Chapter 168

My mother never chose ground in her life. He had told me so on a ford in February, as a kindness.

I chose this one.

“Down,” I said. “All of us. To the gate.”

Rowan had his knife out already. He looked down the cliff at the four men climbing, and back at the slot in the rock, and I watched him understand: there was nothing up here worth standing in front of, and one thing down there that was.

“He can’t open it without me,” I said. “So he’ll come to me. Let him come where it is.”

It isn’t awake yet, my wolf said. The seam’s running but it isn’t breathing. Noon, maybe. When the sun’s full on the snow overhead.

Then he’ll have to talk until noon.

He likes talking, she said. That’s the one thing in our favour.

***

We went down the hundred and twelve steps with the water running over our boots, and I stood with my back to the black stone, a little to the left of the seam. Rowan stood on my right. Luci