Outside, the wind howled for a long time and I remained prostrate in the shelter, sometimes drowsy, sometimes attentive to the variations of the light. I had pushed the pine pole through the snow during the excavation, so that the stick could serve as a guide. I now used it for ventilation and lighting, but the storm darkened the sky and soon I could no longer tell day from night. The twisted stick vibrated in the wind, so much so that I sometimes feared the shelter would collapse on itself. I began to measure time, using my hunger as a reference point, but in the darkness my own calculations eluded me. My mind was weaving all sorts of things to fill the void. As the wait became longer, as the solitude weighed on me, my conjurations became more and more consistent. I remember to have feared devouring, because it seemed to me sometimes that it was to my being that these phantasmagorias tore the matter of which they were made. Thinking about it, I believe that there was some truth to it.

Inactivity offered no refuge. Lying down or sitting, I did small physical exercises to fight against the cold and chase away chimeras, but I inevitably sank into repetition, and after a while there was nothing else to do but think. The starting point of my wanderings was paradoxically a too sharp lucidity, which culminated in laughter and the hilarious incrimination of my madness. How could I have believed, how could I still imagine for a single moment that I would be able to overcome the mountain? I laughed darkly, chewing on my own stupidity until hope came to me out of spite. Then I skated with the guilt and the alternative, what I could have done better, how I had tossed away the chance I had to survive the mines.

It was then that I lost my grip. The glacier sang, or a shadow thickened more than the others, and suddenly I could make out the moving silhouette of a crew, the clanking of the chain, the cracking of the whip. Monsters were popping up in the gaps. Bard Govon. Bert Sesh. The seneschal Vittori. Ulrick, especially Ulrick, who looked at me, oozing blood as black as ebony. Sometimes I would talk to them, beg them to leave me alone, but most of the time I would hug myself to keep from falling apart. I wondered what I really was. A man? The memory of a man? A dying fantasy eaten away by the plague? There was only the cold to bring me back to my senses, and to stop the delirious breaths. When calm returned sufficiently, I remembered who I really was. An escaped slave who was going to die trying to get somewhere that wasn't even home. The loop would come full circle, and then start all over again.

Only necessity, hunger, thirst and self-imposed maintenance tasks allowed me to escape the cycle. I spent most of my time wedged between my two blankets, huddled on a narrow, compact mound of snow, elevated above the rest of the cave. Humidity glistened on the rounded walls. I had to smooth the frozen surface regularly, so that it wouldn't drip on me or my things. When I did it right, the perspiration flowed down to the access tube below, where, caught by the cold air, the drops froze again. I rubbed handfuls of snow on the top layer to replace what had melted. I worked the surface with exaggerated application and I fiddled with the pole too, vigorously enough so that the narrow opening would not be blocked by the snow that fell outside, but gently enough not to risk a landslide. These too rare moments offered me a little bit of respite, a few moments during which I thought neither of the howling tumult that was perhaps tearing the mountains apart outside, nor of the twin maelstrom that was raging within.

When Landros came to visit me for the third time, I was so lonely that I didn't want to turn away from his shadow. "Hey, thief," I said quietly, and spoke in clanic for the first time in a long time. "I'm off to join you, it seems. A little sooner than I would have liked. Tell me again about Pelt's harbor, and sing me the song about the pickled fishes and the five brothers." Landros smiled as he did when he was about to tell a joke, but his face flickered and melted into something indistinguishable. It was Froggy's husky voice that answered me, torn from the distant echo of my memories. "You have no gods, little Val, but that's okay. I have enough gods for both of us."

I startled, on the verge of sleep, and blew on my hands to warm them. "You died," I murmured sadly. "You died a long time ago, Froggy, and your gods didn't help you." I looked up. The darkness that cascaded before me had taken the shape of Brindy's raven hair. I thought I heard her laugh, but maybe it was just me. I buried my face in my hands and my chapped lips were made raw by the blackened resin that stained the rags. Then I tucked my fingers under my armpits and went back to sleep, with the taste of blood on my tongue and a great bitterness in my mouth. I dreamed of ashes and fires.

When I woke up, it seemed that it was night and the wind was blowing less strongly. I was surprised not to find Ulrick at my bedside, for I had the pungent smell of his gambeson in my nostrils, and my mind was confused by a debate between Padekke and Nadenekke, the two philosophical principles of the Vals. I blinked, and an icy drop fell on my face. I worried about the growing madness, while smoothing the shelter with a new handful of cold snow, and then I moved the pole in its conduit to clear the air inlet. I then had to crouch in the icy gut to relieve myself. There were two more frozen shits in the tunnel. I wondered again how long I had been under the snowdrift, and pondered the idea that I would have to come out soon, storm or not. If I waited any longer, the shelter would eventually turn into a tomb.

When I went back to sleep, I spinned my legs and arms around for a long time to keep warm, doing my best to never cross the thin line between exertion and sweat. By taking precautions, even in these extreme conditions, I suffered little from the temperature. The Carmian equipment that I had taken protected me particularly well, especially the padded doublet. The small tarred cloth was about my size, and I had arranged it in such a way that it prevented the humidity from soaking my blankets. In truth it was only my fingers that concerned me. I had a whole series of painful frostbites on my upper phalanxes. I kept a close eye on them, burying my hands under my clothes as often as possible to keep them warm. As far as I could tell it was still benign, but the redness, which was only uncomfortable most of the time, would awaken with the cold. Smoothing the walls and filling the skin became a real ordeal because instead of snow, I felt like I was grabbing handfuls of coals.

I drank some water, which sent a shiver down my spine, and ate the remaining mushrooms, chewing meticulously and wishing I had some salt. A diffuse light began to shine through the pole hole. I reached out to find out that I could no longer hear the wind. I didn't feel rested, but I knew I would have to walk. The end of the glacier wasn't far away. "So what?" I said to myself. "What will happen at the end of the glacier? Will the mountains melt?" I smiled, and reopened the chinks in my lips because sometimes when I grumbled like that, I reminded myself of Ulrick. "It's a good fight," I said out loud to give myself courage. "The best one I could pick, and I'll fight it the best I can."

I wrapped the blankets in the tarred cloth, which was dripping with melted ice - not that it mattered, considering how quickly it would dry in the open air - and then gathered my other belongings. As I fumbled in the pouch, I realized that I had only one flatbread left, and half a fish. Narsilap had taught me that a man could stop eating for several weeks as long as he had water available. I certainly had plenty of water on the glacier, but I doubted that I would be able to make much progress in the powder snow if I had to go more than three or four days without food. I slid down the frozen shaft, the slate chip in my teeth, and crawled toward the exit. I had to repress a few involuntary hiccups as the icy air from the tunnel suddenly filled my lungs. I dug out the hard plug that was blocking my way. Behind me, there was more snow.

I panicked in the narrow tunnel, ploughing the icy crust like a madman, blowing between my clenched teeth, twisting here and there at the risk of collapsing the snowdrift. I thought for a while that the storm had buried me until, at last, at arm's length, the slate I was using as a dagger broke through the air. I swallowed and pulled my hand away, shivering, my heart pounding. I rested for a few moments, clutching my aching fingers, then, head forward, dragging my package behind me, I forced my way through as a child comes into the world. The snow had accumulated in my red felt hood. Outside, I shook off the powder before standing up under a charcoal-colored sky.

A cold wind was still blowing at my back from the north, forcing me to squint to look back. The snow was above my knee, but I could also make out the rounded ridge of a large cirque further up, less than a mile ahead, and I hoped to find the end of the glacier behind. I hoisted the pole and set off with difficulty, stumbling and cursing with each step. I couldn't see the sun clearly, which was hidden by the thick cloud covering, but it seemed to me that the sun was somewhere upright. I began to realize how dangerous it would be to move forward without a time marker. If the night caught me before I could dig a shelter then I would freeze to death. I preferred not to think about the effort I would have to make when I had to carve out a new refuge.

The difference in altitude gradually increased, moving away from the bottom of the glacial valley. I was soon climbing up a frosty slope, bent in half under the gusts, my hood pulled down over my face to protect my nose. The path was no longer smooth here. Under its own weight, the ice had broken in the slope and the snow didn't cover all the cracks. It was more climbing than walking, and I had to rest often. Every now and then I would look back at the trench I had walked through days before, which was gradually disappearing under the bad weather. An impatient blast swept across the glacier, making all sorts of sylph-like creatures dance on top of the snowdrifts, and the pulverized snow foamed on the peaks. I thought of the winter with the soldiers and the vaïdoerk in the Ac pass, and of the gusts that painted the black rock of the Windy Pass. Here, the contrast was just as striking. The sky of a mineral grey and the immaculate white of the glacier crushed one on the other with a terrifying violence. Sometimes the world seemed to have turned upside down.

After hours of effort, I finally managed to get to the top, using the pole as much as my legs. It had started to snow again, a light and steady fall, but the wind had calmed down, which gave me some respite. For the first time since I started my climb, I was really cold, and I feared for my exposed fingers. When I finally reached the top of the ridge, the cirque was disappearing under the flakes but I could still make out its immensity. The glacier, already imposing, was opening up like a chasm and beyond the snowy veil, a half-circle of dark peaks was lurking. From where I was, I could only distinguish the black edges. The rest was swallowed up by the swarming whiteness.

I ate half my last piece of bread and tried to pick up the pace, glancing uneasily at the impenetrable clouds. The weather was getting darker, but I blamed it on the snow, without which I would certainly have been able to enjoy a breathtaking view of the carmian Wall. Despite the reduced visibility, I felt that the powder was thinner on the glacier, colder and more compacted, and it was less painful to walk. I walked straight ahead, sometimes seeing the imposing shadows of the peaks that rose to the west. I had no other reference points. It wasn't long before I came across mounds of ice, dark and massive growths that popped up from time to time, blocking my view of the lower peaks.

The snow was falling more and more heavily. My breath swelled like a mist in front of me before being carried away by the wind, and mixed with the flakes to take away little by little all my bearings. Soon, the darkness of the distant rock became impossible to locate. I wandered about, as if lost in the limbo of a frozen lake. The cold numbed me. The fatigue of the ascent embraced me like a lover. I didn't even feel the tingle of the snow on my face anymore. I had reached my goal, but I still had to continue, and I think my body didn't understand it.

My mind populated the floating veil with figures and silhouettes, and the light declined again. The temperature dropped dramatically. I shivered as I awkwardly wedged the pole with the strap of the bag, so that I could bury my numb hands under the layers of my clothes. I relied on luck, moving forward without using the pole because I wanted to keep my fingers. I staggered south in search of shelter, but here the snowdrifts were not deep enough. Everywhere I probed, even at the foot of the frozen concretions, I encountered ice less than a span below the surface. I knew I had neither the equipment nor the strength to cut through the powder and make a shelter from scratch. I had to continue to the peaks, at the base of which the snow must have accumulated more.

I squinted my eyes. A massive shape with angular contours stood out in front of me, unreal in the growing gloom. I thought I was in front of a building, an unexpected shelter. Repressing a muffled cry, I hurried forward, embracing the ghosts and the memory of the Ronna farm that was bubbling up within reach. The glacier rumbled, and it turned into a triumphant cacophony, like Solas the gander on the widow's porch. I smiled at the familiar smell of mashed turnips. The illusion was abruptly dissipated when, a few spans from salvation, I recognized the dull glare of the ice. I fought back the tears that the memory had brought, cursing and spitting into the dying light for fear that my eyes would freeze.

Unsteady, I wanted to lean against the frozen excrescence, and it was then that I noticed the blows of axe and chisel, and I understood that the enormous block had been carved by human hands. Hope came back in a somewhat stupid way. I went around the translucent monument to move forward again. Two, three, four times I crossed new carved monoliths, with identical dimensions. Others stood in my way. Without understanding, I walked between the big silent cubes as one crosses a garden of statues. My incredulous eyes wavered here and there, detailing the carved faces. I didn't know what to think, except that men had once been here, and in a strange way that was enough to blunt the edge of my solitude. I figured I could perhaps take comfort in that, when the mountain would take me for good.

Suddenly, with a gust of wind, the rock appeared before me, a merciless blade in the blizzard. I hurried on. In the middle of the impassable wall, a clearer spot was shining. It flickered with my movements, so much so that I believed at first in a new illusion. I had to approach again, struggling in the icy shadow of the escarpment for me to understand. A gigantic arch had been pierced in the mountain. The staircase that led to it must have been swallowed by the snow, but further on, a passage of impressive dimensions was waiting. The tiny glow I could see was actually the end of the tunnel. Four spans above the ground, ice stalactites pointed toward the entrance of the subterranean, sharp fangs decorating a greedy gullet while, on either side of the mouth, elaborate knotwork disappeared beneath the frost. I didn't recognize any of the frozen sigils, nor could I identify the imprisoned sculptures. Dying of the cold, I climbed painfully up to the opening. The wind and the flakes were rushing around me, plunging into the passage in a gurgling aspiration. I decided to follow them.