The red glow of the torches splashed the rock as if we had dragged a wounded specter with us, and the unearthly spurts rippled down the walls long after we had passed. The road descended relentlessly, sometimes along geometrically carved corridors, sometimes through rounded, waxy-looking gutters. There were cylindrical abysses around which uneven spiral staircases had been drilled, narrow galleries where I thought I was suffocating and where the imposing Ceras slipped with difficulty, but also vast underground cavities strewn with wonders, concretions in the shape of sea urchins or flowers, stalagmites, stalactites, shining crystals. I forgot for a while my tiredness, because the show was worth it.

Listening to the echoes dissipating in the darkness, I sometimes had the impression that a whole cohort was following our tracks. I imagined that we were following a natural path, undoubtedly pierced by the melting snow (and as evidence of this, I saw the pools of clear water on which the flames of the torches sometimes danced), but which had been dug out, made by the hand of man when the original passage was impassable. The Ceras found their way with surprising ease through the maze, for in some places the path was far from obvious. At the end of one of the great halls, the flickering light revealed a collapsed trap door in an adjacent tunnel. I couldn't see the bottom of it. The scout and the leader paused to discuss it, it seemed to me, waving and nodding in turn, and then the walk resumed. Somewhere in the depths, a torrent was rumbling.

Eventually we reached a respectable-sized cave, in which a dozen thick mats made of successive layers of woven rushes had been hung. The Ceras put down their bundles, which could be unrolled like sleeping bags, and emptied them of the spare torches and food they were carrying. The food and tools were gathered on a flat protrusion in the center of the cave that had obviously been polished to serve as a table. I was given wine to drink and, in addition to the salted meat, the scout distributed some of my patties, which got a mixed reception. As far as I was concerned, after the long day of walking, I was hungry enough to eat anything. When the meal was over, the Ceras began to talk in low voices, and the cave echoed with their low murmurs. I curled up on the mat they had given me and pulled my knees up under my chin. The rope didn't leave my neck. Under the eye of the leader and his scythe, Urixx tied my wrists. His beard was roughly braided and decorated at its end with a tarnished copper jewel. I let him do it. He didn't tighten the bonds too much.

The night was not pleasant. It was much less cold than outside, the water didn't freeze, even in the splashing cavities we had passed near the entrance, and the air seemed still except for a few tiny rustles. The mat was as thick as a hand, which isolated me from the icy ground, and under the blankets that the Ceras had given me, I warmed up quickly. However, this wasn't enough to make it comfortable. The humidity was everywhere. The din of our footsteps was replaced by a concert of drips and trickles, which tinkled in the tunnels like clear bells. The scarred man began to snore, making an impressive racket, and I turned over and over on my bed, unable to find sleep despite the exhaustion. My hands were sore and the ghosts were lurking at the edge, ready to feast on the slightest whiff of anguish. The anxiety came over me again. Even though it was a lesser feeling, mitigated by the company of men, I feared for the freedom I had barely regained. The incessant echoes, which reminded me of the galleries of Ifos, but also of the dreary weeks I had spent in the prison of Horn-Hill during my childhood, probably didn't help. When I finally managed to fall asleep, my rest was hesitant and punctuated by jolts. I was happy when the Ceras finally stirred under their furs. Less than an hour later, the march resumed.

The dimensions of the underground were impressive, although very different from those of the glacial cirque tunnel. Sobriety was in order here, as well as practicality. It was a fast track cut into the mountain, without frills and at least as worn by passage as by the years. We were still going downhill, but there were occasional long, almost straight stretches in which we could move more briskly than elsewhere, since the humidity made the steps and ledges slippery. As the torches flickered ahead, revealing the anatomy of the caverns as we went along, I sometimes imagined what obstacles, what chasms, what impassable cliffs this shortcut allowed us to avoid, and how many days of walking we would gain in a few obscure miles. I wondered if the Ceras had taken this path when they came to get me, and if other such conduits were waiting for us further on. The possibility of having to walk the rough steps in the other direction exhausted me just thinking about it.

The noise of the water increased as we advanced, and the presence of basins and pools in the largest caverns became systematic. The wave which shimmered there was of an incredible clearness and on our passage, splashes and ripples appeared sometimes. Strange pale and blind creatures lived in these subterranean waters, salamanders, tiny toads and cave shrimps, as well as immaculately white catfish, some of which were bigger than my arm. On the walls grew large sheets of lichen, which were home to many snails and larvae. In the side ducts, delicate insects with long, clicking legs scattered as the light approached. The darkest corners were the domain of anemones and clusters of stinging worms, which convulsed in terror and threatened us with their stingers.

The Ceras hadn't said a word to me since the start. The man with the ram's face had sent Urixx to walk ahead with the scout - perhaps to prevent us from becoming more sympathetic - but despite everything, I was in good spirits. I smiled amiably at the scarred man when he turned around to discreetly show me a big fish or a spider. The terrifying sterility of the glacier had poisoned my mind with visions of death and annihilation. The abundant life that swarmed here, as unusual as it was, had the effect of an antidote on me.

We finally reached a murky lake that stretched further than I could see and whose dark surface was crumpled by the deep current of the springs, where they bubbled up between the roots of the mountain. We didn't go any further down. The path followed the gurgling meanders of the underground stream that overflowed the lake. The temperature dropped considerably on this last stretch, under the effect of the icy humidity that exuded from the torrent, but also of the air currents, more and more frequent. In the heights, lurking among the stalactites, the shining eyes of colonies of long-eared bats were watching our progress. The constant din of the water drowned out other sounds, twisting them in on themselves and scattering them around, whether it was the whistle of the guide or the rapid cadence of our boots. I had to keep my gaze fixed on the shaggy neck of the scarred man to maintain an ideal distance between us two and not suffer the bite of the rope. The friction of the rough fiber was beginning to make the skin on my neck raw.

Some time later, daylight came around a stony bend. I squinted. The torchbearers crouched down and smothered the flames they carried in the stream. The young man coughed from the pitch smoke that came back in his face, and we waited a moment to avoid being blinded by the sun. The river had narrowed near the exit, its course compressed by the gully into a deep, tumultuous stream. A distant roar could be heard long before the cold wind seized me for good. A wooden footbridge allowed us to cross the torrent a few steps from the opening, which had been enlarged with the help of tools.

An incised valley stretched out before us. The torrent shot out of the mountainside to crash into invisible rocks a hundred spans below. A series of breathtaking waterfalls bubbled down to the valley floor, shrouded in mist. The Leaf moon was already well underway, and on the lower slopes the snow had begun to melt. The green blended into the picture in a subtle, almost indistinct way, but after two weeks of gray and white I couldn't suppress a smile. Around me, the neighboring peaks rose, sharp and formidable, but deep in the enclave, there were trees and life. As if echoing this thought, the ferocious cry of an unknown bird of prey sounded in the clear sky.

It was necessary to go down from the cliff by a narrow fault line, and the zenith had passed when we reached the last escarpments. There we ate, I drank some water from my own gourd because there was no more wine. The man with the scythe approached while I finished swallowing the food that Urixx had offered me: boiled cereals, frozen in a ball of salty fat whose particularly strong taste reminded me of goat. I turned towards the leader when he settled down near me, on an uncomfortable rock overlooking the valley. The man babbled for a while, waving his hand, without me understanding anything, while pointing to the waterfalls, then to the woods where the ice was slowly loosening its grip. I shook my head, because I didn't understand what he wanted to show me, and he finally stopped talking. We stayed like that while the others ate and talked a little further away. Large birds of prey were circling over the valley, at the bottom of which we could see the sparkle of the torrent. Near the escarpment, the rock swallows were chirping noisily, their flights short and nervous. I occasionally glanced at the leader, his copper hair and flattened features, and at the ivory jewel across his nose. He was an impressive man, with a natural confidence.

When he stood up, I thought we were going to leave, but he returned to the rock carrying the crossbow. "Carmé," he said, holding up the weapon. I nodded. He looked satisfied, put the crossbow down and then, with one thick hand, grabbed a piece of my red cloak and waved it in the wind. "Carmé," he growled again. "Carmé," I confirmed. He finally pointed at me, his eyes wide and his face questioning. "Clani," I said, my heart pounding. "Clani," the man repeated thoughtfully, looking at me with his limpid gaze. He finally straightened up, hands on his hips, mouth pursed. He put a rough thumb on the triangle cut on my cheekbone, and tapped it. "Clani?" he asked me. "Né," I replied, shaking my head. I stood up in turn. The leader took a step back, but he didn't touch the rope when I brought it to me. He merely looked at me sternly as I removed layer after layer of clothing. The scarred man approached us, along with Urixx, but they stayed back.

When I got rid of the doublet, I unbuttoned my shirt and took off my rags. Shirtless, shivering from the cold drafts and apprehension, I displayed the chaig tattoo I had inherited from my friend Dera, a triangular interlacing of geometric pictographs, nestled under my collarbone. "Clani," I said clearly, staring first at the leader, then at the curious Ceras waiting behind him. The ram-faced man leaned over and studied the mark with interest. Without turning away from me, he then called to the scout, who joined him. I shivered between the rocks of the escarpment, my skin bristling like that of a plucked fowl. The guide and the leader were chatting loudly, without giving me a glance. I ended up getting dressed in a hurry, while the other Ceras gradually joined the discussion. Only the scarred one didn't take part in the conversation. While his companions were debating - presumably about me - he came and stood a few steps away from the rock where I had been sitting, his fingers drumming on the head of the axe he had put on his belt. He would smile at me a little awkwardly when I happened to look at him.

After a while, the leader cut short the procrastination and started to give orders. Urixx approached me carrying my pouch in one hand and my gourd in the other. From the bag, he awkwardly extracted the bronze dagger, from which he absent-mindedly removed the scabbard. He then grabbed the rope I had around my neck. I almost cringed when the blade approached my face. Urixx cut the rope in a few quick movements. The dagger disappeared under his furs, and the man bent down to recover the lanyard. Behind him, the leader was grumbling words while pointing at my belongings. I rose cautiously and pulled the strap of my pack over my head, then the shoulder strap of the crossbow. The ram-man looked satisfied, and then he gibbered something as he gestured toward the mountains. All around, the Ceras were preparing to leave. I still didn't understand what it meant for me to take the rope off, but the scarred man cleared up any misunderstanding by pushing me forward, firmly but without violence. I wasn't really a prisoner anymore, the leader had wanted me to know that, but I wasn't free to go as I pleased either. I nodded and went up the last steep slope, following the others.

After the valley, there was a narrow and wooded pass. That night we were able to make a fire in a damp cave before setting off again to reach the summits. The Ceras took advantage of the evening to teach me their names. The sheep-faced leader was called Dorl. The scarred one, Forcas, was his second in command. I quickly understood that there was a family link between Forcas and the young man, who had been given the nickname of Volp. Urixx mimed an animal with a hanging tongue - a dog or a wolf, from what I could tell - while repeating the name, which triggered laughter, but also embarrassment from the teenager in question. The stocky scout was named Thesarl, and while I often felt his clear gaze on me, he dodged mine with skill. The sixth man was older than the others. He had a trembling lip, and in the time we spent together he never once spoke to me. He didn't talk to his companions either, his demeanor was grim and strange. The others paid so little attention to his presence that I began to wonder if he wasn't simple-minded. I never knew his name, and ended up ignoring him too.

We traveled together for another six whole days. Despite the appearance of small familiarities, the Ceras had kept my knife, and Urixx always carried my crossbow bolts. They were wary of me, with good reason. In other circumstances, if they had been rougher, or less vigilant, I would probably have tried to slit their throats during the night. The Ceras knew this, I think, or at least they must have sensed it, in the same way that one warrior knows another. They tested me on several occasions in the mountain huts we occupied, leaving a spear or a blade lying around when evening came. I was never fooled by their patient breaths and so we could continue to gossip together, sometimes laughing and keeping up the masquerade. I willingly assumed the role of the guest, of the stranger, as if it were not their weapons that held me back, as if I knew their intentions as well as the destination towards which we were going. As if the idea of a nocturnal stabbing had never occurred to me.

On the way, we were hit by a crackling thunderstorm and plum-sized hail as we walked in the open in a stony basin. On the third morning, we routed a hungry bear that had been attracted by the smell of grilled bacon. We had to cross two passes still covered with snow, as well as a handful of trickling valleys, contemplate incredible panoramas and wear out our legs to the point of pain on ice and gravel paths. When our walk finally ended, it was at the foot of a jagged massif, wedged between two green valleys. It was evening, but I could see the smoke in the distance, white and thick in the burning sky, and herds of wandering goats were scattered here and there, sometimes perched on the very side of the cliffs. I could see barricades and narrow bridges over the crevices, and a few low walls too, lining the hollows and gullies. Nestled high up, a little below the sharp stones of the summit, an ancient fort dominated the landscape, its contours bleak and fearsome.

There, other men were waiting for us.