MY BREATH ROSE around me in billowing clouds, and my nose ran constantly. My hands were like claws clutching at my tools. I couldn’t feel my face.
River and I had just started up the ice wall. It was painfully slow going. I didn’t like using ropes, which I viewed as unnecessary interruptions to the rhythm of climbing, but River had insisted on it. I had to admit, grudgingly, that I was relieved. The Ngadi face wasn’t like anything I had faced before. I was beginning to wonder if it had an end—if so, I couldn’t see it through the clouds. Perhaps River and I would keep climbing until we hit the moon.
The weather was not much better than yesterday. It had stopped snowing, but the wind had lessened only slightly, and the clouds were low and threatening. River and I had debated waiting an hour or two to see if conditions improved, but had eventually decided to push on. When we set off, I shoved Ragtooth in my pack, despite his desire to stay wrapped around my shoulders like a smelly shawl—I couldn’t be distracted by him. Azar-at we left at the bottom, gazing up at us.
“He’ll meet us at the top,” was all River said.
We had decided to use a running belay—not the safest technique, but certainly the fastest. River and I were tied securely to either end of a long rope attached to fixed anchors along the way. I went first, to hammer the anchors into the ice, and River followed, retrieving them as he climbed. I was not pleased to be going first—not because it was more strenuous work, but because the best climber never went first using this method. River, however, had been unyielding, and despite my misgivings, I now found myself fifty feet above him, hammering pitons into the ice.
I hauled myself up another foot, kicking my toes against the wall until the iron crampons I had attached to my boots found purchase, then stopped to secure another anchor with the hammer end of my ice ax. My axes were sturdy but light, attached to each wrist with a loop of rope to reduce the odds of dropping them. The piton would only go in partway—that would have to do. Carefully, mindful of my aching fingers, I threaded a spring hook through the hole in the piton, then attached it to our rope. I looked down, and River, yards below, gave me a thumbs-up. His face was flushed and speckled with frost, but he did not seem distressed. On the contrary, he seemed to be whistling. I caught snatches of it on the wind, twisted and intermingled with its wild howl. Strangely, the sounds seemed to complement each other, to match in some indefinable way.
Time passed. I couldn’t have said how much—all I knew was the steady pattern of motion. Reach up with my ax, pound away until I found a good hold, step up, stab the toe of my boot into the wall, then do the same with the other foot. Reach, pound, step, step, reach. Below me, I could hear River doing the same, matching my movements and speed. Ragtooth poked his snout out every once in a while, sniffing the air, but stopped as the wind picked up and the chill deepened. I heard him snuffling around in my pack, turning in circles as he always did before settling in for a nap.
Sometimes, I envied Ragtooth.
As we climbed, I kept watch on the clouds. A thick mass gathered above us, though it was hard to tell precisely how far away in this world of soft grays and whites.
The wind gusted, and this time it brought with it a dusting of snow. I looked up again. The clouds were closer now—much closer. We were not only moving toward them—they were moving toward us. Fast.
“River!” I shouted. He glanced up, a question forming on his lips. I didn’t get to hear it, because at that moment, the squall descended. An icy wind struck me with the force of a hammer, and it was only by chance that I managed to keep my hold on my axes. I pressed my face into the ice, hoping it would let up. After a few breathless minutes, it did, but only slightly.
“River!”
There was no answer. Most likely, he couldn’t hear me over the gale. Snow was falling—or rather, striking, sharp crystals pummeling every exposed inch of my skin.
I knew there was nothing to do but carry on. Surely—surely—we would reach the top soon. I could continue; at least I thought I could—it wouldn’t be my first time climbing blind in bad weather. But would River be all right?
I gave the rope three sharp tugs. After a long, agonizing moment, I felt three tugs in reply.
Setting my jaw, I kept climbing. Despite my thick sheepskin gloves, my fingers were stiff with cold. I was having a hard time managing the ropes and the anchors, and was beginning to wish again that I could climb without them. I felt certain I could be at the top in half the time.
I couldn’t tell how much time passed—perhaps five minutes, perhaps an hour. Finally, the clouds parted, revealing the top of the ice wall, only a few dozen yards away.
I let out a cry of relief. The clouds swallowed the view again, but they were thinning now, and the snow had all but stopped. I looked down. River was too far away—at some point during the squall, he had fallen behind.
“We’re almost there,” I called.
He glanced up. His face was pinched, and he looked exhausted. Still, he managed a weary wave of acknowledgment. Turning my face back to the wall, I took another step.
A tremendous crack split the air. I whipped around, just in time to see the section of ice supporting River give way.
I screamed. River was falling—and he was no longer attached to anything. As he fell, for some unfathomable reason, he reached out and drove the blade of his ax into the rope, severing it instantly.
He cut the rope.
Somehow, just before he disappeared into the cloud below, River managed to ram his ax into the lip of an overhang. He hung suspended, his legs dangling over a void. His second ax went spinning into the clouds below and was swallowed up. The clouds billowed over him, swallowing him too.
“River!” I shouted. I didn’t even think. I just started descending as fast as I could. But would I get there in time?
I made a decision. An awful, stupid decision I knew I would regret, even as I made it. I shuffled across the ice, glancing down to judge my positioning. Then, gritting my teeth, my heart hammering in my throat, I sank the smaller ax I carried into the ice—a shallow thrust, with none of my usual force. Then I lifted my other ax free of the ice, and kicked my feet out from the wall.
Immediately, I began to fall. Or rather, to slide—fast, much faster than I had anticipated. I dug my feet back into the ice, but this did little to arrest my descent. My crampons made a terrible grinding, squealing noise as they skidded down the ice. I choked on a scream. At the last minute, as I neared River’s position, I rammed my second ax back into the ice wall.
Not deep enough. The ax stuck for a bare second before the ice gave way. A shower of ice rained down on my face, a chunk the size of my fist striking me on the chin.
Again, a small, desperate voice in my head commanded. Do it again.
Gathering all my strength, I drew my arm back and pounded the ax into the ice. It stuck this time, and I was wrenched to a painful halt. Shaking, I dug my crampons deep into the ice, securing myself properly. I had come to a stop above River, but only just. It was the work of a few seconds to reach him.
“Kamzin!” he shouted. His expression was dazed. “How did you—”
“Shut up,” I said shortly. “I’m going to get you out of this.” He said something in reply, but I couldn’t hear it over the wind. He seemed to be laughing, though it was not his usual laugh. It was an eerie, broken sound that sent a shiver down my spine. Had he well and truly lost his mind?
“Ragtooth,” I said. The fox was certainly not sleeping now. He emerged from my pack, the spare ax already clutched in his teeth. He clambered across my shoulders and hopped down onto River’s head. River took the ax, though he seemed to have trouble maintaining his hold on it. Finally, he pounded it into the ice, and managed to haul himself up to a place where his feet could grip. He leaned against the ice, still laughing. Tears slid down his cheeks.
“Stop that,” I said. “We have to keep going, River.”
Still the laughter went on, even as I clipped him back into the rope. Even as the clouds floated around us again, even as the ice gave another ominous, groaning creak.
“All right, that’s it,” I said. “Ragtooth?”
The fox gazed at me with glittering eyes. Then he leaped back onto River’s shoulder. Once there, he sank his teeth into his ear.
River shouted in pain. He flailed at Ragtooth, but the fox was already in my pack again. To River’s credit, he soon calmed down, and pressed his forehead against the ice. He seemed to be breathing hard.
“Are you going to be all right?” I said.
He looked at me. His face was pale, but he seemed mostly sane again. “Yes.”
“Let’s go, then.”
I helped him retrieve the spare ax in his pack, and then attached the now-shortened rope to his harness again with a crow’s-eye knot. We reached the top of the Ngadi face soon after, having made exceptional time over the remaining distance. It was as if the wind was pushing us up, we were so eager to be off the ice. As I hauled myself over the edge, I found myself facing a narrow ridge of snowy ground, too narrow for two people to stand abreast. Ahead was a small indentation in the rock face that would provide some shelter against the wind. River and I dragged ourselves there, and collapsed. Ragtooth emerged from my pack and huddled against my chest. I folded him into my chuba, grateful for the warmth and the steady beat of his little heart. River lay on his back, his arm folded over his eyes.
I rummaged around in my pack until I found my canteen. I took a long drink, then handed it to River. He drew himself up and leaned against the rock.
“Let me see that bite,” I said.
River was motionless and quiet as I examined his ear. Ragtooth had bitten clean through the lobe, and blood stained his neck and the collar of his chuba. But it seemed to have stopped. I pressed a piece of snow against it so that the melting would clean the wound while it reduced any swelling.
We sat in silence. The clouds below us parted briefly, revealing the valley far, far below. They drifted together again slowly, like a door swinging shut.
“I couldn’t think,” River said. His gaze was unfocused. “It didn’t even occur to me to use magic. I was about to die, that was all I knew.”
“It’s normal to feel that way, in that situation,” I murmured. “You must have had close calls before.”
“Never that close.” He laughed. I watched him warily, wondering if I would have to summon Ragtooth again, but he soon stopped.
“I don’t think there’s another person in the world who could do what you did,” he said. “I don’t think I could have done it.”
I shrugged. I couldn’t meet his eyes. “I don’t know about that.”
He gazed at me. “I wouldn’t have made it without you, Kamzin.”
“That’s true enough,” I said, smiling as I heard the echo in his words. He had said the same thing when I led him to Winding Pass, breaking the spell that had hidden it from his eyes. “Without me, you’d still be wandering the Samyar Plains right now.”
He laughed at that. Before I even realized what was happening, he leaned forward and kissed me. His lips were cold and dotted with snowflakes that melted as we came together.
By the time he drew back, my heart was hammering again. He leaned against the mountain and closed his eyes.
“Give me a few minutes,” he said. “Then we can set up the tent. I’ve had enough for now.”
“Me too,” I said, trying to keep my voice even. I was indeed exhausted, my body one large ache, and I was relieved that I would not have to travel farther today. But part of me wished we could simply keep going, to use movement as a way of shaking off this new awkwardness I felt. The wind eddied over the mountain, its voice a distant howl. We were protected from it here in our little pocket of rock.
“You cut the rope,” I said quietly.
River didn’t open his eyes. After a moment, he said, “I guess I must have. I barely remember. It’s all a blur.”
I didn’t reply. I was still having difficulty comprehending it. A fall while climbing with a running belay was dangerous—but one scenario was far more dangerous than the other. If the first climber fell, the consequences were usually minor—the second climber’s weight would stop the first from going far. But if the second climber fell, he pulled his partner down with him, and the force of that pull could be deadly. By cutting the rope, River may have saved my life. At the same time, I thought, stunned by the realization, he had almost thrown his away. It would have been a split-second decision based more on instinct than anything else.
Why?
But the question felt too big to ask, so I didn’t ask it. The adrenaline was wearing off, and I felt drained. Finally, River declared that he thought he could stand again without falling over, and we began setting up camp.