For Stella, Queen of the Falthans—former queen, she reminded herself, and was pleased to note she still cared little for the loss—the calendar seemed to run backwards as the tireless donkey drew their cart forwards past stately poplars and flower-lined verges. So many small things combined to make this so. There were no obvious tools in use by those working the fields either side of the grassy road, and Stella guessed they would see few mechanical devices in this land. A layer of moss and lichen covered every wooden surface. Fence, barn, bridge, rail—all looked a thousand years old. The stonework of every house, while scrupulously clean, had a patina of age about it, a hint of greyness no amount of scrubbing could erase. She thought she could smell the age of the very air. Likely her imagination. For seventy years Phemanderac had been telling her of this city, of its legends and place in the lore of Faltha. From here, so Falthans believed, their race had sprung, the First Men who colonised the great lands to the north.
