Past the slippery drifts of snow and frost that lined the tunnel entrance with strange, round, snake-like excrescences, my boots knocked against a stone floor. I steadied myself carefully, tiptoeing for fear of falling on a patch of frost. When I was sufficiently sure of my balance, I took a few hesitant steps. Despite my fatigue, I felt a surge of energy at the prospect of being able to walk without being slowed down and harassed by the powder. I took a shaky breath and, chilled to the bone, pushed further into the darkness.

In the tunnel, the gusts of wind were slamming incessantly, galloping and whipping, as icy as they were deafening. It was only slightly less cold than outside, and that didn't change much as I moved along: the frozen wind was everywhere, scratching the rock with its frigid din from one end of the underground to the other. When I tried to test the echo, I couldn't hear the sound of my own voice. I also had to fight over and over again to keep my cloak from being torn off. It was a curious and disconcerting thing, the clatter of the air in the tunnel, so obnoxious and aggressive that it drove away the ghosts for a time.

Outside, night was falling fast. I was soon walking in almost total darkness, staggering toward the distant glow of the exit, which eventually frayed and dissolved entirely. I was reduced to using the wall as a guide, always afraid to use the pole - which would have been very useful to probe the opacity of the tunnel - for fear that my hands would freeze. The slapping of the wind formed a continuous current that pushed me forward, as the tide carries the skiff. It relieved my fatigue and lightened my burden, but I also felt at times as if my flesh would freeze, tear away and be carried ahead of me in shards, in rolling, melodious fragments.

There was the despondency, the freezing temperature and the roaring wind, but also the worry that was lingering in the background. I was shivering more and more violently, and I often wondered how much more I would be able to fight. If I would make it back to the other side of the mountain alive, if I would have the strength to dig a shelter in the dark, and how many fingers I would lose in the process. I hoped that at least, at the end of the underground, the peaks would keep me out of the gusts and that I would soon find a snowdrift deep enough to rest in.

Sometimes, in spite of the interrogations and the sufferings, I could not help but put my ordeal in the background so much the passage impressed me. The walls were marked, but smooth as hammered copper. It had probably taken decades to excavate such a long tunnel, perhaps even centuries, at this altitude. Before the light died, the height of the shaft had narrowed a bit, and I had located its highest point about three spans above my head. In the dark, when I had been staggering blindly for at least a mile, I would sometimes raise my arm as high as I could, and my hand had not once brushed the stone. During the rare lulls, my footsteps echoed, and I could hear the rubbing of the fiber, the thick felt of the red cloak screeching on the rough surface of the conduit. Sometimes I stopped several times, when I thought I perceived a different resonance or a variation in the air current, and then I resumed my route with caution, my steps hesitating, my foot stretched out in search of obscure abysses or hidden passages. I often regretted not having a torch or a lantern, even though I doubted that a flame could stand up to the draught.

When at last the light changed in front of me, I realized that I had reached the exit of the underground. A dark square stood out, embedded in the more impenetrable darkness of the rock. Outside, the pale snow was waiting for me in the night, more and more visible despite the cloud cover. My pace quickened for no good reason, since it was the same frost, the same paralyzing cold that was waiting there as on the other side of the peak. Suddenly, I found myself on the ground, all fours in the air. Prisoners of the cloak, my arms could not do anything to soften the fall, but fortunately the clothes I was wearing had saved me from a too violent shock. The stirrup of the crossbow had clattered on the stone and still rang like a chime in my numb ears.

I shook my head, thinking at first that I had slipped on a patch of ice, and then, as I straightened up, I realized that it was the wall against which I was leaning that had disappeared. A few feet from the entrance of the tunnel, a narrow corridor ran perpendicular to the tunnel, and disappeared into the nebulous shadows beyond. I groped awkwardly with my tiptoes, before quickly stumbling against the first step of a staircase, also carved in stone. A wave of relief washed over me, bringing a thin smile to my cracked lips. I was finally sheltered from the freezing wind and I could take my hands out of their hiding place to guide myself. Better yet, I wouldn't have to dig tonight: the temperature was freezing but bearable, and I figured I could make it through the night with the help of the blankets. Most of all, I wasn't going to have to sacrifice my fingers to the cold and rot so that the rest of my body would survive.

However, I wasn't done for the day. Despite the exhaustion and my desperate situation, the exhilaration of exploration had gripped me, captivated me, since I first stepped into the tunnel, even hours before, when I discovered the ice monoliths. Ten years earlier, when I had investigated the murder of Tom Minnow in the filthy maze of the Stream, I had been captivated in a similar way. Even today, at the mere mention of a distant coastline or unexplored places, the desire floods me like a salutary water, a deep and quiet itch that sharpens the eyes and lightens the step. It was the same here, in the frozen underground. One hand in front of me, the other brushing the icy rock, I started to climb the stairs.

I climbed cautiously, counting twenty-six narrow, worn steps before the rough surface of a postern blocked my way. My heart began to beat faster. Hope swelled. I forced myself to slow down, to feel around the passageway to build a mental picture of it. The upper part of the door was rounded, and set into a masonry wall. The whole thing seemed thick and solid, though not very high. To the right of the frame, my fingers met something hard and icy that made me jump. I returned to it slowly, with timid fingertips, and took some time to realize that it was a torch holder. There was still a torch on it. I carefully removed it from the wall and crouched down, rummaging in the pouch for the flint and a piece of tinder.

The first sparks blinded me, and danced on my retina for a long time. By dint of perseverance, I managed to get a needle-head-sized spark into the tinder's fiber. I clutched the fire starter between my trembling fingers, blowing gently, teasing the embers until I had a small flame. What was left of the torch slowly flared up. I got to my feet, wincing from the light as well as the heat, both of which had become unbearable. The torch crackled and spewed a trail of acrid smoke that made me cough. When I could see again, I leaned over the postern. The grayish planks reminded me of oak, and a simple wooden latch seemed to block the entrance. I lifted it without effort. Behind me, I could still hear the din of the wind beating in the main passageway. I braced myself against the door, which squeaked open on cold hinges that hadn't been used in a long time.

The glow of the torch illuminated a dusty room, unevenly rounded at the back and ceiling, like a natural cave that had been hollowed out further. I held the torch up in front of me, and what I saw made me scream in exclamation, and then laugh in delight. To the left, in line with the entrance, a coarse burlap curtain rippled in the draughts along the length of the room. To the right, a few armfuls of firewood had been piled up, and in the wall facing me, a sunken hearth was carved into the stone. Darkened by soot, the mouth of the fireplace was carved in the shape of a bear with a gaping jaw. Not far away was the backbone of a cramped pallet covered in straw, and just behind it, a sturdy-looking shelf held several varieties of sealed pots and jars, as well as a handful of utensils. Three large ceramic amphorae rested next to it. With trembling hands, I closed the latch and spun around for a moment, not knowing where to begin. Suddenly I sat down in the middle of the room, my legs unsteady, my soul shaken with relief. For the first time in my life, I regretted not having any gods to thank.

When I had recovered my senses, and pinched myself enough to be sure I wasn't dreaming, I put my package down by the pallet and set about making a fire in the hearth, with the help of what was left of the torch. I was afraid that the narrow chimney might be clogged somewhere with snow, but as soon as the first flames appeared, the flue began to hum quite satisfactorily. I could not have told how far the chimney rose, or how it had been drilled into the rock, and for the moment these matters were secondary. The wood was very dry, and it burned quickly. I remained for a long time bent over the flames, my fingers tense despite the agony of frostbite. Heated to the core, I stirred so as not to fall asleep. A movement on my left made me jump. I swung around to face it, short of breath.

When I had entered, my eyes had been caught by the wood and the possibility of fire and rest, and I had ignored the moth-eaten curtain. Behind a large tear, which was becoming more and more warped by the heat, a blurred and misshapen figure was dancing curiously. A few moments passed before I dared to approach and pull aside the curtain. The unveiled wall glittered. I squinted in the shadows, and in doubt, I tore the curtain down to its full length. A line of worm-eaten pegs gave way with a sharp snap. I took a deep breath. A concave, oval-shaped canopy served as an exterior wall. My reflection stretched monstrously in it, nimbed by the halo of the small fire. It seemed to me that the snow had piled up on the other side because I couldn't make out anything, but since it was night, I couldn't be sure. A large chiseled pewter flare lay in front of the canopy in the middle of the curve.

I scanned the opaque surface of the glass for a while longer, where shades of color were difficult to see in the darkness, before turning my attention to the flare, which I could hardly reach with both arms. Intricate scenes had been carved into the tarnished metal. The style of representation was completely unknown to me. I identified with certainty human figures, warriors and women, while others were larger and had bestial attributes. It seemed to me that this strange assembly was attending a ceremony, but I would have been unable to say which one. Even under the flame of a burning brand, it took some time for the frozen oil in the burner to warm up. With persistence, I finally managed to light the blackened rope that was wrapped around it. A truly beautiful light burst out, to illuminate the cramped room brightly. On the uneven ceiling, the shimmering light surged back and forth like the surf of a flaming sea.

I rubbed my hands on the cloak, before dropping it on the bed. The room was beginning to warm up and so as not to give in to fatigue immediately, I went to search the shelf. I opened only one of the earthenware jars, in which I discovered grains of red wheat in perfect condition. I put a few handfuls into the cast-iron pot I had found next to the large amphorae, and emptied half my water into it as well. I stored everything next to the fire and then moved on to the smaller pots. The first one containing hardened honey, I put it aside for the next day. The second jar had vinegar turnips floating in it, softened and bland, but edible. I swallowed them with my last bread. I didn't want to break any more seals that night, and I piled the wax fragments with great care on the lowest shelf. Then I yawned, and stuffed the hearth with wood before dragging myself to the pallet.

I remained lying for a long time, contemplating the moving walls of the refuge. I didn't really dare to close my eyes for fear of seeing the dead appear, even if it also seemed to me that with the suspension of my own death, the influence of ghosts had weakened. The exploration had invigorated me, and sharpened my mind. The fact that I suddenly had something different to which I could attach my thoughts, something more structured and solid than the uncertain and infinite whiteness of the snow, was in itself a kind of guardrail. This didn't stop the questions from swirling around, but they were less morbid and circular since they were rhythmed by the reassuring crackle of the flames.

From the bunk, the carved bear mouth seemed to spew forth incandescent torrents and numerous glittering reflections waltzed on the surface of the canopy. I kept wondering what this strange place was, and who had shaped it. The food I had found was not stale, yet I couldn't conceive that another man had set foot here in the last decade. I remembered that Narsilap had told me about the cellars of Cover-Pass, where some of the food was kept in ice vaults. I imagined that the climatic conditions at this altitude must have had a similar effect on the condition of the food. I smiled sometimes while wondering. Had the turnips I had swallowed earlier been harvested before I was born? Had they come from Carm, or had they grown in a brownian soil? Were there any more in the remaining pots, and could I grind the dry wheat into flour?

Slowly but surely, as I pondered the possibilities and the tomorrows to come, and without really thinking about it, the idea that I was going to live slowly took root in me. I began to think about reaching the other side of the Wall again. I suddenly realized that I didn't know where I would end up if I did, or even what I would find. For all I knew, the entire Peninsula had been ravaged by the markian plague, and it occurred to me that perhaps instead of salvation, new mass graves awaited me behind the mountains. I hoped with all my being that Brindy was safe from the world as the peregrine had promised me, five years before. I sighed. If I had listened to him, I probably wouldn't have been taken prisoner, and Ulrick might have lived. I didn't feel any wiser since that day. More tired, no doubt, more determined, perhaps, but not wiser. Finally, I shrugged my shoulders and tried to cling to the present, to the delicious warmth of the bunk. My eyelids closed by themselves.

Three days later, the Ceras found me.