Frostwalkers
Gentle giants of Uranus who walk on their knuckles and count their lives in days, each day forty-two years long: the planet lies on its side, and every place on it has a Long Day and then a Long Night. Through the Day they store warmth, carve ice and catch the diamond rain; through the Night they sleep together in halls dug into the ice. Diamonds are only weather to them, and warmth is wealth, so a guest with coal in their pack is welcome at every dome.
«Oh. Oh, look at you — a moth, down at the bottom of the sky, on its own two feet. I am …. Come closer, slowly: we are big, but we are soft, and you look cold.»
The settlement and its dwellers
Crafts
Trades by level
Looks
Where they live
Frostwalker Wintering. A wintering of the Frostwalkers on a raft of ice crust among the clouds: low domes of dense snow with round door-stones, a sleep hall dug into the ice where the whole village will sleep through the forty-two-year Night, funnels on tall poles that catch the diamond rain, and stacks of glowing methane ice by every door. In the middle, beside the Cradle with her upright hoops, the elder keeps the Ember: the only orange fire on Uranus.
Tasks
Where the Moths Froze· ElderGo up into the Frost Citadel in the floating ice and come back down to the wintering.
«High above the clouds floats a berg of methane ice, and in it sits the moths' fortress — the ones who came for the diamonds and did not know diamonds are weather. They froze where they sat, moth. We are too heavy for the floating ice, and too slow for the cold breaths in its halls. Go up for us. Walk where they walked and come back down warm. Then tell me: do they still sit at their tables?»
The Gatherer· ElderWake the altar in the throne hall of the Frost Citadel and defeat the Cryo Monarch.
«In the throne hall the hail gathered itself into a giant, and he still gathers: the hail into himself, and the warmth out of everything near him. When the wind blows from the floating ice, the lamps at the edge of the wintering go cold — that is him, drinking. His altar asks for two diamond splinters, they say. Wake him, moth, and put him to sleep for a long Night, the longest. We will not mourn him. We only want our lamps to stay warm.»
The Wheel on the Ring· ElderWake the old ring of stone on Uranus: the gate between the worlds.
«The old ring sleeps under the frost; the wheel on its frames is the Cradle with her dark hoops. It wants the Gatherer's heart, three hail-crabs quieted, a heap of stardust, and our methane crystals and diamond splinters for its frames. Wake it, moth. They say a warm wind blows through an open ring, and the old ones would like to feel a warm wind once before the Night.»
Crabs at the Funnels· Diamond CatcherDefeat three diamond crabs that cut the catchers' nets and bring the diamond catcher two diamond splinters for the funnel rims.
«The hail-crabs are our cousins, moth, and we leave them be. But not these: they came down from the floating ice, from the moths' pens, where their backs were cracked for splinters. They remember the moths, and they cut every net that smells of you — and of us, now. Three of them sit under my funnels and snip. Quiet them, and bring me two splinters from their backs: a funnel rim holds best with a splinter set in it.»
A Year's Work in a Blink· Diamond CatcherLive through the great diamond hail on Uranus and show the diamond catcher three diamonds you caught.
«Now and then the rain turns heavy: stones as big as a fist, falling for hours, and the cold breaths come out of the haze behind them. We hide under the domes. The children say a moth would not hide — a moth would run out and catch. I say a moth would get a druse on the head. Prove one of us right, moth. Stand under the next great hail and show me what you caught. Keep it — it is only weather.»
The Spark of the First Fire· Clathrate OpenerFind the Clathrate Fountain in the calm band and bring the clathrate opener eight methane crystals from its frozen spray.
«Once the deep breathed out a whole column of methane, and the cold caught it before it could fall. The drops still hang where they froze, and the topmost one glows: they say a spark of the first fire is still inside it. The spray at its foot burns long and blue. Go and see the Fountain, moth, and bring me eight crystals of the spray. I want to light the hall lamps with something old this Night.»
A Stack for the Night· Clathrate OpenerCarry four blocks of methane ice from the clathrate opener to the sleep keeper, for the stacks of the Long Night.
«Eleven years to Dusk, the astronomer says, and the sleep keeper counts every block in the hall stacks twice a blink. These four are from my best cages: the fire in them is fast asleep and will not wake on the road. Carry them to the keeper by the halls, moth. My knuckles are full of splinters, and you have such quick little legs.»
Black Stones That Don't Sulk· Clathrate Opener· repeatableBring the clathrate opener sixteen lumps of coal: warmth that does not sulk, for the stacks of the wintering.
«Methane fire is cross when it wakes: it sputters, it sulks, it goes out in a draft. Your coal burns orange and steady and asks for nothing. I mix a little into every stack, so that the Night does not begin with a sulk. Bring me sixteen black stones whenever you have them, moth. I pay in warmth — the only coin that matters here.»
Breaths by the Halls· Sleep Keeper· repeatableDefeat two cryo wisps that circle the halls of the wintering at every blink.
«At every blink the cold breaths come out of the haze and circle the halls, round and round, as if they had lost something. One touch takes the warmth out of a sleeper, and I have sleepers to keep. We are too slow for them: strike, and they are already elsewhere. You are quick, moth. Drive off two of them whenever the sky blinks, and I will pay you from the Night stores.»
Dressed for the Cold· Sleep KeeperSew a cyan down parka and show it to the sleep keeper.
«Your shell is clever, moth, but it is thin — I can see you shiver from here, and I keep the sleep of a whole wintering, so I know shivering. Sew yourself a parka of puff down, the kind we line the halls with, with a cold heart on the back turned into a heater. Make it with your own hands and show me. Then I will stop counting your shivers.»
Moths Who Sleep in Boxes· Ice SculptorFind the guests' Cryo Vault and bring the ice sculptor two cryo linings from its capsules.
«We laughed for a whole blink when we found the moths' cold house — a house to keep the cold in, on the Cradle! But I went back alone and looked at the capsules, and I stopped laughing. Moths lying in boxes of ice under little lights... they sleep through their Nights too. One box was opened from the inside. Go and see, moth, and bring me the lining of two boxes. I want to carve a moth among the Unwoken.»
The Frost Carves· Ice SculptorLive through the methane frost on Uranus among the growing needles of ice — with a Heating Unit in your suit.
«Some blinks the sky itself freezes onto the clouds: needles of methane ice grow out of nothing, taller than me, in a single breath. No sculptor carves like that. We go out to watch, back to back, with the young ones in the middle: the frost drinks the warmth out of anyone near it. Come and watch with me next time, moth. Keep your shell's heater lit, and don't touch the needles with a bare hand.»
A Tower That Lay Down· Tilted AstronomerFind the Tilted Observatory and bring the tilted astronomer two pieces of optical glass from the guests' tower.
«The moths built a tower to look at the sky, and it lay down — like the Cradle. Wise of it, I think: lying down, you see the sky the way we do. Someone set its great lens back on its post afterwards. Not us; our hands are too big. Go and lie down in it, moth, and look up through the lens the way I would. Then bring me two of their small glasses: mine is ground from ice, and it fogs every blink.»
When the Field Turns Over· Tilted AstronomerLive through the aurora of Uranus: stand in the pillars of light to catch the solar wind and step out before the field turns over.
«The Cradle's field lies even more crooked than she does, so it opens and shuts to the Far Fire's wind, and where the wind gets in, the sky burns. When the lights come down to the clouds in pillars, I count how often the field turns over. My new counts disagree with my old ones. Stand in the pillars next time, moth, catch the wind, and count with me. Step out when they blink, or the field will throw you.»
A Question for the Deep Blue Cousin· Tilted AstronomerCarry four lying stems from the tilted astronomer to a wind harpist of the Windbearers on Neptune.
«You found the deep blue cousin in your glass. It is further from the Far Fire than we are — and yet the guests said it is warm inside, warmer than the Fire could ever make it. I have wondered about that for three Days. If someone lives there, take them our lying stems: they grow sideways, toward the Fire, the way everything here leans. Let them see how the Cradle lies. And ask them, moth: where does your warmth come from?»
What to talk about
Tell me about this world.
This is the Cradle. She lies on her side, moth, and rocks: for forty-two years one end of her looks at the Far Fire, then for forty-two years the other. So every place on her has one Long Day and one Long Night, and in between, the sky blinks. We live where the heavy things settle — the diamonds, and us.
But the sky keeps going dark. Isn't that night?
That is a blink. The Cradle spins on her side, quick as a cyan puff, and the Far Fire slips behind her edge for half of every turn — seventeen of your hours, the astronomer says. You moths count every blink as a day; no wonder you are always in a hurry. We do not even look up for a blink.
Why would anyone push a world over?
My mother had another story, and I like hers better. She said that in the old days something came at the Cradle out of the dark and struck it hard, and the same day the Patchwork broke to pieces. The Pushers did not knock us over: they caught us as we fell and laid us gently on our side, the way you lay down a child who has hit its head. From below, a hand that pushes and a hand that catches look the same.
What were the Pushers like?
Warm. Every song starts with that, before tall, before strong: warm. Where they put their palms on the Cradle to lay it down, the ice melted, and the hollows are still there, full of the clearest ice we have. And the burning stone that fell in the first swing — the oldest mothers thought it fell by itself. I think somebody warm left a coal for neighbors with a long night ahead of them. That is what I would do.
The tablet from the Patchwork says: the thread holds the worlds.
Then my mother was right. She stands among the Unwoken in the yard now; I will tell her when the Day comes. The Patchwork is sewn — on a clear blink you can see the seams from here. Someone broke it, and someone sewed it, and the sewing held. That is a warm thought for a long night, little moth: somewhere there were hands for mending worlds.
Most of you?
The old ones sometimes stay asleep. Before every Night the sculptors carve each of us in ice, so that if we do not wake, our figure is still standing there in the morning. If you see ice figures in a yard, that is who they are. We call them the Unwoken, and when the Day comes, we tell them the news.
How do you bear the cold?
The Cradle is the coldest of the Far Fire's children — your astronomers measured it, they say. She has almost no fire of her own: her sisters are warm inside, and she is not. So we wear our fur thick, keep our warmth in our backs and never waste a scrap of it. Your shell is clever, moth, but it is thin.
The Windbearers say their warmth comes up from the Bottom.
The astronomer told the whole wintering, and nobody slept that blink. The deep blue cousin keeps a fire in its belly and breathes out more warmth than the Far Fire sends it — and the Cradle has none of her own. The old ones think she spilled hers long ago, the day something laid her on her side. We are not jealous, moth. A world without its own fire teaches you to keep warm together. If you go back, tell the Windbearers: we lie close, fur to fur, and that is our Bottom.
Who else lives here?
The hail-crabs are our cousins: the rain takes root on them as it does on us, only they hide under it. Leave them be; a crab's claw has opened harder things than a moth. The cyan puffs love anything new — they will love you, follow you about and steal dust from the catchers' funnels. And in the haze walk the cold breaths. Those are not alive. Stay near a lamp.
What is worth seeing around here?
Some of the Cradle's wonders we made, some the frost made, and some the moths left behind. Ask about ours, and I will tell you what the old ones told me. About the moths' things ask me separately — those make me sad.
Who stacks the ice cairns with the glowing stone?
We do, before every Night. Whoever wakes first must find the way between the halls in the dark, so we stack boulders of ice where the hail lies thickest and set the three biggest stones of the Day on top. The topmost glows and shows the way home. The children call them the sleepers' lamps.
And the arch of ice between two ridges?
The frost grew it in a single cold blink, the way it grows everything here. Our grandmothers walked across it once, in a kind year. Now a third of it has fallen, and we are too heavy to try. Someone light crossed after us and left a barrel on the far ridge. A moth, surely: nobody else is light enough to be that brave.
What is the frozen jet in the calm band?
The Fountain. Once the deep breathed out a whole column of methane, and the cold caught it before it could fall: the drops still hang in the air where they froze. The openers go there for the frozen spray — it burns long and blue. The topmost drop glows. They say a spark of the first fire is still inside it.
Who are you?
Frostwalkers. Big, slow, and warm inside, if we are careful. We walk on our knuckles because the cloud gives way under two feet, and on four it holds. We count our lives in days, moth — real days, forty-two years each — and none of us gets very many.
Names
Ooma · Haalu · Toomu · Uulo · Wolhu · Lohmu · Ahmo · Onnu · Ilmu · Huumen · Vaamo · Moholu