October is a month of cold rains and of autumn leaves piled high and burning. It is a month of corpse-gray fogs that twine in low places, and of shadows that do not flee the rising moon. It was in October that I first met a man known as Ruenn Maclang, and it was amid the early frosts of that month, in another year, when he returned. I was standing at my cabin window, watching pale Luna hanging over the wind-tossed trees, when a dark figure came from the forest. I knew at once who it must be.
I met him at the door and held out my hand. “Ruenn,” I said. “It’s good to see you again.”
“As it is you, Charles,” he said.
“I’ve been expecting you,” I told him.
He looked at me strangely.
“Or at least I’ve been expecting something odd to happen today.”
somethingHe nodded in agreement. “I too h
