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. )