How could such cold be? The wind whipped across the ice, spraying stinging crystals into his eyes and making him squint. He feared at every moment to plunge through some gap and into the sea. Beneath his feet, the ice shifted above the deep, groaning. Were it not for the heavy robe that Vireel had given him, he could not have resisted the sapping power of the wind. He reached out for the Current to warm himself, but it was gone. He felt giddy, lightheaded, and he was not sure if it was from exhaustion or from the lack of that familiar weight he had known his entire life, the pressure born by the Currents.

There was no power to reach out to now. The only strength he could find was within his own tired body. He felt strangely weak—frail, even. His only guide were the mountains ahead, the peaks he had seen above the horizon when first he had gazed across the sea. How many miles had he come already? He could see the base of the hills. They appeared to rise from the sea itself, but there must be shore there, hidden by the whiteness that covered all the world. For the first miles, the ice was broken, and he had nearly plunged into black water more than once where the ice had drawn apart, but the further he went, the more the ice became one solid expanse. The Synod had tried to crush him, but instead the ice-flow became his path.

He tried not to think about where that path might lead him, or whether it would lead him anywhere but a cold death. What could exist in such a desolate world?

The sun rose over the ice-flow, only to sink a few hours later in a bloody display to the southwest. Hours later, he reached a place where the ice had buckled, lying in haphazard heaps. There was no choice but to climb, his cold hands hardly able to grip. He grasped something dark and pulled himself upward, only to realize that it was rock, not ice. In his fatigue and the darkness of night, he had not realized that the darkness ahead that blocked the stars was not cloud, but the great rising peaks of stone that had guided him.

Despite the protests of his body, he climbed the rocks and the snow. Were it not for the reflection of the meager light upon the snow, he would not have been able to continue. He feared to stop moving, for he was certain that exertion alone kept him warm. If once he collapsed onto the snow, he felt certain he would not rise again. Maybe he would find some shelter from the wind and cold further from the sea.

The wind was picking up, whipping the snow even harder. As he struggled over the rocks, he found that going in a straight line over the rugged landscape was nearly impossible. He could not see far enough to pick an easier way, but he stumbled down into a little nook among rocks where the wind did not swirl and the driving snow did not reach him—some shelter, at least. He pulled his robe up over his head, wrapping it around him like a tent to keep the warmth of his breath inside.

Where were his mother and Coir at that moment? Hopefully, they were comfortable and warm in the trees of Forel, asleep with full bellies and dry hammocks. It hurt him to think that they would not know what had happened to him, huddled on some barren shore, cold and alone.

When the sun finally emerged again in the southeast, Faro's body felt stiff. He had spent the hours with his legs drawn up in front of him, his back to the rock, and his arms wrapped around his knees. As he unfolded his legs, they ached and cramped. Despite the discomfort, he felt a strange lightness. He could not sense the Currents at all. It was the first time in his life he had risen without that feeling of weight. He had grown so used to it that its absence was almost startling. Despite his dire situation and near despair of life, there was a sense of quiet in his mind that he had not known. There was a loneliness to it, and a relief.

Climbing up out of the nook, Faro surveyed the land in the pale light. There wasn't much to see. Everything bespoke frigid desolation. The mountains were a patchwork of black stone and white snow. Faro saw that he had not come far from the shore. He had only stumbled and struggled parallel to it between tall rock escarpments and the sea. The wind had shifted to the west, stronger than before, and the ice that only yesterday lay packed in a dense sheet now flowed eastward in slow broken procession, with gaps of dark water. Whole slabs of ice had tipped on end in the collisions.

All of these he took in at a glance, but what arrested his gaze the most was the herd of creatures that lay upon the shore in a narrow cove where the sea cut into the land. The meager sun shone there, and great rocks sheltered the strand. The great beasts lay there side by side, unperturbed. Some were massive, three times the size of a vien, with great white tusks. Others were small and tuskless. All had smooth skins of white and grey. A hundred or more lounged upon the rocks as seabirds fought the winds above or sheltered in the rocks.

Ice crusted the edges of the beach, but it had not closed off the little cove. Bunches of a pale grey-green weed lay washed in and out on the lapping waves. His mother had told him stories of growing up in Talanael, where the people ate kelp and seaweed in great quantities. He had never seen it, but it was his best chance at finding anything edible in this wasteland. Whether the beasts on the shore were dangerous, he didn't know, but they lacked legs and appeared to wallow about and pull themselves along with wide, flat appendages. No doubt, they were more agile in the water than out. So long as he stayed at a distance, he should be safe enough.

Faro slid and struggled feet first down to the frozen sand and gravel. At the edge of the beach, he lay on his belly in a shallow depression, peering from between rocks to decide what mass of weed he could approach most safely. If he was to continue to resist this cold, he needed food, and lots of it. It was doubtful he could survive another night without both food and shelter, but without knowing the temperament of the beasts, he could not risk approaching them carelessly.

Just as he was about to move toward a tangle of weed on the near side of the cove, he noticed movement. There was plenty of movement on the strand—the mingling of the beasts—but this was of another sort. A different creature approached, walking upright on two legs. Faro had not seen where it had come from, but it approached the beasts with a steady pace.

Faro could only see it from the side. It had legs and had arms like a Vien, but it was so bundled in some kind of thick garment that its shape was oddly round. It wore a great hood lined with what appeared to be fur. He could not see its face, but long dark hair hung down from inside the hood in a complicated braid. By the braid, Faro supposed it to be female. In its gloved hands, it held a small pail by a looped rope handle.

Whatever the creature was, it could be no more than a young child, standing somewhere around half of Faro's height. He lay and watched it approach the outer edge of the herd of beasts, but they paid it little heed. A few of the closer beasts wallowed a few yards away from its approach. The bipedal creature stopped, tilted its head, and made a keening call. Two little creatures flopped from among the larger beasts, heading for the newcomer at as close to a run as something legless could manage. The small beasts had long brown fur-covered bodies with thin tails and tapered snouts. As they reached the child, they circled its legs, rubbing against them and ducking between the child's feet. One hopped up, trying to reach its snout into the bucket.

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The child pushed the snout away and reached into the bucket with a gloved hand, drawing forth a small silver fish. She dangled the fish over the two little beasts as they balanced upright on their hind appendages, opening their maws with odd squealing calls. She dropped the fish. One of the creatures bit into it and went scurrying away while the second chased it. The child laughed—or that is what Faro thought the movements of hood and shoulders must be—and drew another fish from the pail, dangling it and calling to the little animals. Faro was not close enough to hear the words through the cutting wind or detect what tongue it spoke.

The little beasts saw the new fish, and both rushed back to the child. The first beast dropped its fish on the rocks beneath the pail and stood on hind legs with its companion, awaiting the new feast.

Loud cries and bellows broke from the thick throats of the herd of beasts as they scattered toward the waves, wallowing into the surf in a chaotic mass of backs and broken water. The two little animals ran, forgetting the fish, disappearing into the retreating herd. Faro looked around, trying to make sense of the sudden fright of the beasts. The child turned to scan her surroundings, fish still dangling from her hand.

Another beast had crested the rise on the far side of the cove, a great shaggy white monster with four legs three times as thick as Faro's own. Instinctively, his hand went to the curved knife at his sash, and he felt the lack of his spear.

The child turned its back on the new-come monster and walked away at an unhurried pace. This appeared to anger the beast. Opening a jaw full of fangs, it roared, the sound cutting through the wind and the chaos of the fleeing beasts. It sprang forward, loping down the slope toward the strand. It was fast—far faster than the child could hope to move, and there was nowhere for the child to run—the beach was desolate, apart from a few boulders that could not shelter her.

It was clear the beast meant murder. Even from a distance, Faro knew he was no match, but he drew his knife and leapt forward. He would not watch a child mauled. Perhaps he could distract it and allow for the child's escape. Most of the noisy beach-creatures had fled into the swell leaving the strand clear between him and the rushing white monster. The child saw him and hesitated. He saw the flash of a face in the hood, but his focus was on the beast. It still charged toward the child, but Faro raised his voice in a shout that cut the wind. The beast skitted sideways, startled by his approach. Faro realized it was even larger than he had thought; its snout would reach his chest. The monster bared its fangs and roared again, its attention moved to this new threat. Faro kept his pace, closing the gap. The beast recovered from its surprise and charged him.

It was fast, crossing the gravel in bounds. Faro could not escape. There was no Current to grasp. A shock of fear gripped his innards, but it was too late to change plans. What a strange death, so far from home. He thought of Coir and his mother, saw their faces clearly in an instant. Perhaps the child would escape.

Faro glanced over—she was gone. There was no sign of the child anywhere. The strand was barren but for him and the beast. Faro slid to a halt, mere seconds before the beast would be upon him—should he try to flee into the sea like the wallowers that bobbed there on the waves, watching. It was too late. Faro crouched, ready to leap high and slash when the beast lunged.

A spear darted up from the rock, plunging into the beast's underbelly. Its momentum shattered the haft, leaving a splintered stalk in its abdomen. It twisted sideways in confusion, roaring in rage and pain. The spear had pierced it deeply. Up from the rock, a form emerged—the child.

No. It was like it, but the clothing was a darker shade, and its form stouter. In its hand it held another long spear. It emerged from below as if sprouting from the rock itself. It glanced at Faro. It had a beard, something he had only ever seen upon Coir; the quthli faces were covered in hair, but of all of a more or less uniform length. This creature could be no child—yet it was no taller than a vien child.

As Faro gaped, three more figures emerged from the ground, each like the first. The beast clawed at its own chest, attempting to dislodge the broken haft as the four short warriors encircled it. In a rage, the beast charged them, but the warriors knew their business, and they crouched, planting steel buttcaps into the strand. The beast plunged home on another spear, and three more blades followed it. The hafts held. In moments, it was done, red blood soaking white fur and draining into the dark sand and gravel.

Another figured emerged from the ground—black braid hanging from its fur-lined hood. This was the first child, or at least what he had thought a child. She turned toward him, squinting. She had a round face not unlike the opening of her hood, and her braid was thick and heavy. With the beast dead and still, the warriors also turned toward Faro. They were no more than ten yards away, and all four stepped shoulder to shoulder, bloodied spears low at their sides. Their long beards blew in the wind, hanging out of their deep fur-lined hoods. He could barely see anything of their faces as they stared at him.

For a time, there was silence apart from the ever present wind. Faro realized he was still holding his knife. He made a show of holding it up and then sheathing it, folding his long robe back over the sash and showing the creatures his empty hands.

"Genülan," one of them said, its voice deep and full, the shape of its word unlike anything Faro had heard before.

"I. . ." Faro started. "I was trying to help." A foolish sort of help it was, but leaving a child to be devoured was not to be considered.

"Genülan," the same one said again. "Genülan eg kun alom. Na elagnümkeya." The language sounded like someone beating a drum, or like the tramp of vaela hooves on hard ground.

Faro shook his head and held up his hands again. A gust of wind stung his face, blowing his hood back. Tears had run from his eyes at the bitterness of the wind, freezing on his cheeks.

Another hooded head poked up out of the ground and looked around. It was another female, he thought, judging by slighter form and the long braided hair that hung out of the hood. Somehow, she rose from the ground carrying a heavy basket. Another followed, also carrying a burden, and then another. Soon, a small crowd stood behind the warriors.

"Kan beyum tüma," said the warrior who had spoken before, this time addressing his words to those who had just arrived. Without hesitation, the newcomers moved toward the dead beast, but they did not scruple to stare at Faro as they did. Hardly watching their hands, they produced knives and short axes and began to slice through the hide of the beast. The first of them, the one Faro had supposed was a child, joined in the work.

Meanwhile, the warrior who had spoken stepped forward and approached Faro. His beard was a color Faro had not seen before in hair; dark and luminous, like the color of wet slate. The closest Faro had ever seen was the hair of some of the darker quthli.

The warrior stopped on a patch of smooth dark sand a few yards in front of Faro. Using the buttcap of his spear, he started to gouge grooves into the sand. Faro watched him stupidly for a few moments before he noticed the familiarity in the markings. Finishing, the warrior stepped back a few paces, motioning to the sand. Faro walked forward and looked down at the sand.

The strokes were rough and crude, but there was no denying that it was some simplistic form of vien calligraphy. The warrior had drawn two simple words:

Peace

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