The forest to their right held no interest for him; it was the same interminable expanse of trees that had been accompanying them since they set out. He did not even bother to lift his head when they passed through another village, a tiny speck in the road, a minute change in the monotonous vista. They had passed through four—or was it five now? Jurel could not remember—of the little villages since leaving Merris nearly a week ago, each one identical to the last: a small inn welcoming travelers, each one somehow looking like it was as bored as he was, surrounded by a dozen homes that were really no more than glorified shacks. The villages were so remarkably similar that Jurel wondered once again if someone, God perhaps, played some cruel joke and kept them turning in circles, only to pass the same cluster of buildings over and over again. He thought back to the farm, remembering how he had imagined a life of travel and grand adventure. He had looked forward to it, dreamed of the wondrous sights he would behold and the brave deeds he would perform.
