although she could no longer feel her grip on either knife she knew that it was weakening. Her hands looked shockingly pale. ‘I can’t.’ No hope remained to her. Not even the hope of an easy death.
She looked again at her hands, hardly feeling she still owned them. Both were tinged with violet. ‘How?’ How could she see them?
Nona turned her head and there, far below her, Zole stood at the edge of the shaft into which she had fallen, the shipheart in her hands.
At the sight of Zole Nona lost her grip on first one knife then the other and plummeted down the side of the chamber. Somehow Zole managed to intercept her and arrest her considerable momentum with just one hand while keeping both her balance and her grip on the shipheart.
The ice-triber seemed unhurt, untroubled by the cold. Nona wondered if she were a ghost, the product of her own fractured mind. But the grip on her wrist was warm and real. ‘How … How are you here?’ Nona gasped.
‘You threw me the Old Stone,’ Zole said. ‘It gave me the control over the ice that I needed in order to climb out.’ She managed the smallest smile. ‘Thank you.’
‘It was nothing.’ Nona coughed an amazed laugh over chattering teeth. ‘Damn thing was killing me anyway.’
Zole lifted her gaze and scanned the darkness as if considering her options.
‘You’ll have to leave me here,’ Nona said. ‘I can’t go any further.’
Zole didn’t appear to have heard. She was staring at a particular spot, high up. ‘Come.’
‘I said I can’t.’
‘You can.’
Nona tried to stand but her legs went out from under her and she fell. Zole caught her wrist again, her grip iron. Without further words she hauled Nona back to her feet, bent, and took her over one wet shoulder as she collapsed.
‘Don’t be silly … you can’t carry me out.’
‘Can.’ Zole straightened with a grunt. ‘And will.’
Zole began to walk towards her goal. With each step the ice splintered beneath her feet, reshaping itself to form footholds.
Nona fell into her own darkness and missed most of their escape from the bubble chamber. She had glimpses of the steep ascent, Zole hugging the wall, sinking the shipheart into the ice and somehow using it to steady herself as she moved from one ledge and created the next. Nona missed much of what followed too, and while conscious put most of her effort into fighting the shipheart’s effort to break her apart, but slowly the warmth of Zole’s body began to penetrate her own chilled flesh.
‘I can walk.’ The weakness in Nona’s voice made her doubt her own claim but Zole set her down without debate.
The ice around them had shaded from black to a dark grey, and not just where they stood but ahead and behind.
‘We are getting closer to the surface.’ Zole sounded weary. ‘If your clothes are wet when we come up into the wind you will not survive.’
Nona coughed. ‘How do you propose I dry them?’
‘Body heat,’ Zole said. ‘We run now.’ And she began to jog ahead.
Nona groaned and staggered in pursuit.
They noticed the sound first. The distant howl of the wind, blowing across the mouth of the tunnel an unknown distance ahead of them and reverberating with a low tone. Next they noticed the light. Just a whisper at first. A hint reaching down through the ice, a suggestion that even this long night would come to an end.
Zole called a halt. ‘Take off your coat.’
‘Really? Because I’m cold enough with it on.’ Nona shed Kettle’s range-coat despite her protest. Meltwater had gone right through it and had frozen on the outside leaving the garment too stiff to fold.
‘And the shirts.’
‘No!’ Nona folded her arms across her chest. Both layers were warmer following their run but still damp. Sister Tallow had told them many times before their ice trek that something as simple as working up a sweat could get you killed on the ice once you cooled down and the wind got to work.
Zole shrugged her backpack off and set the shipheart down. The contents of her pack were wrapped tightly within a sealskin. The knots put up considerable resistance and finally had to be cut. At last Zole pulled out a thick woollen vest and unrolled what seemed to be leather leggings. ‘Dry.’ She started to draw out strips of velvet that looked to have been cut from a lord’s cloak. ‘To wrap around your hands. Fur would be better but