It didn't matter if there was four feet of snow on the ground or if it was summer, they would still be out guarding either way. Vedette certainly didn't mind the fact that they'd had to walk around in circles to pack the snow down so they could stand around without the men's legs freezing. In fact, she delighted in it. At first it'd begun as a journey out into the woods and changing shifts with another five soldiers, but it had soon turned into three of the men that accompanied Vedette and Ithacles complaining about the cold. Even Ithacles, when he felt like talking, complained. His cot was finer then the rest of theirs. Vedette's was merely made to look like the other men's coats, but it wasn't nearly as warm as theirs. Two of them had built a fire after clearing the snow away from the ground completely, and the other man set about fixing what Vedette assumed was stew.

( It could have been poison. They tasted the same. )

Skandra's glove nearly slipped - for at least the fiftieth time - and he cursed the day he'd ever come to Faustben looking for a good time. Ithacles was the sort of prince to never let you forget a damned thing you did, good or bad. Maybe after this he'd try to pin something on Skandra's coat. How willing Skandra was to let the pinning commence would be directly related to how much such a fanciful brooch could be sold for. Nobody had a use for hero's marks, especially the people who wore them with pride, but Skandra did have a use for all the ale he could consume and a hero's welcome. Maybe he'd even drink for free one or two nights. More than that might make it seem like he was doing something untoward. Touchy about their honor, these soldiers. How many of them would escape punishment for what they'd done?

( It remained to be seen, this idea of what they'd done. )

A man's vicious groan cut the darkness around them. Skandra took that opportunity to strike a match - but it wasn't enough light, to frighten their colleague or pretend they were intimidating. So his fingers snapped, a loud crack rang out, and the match flew into the glass cage of a lantern. Despite the sudden rip of wind it managed to light the oil, and Skandra got a closer look at his target's face. The man was middle aged, not possessed of a razor by all appearances, and he had a wicked cut on his chin. For a moment Skandra thought he enjoyed getting into tussles - but then he remembered, oh yes, poor fellow had a bottle smashed on his face. That was likely to hurt his standing with the ladies. Not that this fellow was one to care about what women wanted. The king's brand on his neck said everything that had to be said. And then some. So there really was a plot - and more than that, it involved some of the king's own men.

( Maybe this fellow knew a little something about it. )

There was always one. A table, a corner of the common area. Maybe leaning on the wall by the tap, peering into the relative darkness from beneath your hat. Skandra was used to taking up such a position to get a feel for the room, but this time it was even more important. You could see glimmers of a man's true nature in the things he didn't control. The way he casually threw his cards on the table could tell you that he had a bad hand, or that he was a bad actor. If you'd seen his face in the same tavern more than a few times you knew he didn't throw his cards down that honestly - so you knew it was a lie. That was the pulse of the room. A feeling, or even four or five feelings, or a thousand of them strung together making a chain of sensations you could feel and see and explore. It was not an easy thing to learn how to do, but for him it began as instinct. Survival as a thief was based on knowing the strength of your target, and one of the fastest ways to do that was to be able to size a fellow up just by looking at him. Standing a post by the tap was not the least conspicuous way of doing it, but having a view of the whole room was important. And if no one could see you turning your head they couldn't tell who you were looking at.

( It was a skill that Cavras, Vedette and Ithacles had not yet perfected. )

You didn't find taverns in castles. There was no merry place where men drank together except in the dining hall, which only served ale. And even that was not always a merry place. Especially when the entirety of the king's guard was waiting for a chance to get you alone. So here they sat, in one of what must have been hundreds of nondescript rooms. Cavras swore that it was a room he'd been given for the duration of his stay, but none of his personal effects were in the room. Only a wooden table coated in dust, a tapestry which depicted two nameless faceless armies marching against one another, and a misted window which revealed light - but nothing of the outside world. Safely ensconced behind fortifications and the iron determination of military men there was no chance of a scuffle or an encounter of chance. So he and Cavras had gambled for coppers a little while. Only when Skandra offered to make change for his silver pence did Cavras abandon the gambling.

( The mood of the room was sour. )

Time.

It was a strangely appointed conference room. The sort of thing you never imagined seeing in all your long years of life. Skandra could look up from under the brim of his hat and see the wooden beams, which were not covered as they were in other sections of the castle. The stone ceiling actually arched above them. It looked almost like a temple of some kind, and perhaps it had been, before they realized that temples weren't as useful as large conference spaces. Then again, those were not especially useful, either. It was too early in the morning to be awake. Especially the day after your knock-down drag-out brawl resulted in twenty-five men being put to rest in the infirmary. Rumor had it that Ithunvel was ready to tear down walls. He hadn't spoken to his son yet, and the only face he'd seen so far was Lethe's. As soon as she arrived back from the farm. Apparently she'd been keeping some things from Ithunvel, as well.

( Not that Skandra suspected her of anything. )

Vedette had forgotten what it was she'd been mad about after the fifth, or sixth cup of wine she'd ordered. Or was it ordered for her. Simple mountain folk hardly ever saw people as glamorous as people like them. Like a Prince and his Captain. Or so the page had told her when he bought her third. Yes, it wasn't as if she didn't have a line of men waiting for her either. Oh right, that's what she'd been mad about. If Ithacles could be so casual about how he felt, then she could too. Who cared? She was a dragon, it wasn't as if she couldn't take off and have someone on the side without anyone ever knowing about it. Of course it wasn't really on the side when she wasn't in anything to begin with.

( Was she? )

A courtyard was a broad sort of opening purposed for nothing. It had smooth stone, sometimes engraved, always carefully cut and arranged just so. In this case, a flat square pattern that ran the length and width of the courtyard, made from gray stone - cut in the center with a hollow circle of red stone. Around the edges of said courtyard was a covered walkway, sloping ceilings of still more stone supported by columns. Not just any columns, of course. Square-cut columns that had scenes from Faustben's history engraved upon them. A chariot aflame, its rider being dragged behind as a chimera followed. Skandra did not believe for a moment that anyone from Faustben had ever fought a chimera - hell, he did not even believe that a chimera could truly exist - but there it was, right next to depiction of battle after battle. This was a courtyard that belonged to soldiers, made by soldiers for the express use of soldiers.

( Probably why it made him nervous. )

One small trip to the healing houses for their band of soldiers had left them with half their men in sickbeds, and the other half ready to nurse their wounds with tankards of ale. Already the streets of Tauberwald were lit with news of a Dragon, something none of them had seen in quite some time. Not to mention stories of Ithacles' bravery against the orcs and the dragon itself. Some where painting stories that he'd single handedly killed the Orc and the Dragon. Vedette tried not to glare when she overheard such stories, and from the looks of it Ithacles was trying to drown himself in his ale.

Tauberwald was a small village deep in the forests at the northern end of Faustben. It's height in the mountains left the stream that ran through it frozen nearly solid most of the year. The locals were often seen chipping away the ice and melting it down in large pots so that they continually had water through the winter. Snow hardly found it's way through the thick trees amongst the village. Some of the houses themselves did not see the snow as they were low enough to the ground to be under a tree. But people hardly kept outside, even with the somewhat dry ground around them, it was far too cold for such things.

( Vedette preferred it outside as she was boiling to death inside the tavern they had found themselves in. )

Every bit of light assaulted her senses day in and day out since she'd waken up alone in her room with the door fastened shut so well that not even the servants could get in. Oh how they'd pounded on the door the next day. Every thump reminded her that she had left herself get carried away in her emotions far too much. It was easy to make excuses for the tightly closed door. Many people were sick during the long winter stay in Faustben, and servants would always believe the ever honest Captain Uthral. She felt the guilt heavily in her chest when she sent them kindly on their way and then proceeded to find anything to fill the day in the room while it was light outside.

No one else knocked, not even Ithacles. But if he had what would she have told him? What could she have said to him?

( Saying sorry when you weren't really sorry didn't mean a damn thing. )

The castle was the sort of thing you did not believe until you saw it.

Built into the side of a mountain, as a great deal of Faustben seemed to be, the area before one approached the gates was heavily wooded. Pines and other hardy trees clung to the mountain dirt mercilessly, where grass would sometimes struggle to find purchase. There were patches of it here and there, well-cultivated, but the trees were the thing. The stone rode, like the walls of similar make, seemed to wind serpentine around the crags and sharp relief of the mountain's face. Even with trees all around them Skandra could see the flags flying high, blue and white and stolid, from each of the bastions built into the castle's wall. The thing must have been forty feet or more in height - more than enough to tower over opposing forces - but the main thing were the glimpses of snowy white and solid blue cloaks that one could catch glimpses of through the crenelated parapet. There must have been five dozen of them up there, where the towers exceeded the walls in height by a good twenty feet, but only those flashing glimpses alerted anyone that guards patrolled the heights. Skandra thought the old stone looked worn, but it was only the coloration.

( The castle itself looked like a beast. )

The winter harvest was long over, thankfully, which meant the dead of winter had set in. Snow blocked all of the passes that led in or out of the capital city of Faustben and nearly everyone who could stay indoors was indoors. The castle itself was set as warmly as possible, even if one could see their breath hanging in the air in every corridor they did make sure that every room had a fire going, or at least had hot coals of some sort burning for the residents warmth. Many people unaccustomed to a winter here would have froze to death if not properly prepared. Vedette thought everyone was slightly wimpy for it. Wandering around in two or three heavy jackets and cloaks over their heavy tunics and pants. Some even walked around with blankets round their bodies to keep the cold out.

She felt free in it. Each night she could creep out and lay in the snow that collected on her balcony in nearly nothing and be alone. And be cold. She could freeze her human form and still feel as right as rain. The castle staff wandered around with teeth chattering when they thought no one could hear. Whispering the hopes that they would be back in their warm bed soon. Vedette rejected every offer to place a tin of coals under her blankets before she retired. She had no need for a warm bed. In fact, she had to get up every morning and make her bed look slept in and then mess up the balcony's snow so that no one knew she'd been out there sleeping in it.

( The snow was beautiful though. )

It'd been nearly a month since that disastrous ball in which Lethe had tried to force a wife upon Ithacles only to have Ithacles turn the tables on her and announce that he'd marry Vedette. It only took a week of badgering Ithacles to find out that he was not marrying Vedette, or married to her already. That entire time Lethe hadn't left Vedette side, and since then had made sure Vedette was on opposite sides of not only the castle, but the city itself most of the time. Vedette was sick of it. The princess should have been satisfied with the fact that Ithacles was not married so she could continue to try in vain to set him up with one of their rich neighbors, or one of her friends. Instead Lethe was making it her personal mission to keep them as far apart as possible.

Not only was this troublesome because Vedette's main purpose here in Faustben was to protect Ithunvel's bloodline, but also because Ithacles was one of her closest friends. Life was relatively boring without him around and Vedette was beginning to wonder if Lethe would do this forever or if her temper tantrum over the ball would end by the time winter did. Of course, Winter was still months away from ending and Vedette could not stand being holed up here in Faustben for another month without Ithacles for entertainment. Lethe had forbade her from seeing him, which sounded like a challenge to Vedette.

( Vedette did enjoy challenges. )

Faustben, Skandra decided, was not the sort of place where one took their ease.

Since he'd come here - ostensibly to see his old friend Ithacles - he'd been punched, nearly stabbed, clubbed, and dragged. His head ached like a thousand soldier's feet after the hard desert march. His hands were sore from laying about him like hammers. And his purse was empty. The worst of it was, he'd known for a fact that he could have diced with those idiots all night and never lost a round, but there'd been that fellow with a cigar chomped between his teeth. Smelled like four-day old cheese curd and looked like it, too. To amuse himself Skandra was spinning the tin cup he'd been given on his finger, twirling it forward and backward, listening to the odd whistle that it generated while he glared through the bars at his jailer. This fellow, too, could have smelled like something more pleasant. Then again prisoners would not appreciate it it. What occupied his thoughts, and the reason for his tension, was simple. He was fairly certain one of the men he'd been gambling with was a soldier in the palace of the king. And he was fairly certain that fellow had been talking about selling himself to the highest bidder.

( His memory was so good, after a beating like that. )

As with all celebrations hosted in the Castle, Vedette was on duty but was suppose to do her best to blend in. Already the castle was filling with people, the murmur of excitement was all over the place. Servants were humming festive tunes and gardeners who hardly had a thing to do in the dead of winter were trimming at indoor plants of all shapes and sizes in order to impress their guests. The list was quite long and Vedette could hardly remember which Steward was which, and what each Lord.. lorded over. But she had to be in attendance, and had to blend in with the crowd. So her first duty of the day after bathing was to dress the part.

( The castle was ready to celebrate not only the royal family, but the change of seasons. )

Sitting in front of a fire without anything on his feet. A wooden tankard steaming in his left hand.

Ithacles had his eyes at half-lids in a sort of post-hypothermic euphoria. His toes were probably still numb but all of his skin felt so comfortably lived in that he didn't notice. The castle was built strong and well but nothing could be done to defeat Faustben's brutal winters entirely. Hence the massive fire, and the Prince sitting so close to it.

They were in an enormous chamber. Big enough that barely a third of it was lit by the orange flames which flickered and lapped at their steel grate. The rest, the high ceiling, the long table behind them, the trophy animals and banners on the wall, was lost in soft shadows which deepened to a sleepy black. About midnight and the castle was silent around them. Just like the world outside, quiet and asleep, huddled into anything warm.

It hadn't been an easy trek down the mountain.

Ithacles lifted his left hand dreamily and took a mouthful of spiced cider. It was warm and tart and he held it in his mouth until it slid down on its own. He shifted his feet and rubbed them together. Pop, the fire cracked. A bloom of cinder shooting up the chimney.

"It wouldn't surprise me if they hanged him," he said quietly. "But a bit of a shame. He did hike all the way down here, after all."

Quietly, too. Probably scared of what was to come. And stunned at having watched his friends die so quickly.

This was the most perfect day she'd seen in a long time. Snow assaulted them from the north blowing it down their coats and clinging desperately to anything it could hold on to. It felt wonderful against her skin, she could see so well in this, so well that she was leading the both of them across the face of the mountain with ease. Ithacles was not having an easy time, but the wind howling around them and the chance that talking too much or too loudly could cause a slide kept him from saying much. Every now and then they halted in place to watch the darker objects above them climbing and moving around. To make sure they were still going somewhere.

( She'd tracked them here not a week ago. )

It was a crisp day, but that was almost every day in Faustben. The air was calm and cool despite the bright sun of late summer. And the air was clear as the church bells which tolled the late afternoon hour. Sound carried well there, in the valley of Faustben's great peaks. The church could have been a mile away and still every woman and child would have known the time: six o'clock. The men wouldn't have heard it, though. They were elsewhere.

Little more than a year since the Breaking. Ithacles looked up from the parchment in his hands, scanning the painted sky. Yes, he was right. Just over a year. Another autumn was almost upon them, and Faustben's men were still scattered. To her borders and passes, guarding against those who would invade. Guiding those who sought shelter. A year was a long time to wait for some things: for a letter, for a verdict, for safe return.

( A year was quick as a blink for others. )