Aelric’s itinerary is not a picture of the land as a bird would lie about it.

It is a list.

Lynford crossing (bridge; ford unreliable in spate). Ridge to Thatcham: a morning if you do not dawdle at the Painted Staff. Thatcham to Crow’s Oak: marked oak, well, do not take the marsh path though it looks kind. Crow’s Oak to Holmewell: tower, then the basin of Saint Elswith. Badge stall by the south wall.

Hours. Landmarks. Warnings. That is a medieval traveler’s map more often than a painted country with dragons in the corner.

You copy it in a hand that looks like tracks in mud. Pernell glances. “If that list lived on a wall, fools would still walk into water, but fewer.”

The ridge is a real spine of ground. The low meadow is a rumor with wildflowers.

You ask why it is not a picture. Aelric taps the parchment. “A picture wants you to be a bird. You are feet. Feet need order: this, then this, then do not do that. Towers pin the list to the world. Painted staves pin it. I cannot pin a meadow that floods.”