More than his own desire to meet Bozena again drives Kendry at a gallop up the rocky, gently rising slope of the Peak. Below there is a boy wandering the beach at the base of the mountain, one who bears the distinctly convex nose of the tall black mare who has inspired so much of Kendry’s personal growth. His coal-black coat and the syllables he cried have led Kendry to believe he is in some way related to Bozena— and the way the boy fled, keeping an even distance between himself and Kendry despite how he tried to coax him close to help, has given the perlino the impression that the boy is lost and in need of help. He has no way to communicate, no way of knowing if the boy will still be there when he returns, no real way to know if the language he speaks is even shared by the powerful black mare he now seeks, but Kendry does know he must try. If nothing else, perhaps the familiar curve of her face and the fact that she is a mare (and, by instinct, less likely to kill the colt despite how base and repulsively animalistic Kendry finds that train of thought to be), will draw the boy away from the rolling waves and isolation of the shore and to the safety of a community.

He cannot keep up his pace. As the incline becomes more steep, Kendry is forced to slow and finally halt near a tumble of rocks, where he jogs in an impatient circle as he draws in a deep breath and bugles, “Bozena!” He pauses long enough to look back down the slopes but from here he can’t see the beach. Kendry strikes the ground in frustration ——he wants only to help, and he has never felt so powerless as every time the boy ran away from him— and snorts, ears flipping back as his next inhale registers as heavily masculine. What’s this?

There isn’t time for speculation about the Peak’s occupants. A lone foal is easy pickings; hard enough for Kendry to convince himself going for help did make more sense than fruitlessly trying to convince the skittish colt to come to him. What if, had he persisted, the boy had fled? Kendry feels lucky the black foal had only maintained a healthy distance between them and hadn’t, say, run into the outgoing tide. At least he has a general idea of where the boy is. All he can do is hope he stays put, and that Bozena is near enough to hear him calling. “Bozena!” he bellows again as he circles to face up the slope, a note of desperation carried in her name.