy more of the countryside and the season. Grace a different château with his presence.