They rolled along. The cartwheels creaked, the oxen plodded, on and on as the sun rose higher and they crossed wide meadows. "If we reach the sea before winter," Nute had said. The sea. Merchants had come to Arkwan's village before, and bards, and wandering priestesses, and they all told tales. Arkwan believed them all. But there were things you could have in a song, and then there were the things in his own green world, and they weren't the same. The sea was just something in a story. But Nute was not like a story. If Nute said they were walking to the sea, then they were. Arkwan was walking to the sea. In this green world, and not in a story, Arkwan was walking to the sea.

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