"August," Illarion affirms. "In the last group." The suspect one, until the Forest Talkers got themselves weeded out.

There's a gleam in his eye, at being asked whether he has any questions. "Has anyone lain down in the snow to die of despair? Who else is out to kill us? How much of this," a spare gesture, a sweep of his arm to take in all of Milton--or all the Earth, "resembles your home?"

Three's enough to start. He'll see how long this one keeps answering.