The wind had died down the day after I found the refuge, and the swollen sky had faded throughout the following day. A timid blue had managed to impose itself shortly before the night enveloped the mountains again. I planned to leave quickly, to enjoy the weather while it lasted, but I was also aware that I needed to replenish my strength and my food supplies. At the rate I was burning wood, I thought I could last a week. Ideally, I didn't want to wait that long.

Cooking and keeping the fires going were my two main occupations, and I only went out to relieve myself and collect snow. I had opened all the jars, and took stock of the edibles. There were a few containers of sandy vegetables that had rotted and melted, but the rest, mostly dry wheat and peas, seemed to be in good condition. I had found a second jar of honey and a few other pickles of brine or vinegar, including some rotten eggs that had stunk up the room until I got rid of them in the tunnel. The highlight, as far as I was concerned, was a meat concoction similar to the dry sausage we were making with Ulrick in Culon heights, but which had been salted and poured into a jar under an inch-thick layer of fat. Ulrick had told me that he had eaten a sixteen-year-old dry sausage before without finding anything wrong with it. I didn't know how many springs this particular mixture had seen since it was stored in the frozen shelter, but it was judiciously seasoned and sprinkled with dried cranberry chips. After the doubts and deprivations of the glacier, I found it absolutely delicious.

I tried out several options for making the supplies portable, eventually settling on a recipe that involved crushing soaked wheat and peas into a coarse paste. I then mixed it with a little honey, kneading the mush in the palm of my hand to form small, round, sticky lumps. Finally, I threw these patties into the pot where the fat from the surface of the meat pot was boiling. The result was edible - though filling - and easy to carry. I packed my bag of patties until it was difficult to fasten the straps. Actually, I would have preferred to have a real haversack to move around the mountain, because the pouch weighed only on one side and its swinging was wearing over long distances, especially when it was full. On top of that, it was hard to move in the snow. I had tried to cobble together a replacement with pieces of the burlap curtain without reaching a satisfactory result. So I had to endure the bite of the strap.

As I worked, the combined heat of the fire and the torch melted much of the snow that had accumulated on the outside of the canopy, which turned out to be thick and opaque, a deep blue veined with reds and greens, and sewn with metallic threads that glittered like beaten bronze. You couldn't really see through it from the inside, but light poured in from the other direction, coloring the shelter with shifting, phantasmagorical-looking flashes. I had determined that the large gray ceramic amphorae all contained burning oil, and under the shelf were coiled large lengths of wick rope. These discoveries filled me with curiosity and questions about the purpose of the room itself. I sometimes thought of an ancient signaling mechanism, of which the torch and the canopy might have been the central elements, although I couldn't see what use anyone could have had for it in such a remote place.

When I ventured out, it was never far from the tunnel exit, which looked in every way like the carved gully through which I had come, minus the stalactites. The peaks dominated above, to the right of the passage some ridges plunged downstream, and the entrance was usually in their shadow. It still happened that big gusts of wind passed through the gut, roaring, but it had become quite rare. Under the packed snow were monuments and bas-reliefs, in which I didn't take much interest once I had established that most of them represented a bearded man, and that, apart from that, I wasn't going to be able to get much out of them.

On one occasion, I had nevertheless proceeded to a quick reconnaissance of the surroundings in order to determine by which side I would have to leave. Straight ahead, at a few tens of spans from the opening of the tunnel, there was a deep chasm that embraced the massif from which I had come. I didn't dare to approach it too closely for fear of being unbalanced by a gust of wind, but I was able to see that a gentler slope ran off to the east, bordered by the same ravine. In the immediate future, the layout of the place didn't leave me much choice for what to do next: the glacial cirque, as well as the peak through which the gallery had been dug, was a high point. Beyond that, it was necessary to go back down. From the ridge that overhung the ravine, I had a breathtaking view of the mountains that rose on all sides, white and formidable. The glacier had taken me to the very heart of the Wall. Now I was surrounded by snow walls, frozen stone ridges, incredible cliffs and air so pure it was burning.

After the first impression, which was inevitably overwhelming, the eye began to grasp other less accessible but equally relevant details. In the depths of half-invisible valleys, among the steep and deep hollows, the white would sometimes darken and speckle under the effect of the heavy foliage of the conifers, or of the distant glow of trapped water. Regular patterns could be seen in the heights, along the protrusions and on the peaks. Some trenches were less inclined, some passes wider. Parapets with an inescapable aspect were sewn with unexpected steepnesses, so many possible paths if one took the trouble to reach them.

Despite the intimidating beauty of the view and the thousand dangers that lay ahead, I was no longer really worried about the journey to come. That it could be as simple as notches in the old stones, a few lengths of dry wood and jars of wheat was probably absurd. But it was the truth. Men had come here. They had taken these things to the heights by trails that must have existed and that led somewhere. I knew that nothing was certain yet, that I could still be buried under an avalanche or a landslide, get lost and starve or freeze in a storm. But now I had proof that what I was trying to accomplish could be done. If their paths were hidden, I would find them. If the snow buried me again, I would deal with it. If I had to turn back and start over, so be it. This newfound hope had had an immediate effect on my dark thoughts, which had given way to an exhilarated resolve the likes of which I had not felt in a long time, not even during my escape from Ifos. The knowledge that I wasn't risking everything for an impossible outcome galvanized me, and I was happy to fight. No longer out of spite, but because I had a real chance, an unhoped-for opportunity to return to the world and find some semblance of existence.

By the third night, I had completed my preparations and cleaned up the shelter a bit. I had settled down on the bed, and used what was left of the fat and a strip of burlap to maintain my weapons, starting with the dagger. I then focused on the crossbow's mechanisms, which I feared had suffered from the constant exposure to the cold. I had stripped the device before starting the ascent, for fear that the braided fiber would be damaged by the frost, and in my opinion it was the right thing to do. Two beautiful logs were burning in the hearth. I whistled a brownian tune as I smoothed the crossbow bolts one by one, my fingers dripping with tallow. My frostbite was slowly but surely starting to heal, at least it wasn't hurting as much. I suspected that I would get them back on the road, and I was reluctant to dig through the snow, but I was enjoying the respite for the moment. My package was ready nearby, except for the blankets, on which I was sitting. I was so focused on my task that I didn't hear the door latch.

The doorway was shrouded in shadows, but the flames in the hearth flickered and a chill draught, like the breath of a ghost, brushed my flesh. I looked up. Three men accompanied the cold. Three stern-faced men with thick skin capes and grey iron in their hands. The first didn't give me a glance. He walked directly around me, scanning the darkness of the cave floor with a watchful eye. The other two stepped over me and I slowly straightened up to speak softly to them, careful not to make any sudden movements and to keep my hands in view. One of them, taller than me and twice as thick, put the handle of his axe on my shoulder to invite me to sit down again. He stared at me with a bright blue gaze while his companion rummaged through my things. His face, which I would have found round and good-natured if it hadn't been for the large scar on his forehead, was perfectly inexpressive. When I opened my mouth to speak again, the man grunted and drew his axe until the blade came to rest on my back. This warning silenced me. The frost had set in his beard, and in the beards of the others, giving them a strange, almost supernatural look.

The man inspecting my package scattered the contents all over the place, and then, on a comment from the big man with the axe, he briskly confiscated the dagger I had on my belt. He finally grabbed the red felt cloak, turned it around and around in the firelight, and dropped it in the middle of the mess. He then disappeared through the passage. The door slammed. The first man, with finer features than the other two, and darker hair, came up to me and looked at me closely. He crouched beside me, his bare sword across his knees. The pommel was large and heavy, made of wrought bronze, and the man rocked back and forth on his heels without taking his eyes off me. Glossy bone studs gleamed in his ears. I stared back at him, and for a long moment there was only silence, and the crackling of the fire.

Finally, voices rang out from outside. The man stood up and sheathed his sword again before exchanging a few words with the scarred man. The latter drew a hemp cord from his furs, and ruthlessly began to tie my hands behind my back. I swallowed and let him do it, my heart beating wildly. The scarred man breathed loudly in my ear, grunting as he tied the knots. I didn't know if I was dealing with bandits or loyalists, or if it would make any difference what happened to me, but I was sure of one thing: these men were Ceras. The blue eyes, the auburn or copper hair, and the large braided leather skirts they wore over their breeches were unmistakable.

When the bonds were tightened around my wrists, I was grabbed roughly by my doublet, and pushed at arm's length to the stairs. The freezing air slapped my face. I winced from the bite of the hemp. Our boots echoed in the shaft as we walked down to the main tunnel. Three other Ceras were waiting there, huffing and stamping their feet excitedly in the nebulous breeze. The one who stood at the front of his companions to scan the darkened tunnel wore a shield on his back and didn't bother to turn around. His companions, including the one who had searched me, each wielded a torch, and their flames drew strange arcs that roared in the gusts. I noticed several spears and shields resting against the wall, along with bundles of fur. I did my best to stand upright despite the shivering and the fear. The Ceras looked at me as if I wasn't there at all.

Soon after, a lively dialogue ensued between the two men who had pulled me out of the shelter. Strong hands were placed on either side of my shoulders. I was forced to kneel down in the tunnel. The scarred man repeatedly called out to the tall warrior who had his back to us. Finally he snorted, and came at me with a long, curiously shaped war blade, a wide, heavy, forward-curved scythe. His braided beard swayed, gleaming like a sheaf of ripe wheat. I was grabbed by the arms. Someone else put a foot on my back so I would stretch my neck. The man with the scythe came and stood on my side, clutching his weapon with both hands. Everything was going much too fast. I didn't have time to be afraid. Just as I realized that they were planning to decapitate me, the giant growled something and left. Faces turned to follow him. The glow of the flames danced off the scythe, and then a sixth man emerged from the darkness. The grip loosened.

The shaggy Ceras gathered together and then engaged in loud conversation. As they chatted, I shivered on the frozen rock, wondering if my summary execution was just a postponement. I tried to catch up with my thoughts, but everything was unraveling too quickly, everything was dissolving with my heartbeat, and every moment my attention was caught by more insignificant details than the others. The newcomer was twirling his javelin and glancing at me from time to time. The scarred man pointed at me and talked. The man with the scythe, who seemed to have a certain standing among the others, finally came back with a torch, which he lowered close to my face. He then removed a mitten and felt my triangular scar. The flames occasionally licked his blackened knuckles. He didn't seem to care. "Fo theroï," I murmured in scoye. "I was a slave." The Cera sniffed loudly and shook his long hair. An ivory jewel ran through his nose, and in my mind his broad and flattened face made him look like a ram. When he straightened up, he spoke a few sentences in a rich, deep voice and I was lifted to my feet.

I was escorted back to the carved steps of the shelter. The six men followed me. From the tone of their conversation, and the few laughs that echoed off the walls, they seemed to have relaxed, though to tell the truth it was hard to tell, and my confusion was still great. I waited under guard while they summarily tidied up the mess they had made, then the scarred man gathered the huge burlap cloth into a rough ball and laid it in the curve of the canopy, right next to the torch. He made me sit there, left, then returned with a rope, one end of which he loosely tied around my neck, while the other was attached to the large tin burner. He then walked away to join his companions, who were sitting around the fire and unpacking their bundles.

The Ceras ate rations of salted meat and drank from their skins. When they had finished, the man with the sword and bone studs approached me and crouched down as he had the first time, but this time to slip a strip of smoked flesh between my teeth. I chewed and thanked him in a low voice when I could swallow, but his expression didn't change, and his watchful eyes went back and forth over my face. He then handed me the spout of his wineskin, which contained water mixed with wine, and I drank greedily, so much so that it attracted the attention of the men around the fire who laughed and joked, and a thin smile finally broke out on my benefactor's face. "Carmé?" he asked, patting my chest with the tip of his index finger. The others were silent.

I saw their eyes sparkle, I saw the expectant grins, the tongues and canines, the predatory curiosity. I shook my head and replied in scoye. "Né. Clani." My interlocutor frowned, then took on a casual expression. "Clani? Quo et sé-mista vé?" Then he turned away as laughter erupted around the fire and the tension suddenly vanished. "Ceroï?" I asked after him to confirm what I already knew. It was the holder of the scythe who reacted with a loud voice. "Nun Ceroï. Cercché." His words were met by the harsh approval of the others. I nodded and wanted to continue the discussion, but the man with the ram's face silenced me with a wave of his hand, and we didn't talk any more that night.