The seer nodded to the runecaster, who quickly ascended the drumlin. Like Galgadayle, Basil looked half-frozen and entirely exhausted. His eyes were pinched and bloodshot from his constant battle with snow blindness. His beard had become a single great icicle, and most of his face had turned white with frostbite. If there was no healer available when he thawed, the runecaster would lose both of his ears. The drooping appendages were as stiff and translucent as ice.
Basil stopped a dozen feet away and kept his eyes on the snow. “Thank you for letting me come up.”
“There’s no need to thank me.” Tavis struggled to focus his thoughts on the friendship he and the runecaster shared. “We want the same thing.”
Basil smiled, and his gaze flickered to Sky Cleaver. “I’m glad to hear you say that.”
“I’m not talking about the axe,” Tavis warned. “And let’s not pretend that it means nothing to you. I know you’re tempted to steal it-”
“Borrow!”
“It doesn’t matter,” Tavis said. “Sky Cleaver’s hold is just as strong on me as it is on you. I couldn’t lend it to you any more than I could lend you my heart.”
Basil bit his lip and looked away. “I know that”
“Good, then we have things well in hand.” Galgadayle slipped between Tavis and Basil. “Now, how do you suggest we go about entering the Twilight Vale?”
Basil stepped around the seer and moved to the front of the drumlin, where he could peer down at the narrow rift. “The stone giant histories say little about the Twilight Vale itself.” He apparently did not notice as Galgadayle once again slipped between him and the axe. “But there’s no need for concern. If all else fails, we can use Sky Cleaver to ‘cut to the heart of the matter’, as the stone giants describe it.”
“We?” Tavis demanded.
“I mean you,” Basil sighed. “But I wouldn’t advise doing so lightly. From what you described of the previous wielder’s condition, calling upon Sky Cleaver’s powers carries a heavy price.”
Tavis cringed at his memory of Snad’s translucent flesh. “I hope you’re saying there’s another way into the vale.”
“I have several ideas, yes,” Basil replied. “But before I can say which is correct, we must examine the signs and see how each one fits our theories.”
The runecaster motioned for his companions to follow and started to plow down the snowy slope toward the southern end of the rift. Tavis laid his heavy burden over his shoulder, then, using one hand to balance it there, drew his sword and followed. The descent was treacherous. Tavis was so cold and weary that he found it difficult to keep his footing on the snowy slope, especially with Sky Cleaver’s unwieldy bulk pulling him off-balance. By the time he caught up to Basil and Galgadayle, he was panting and sticking his sword into the snow like an alpenstock.
Orisino trudged up to join the trio. “Have you found the way in?” the chieftain asked. “Are we going after the titan?”
Tavis cast a warning glare at the verbeeg. “Not yet. I’ll call you when we’re ready-but stay away from me until then.”
“As you wish.” A sly grin crept across Orisino’s lips, and he bowed deeply, but did not back away. “I have no wish to trouble you-provided we make a bargain.”
“I’ve no interest in bartering with you,” Tavis sneered.
“Not even if it allows you to sleep?” Orisino countered. “I will promise not to take Sky Cleaver as long as you live.”
“Why would you make such a promise?” Galgadayle interposed himself between Tavis and the verbeeg.
“Obviously, because I don’t think Tavis will live very long,” the verbeeg retorted. “Even if he doesn’t destroy himself like Snad and all the other Ones, the titan will do it for him. All I ask is that he teach me the calling command, so that I may retrieve the axe after he’s dead.”
“Tavis, he won’t wait,” Basil warned. “You can’t trust him.”
“I wouldn’t make the bargain even if I could.” Tavis kept his eyes fixed on Orisino. “Whether I’m dead or alive, I certainly wouldn’t want a verbeeg to be the One Wielder.”
“I suppose that’s wise,” sighed Basil.
Orisino was not so accepting. “Have it as you will, fool!” Despite his anger, the verbeeg backed away as he spoke. “The axe shall be mine in the end, and it makes no difference to me if I have it sooner rather than later.”
Tavis pushed past Galgadayle, pressing the tip of his sword to Orisino’s throat. “My thanks for the warning,” the high scout hissed. “It’s a courtesy I wouldn’t have expected from you, and I shall repay it with a warning of my own: if you come within ten paces of me again, I shall take you at your word.”
Tavis stepped away, then turned and followed Basil toward Othea Tor. The mount towered more than two hundred feet above-hardly as high as the ice wall at the other end of the crevice, yet somehow more looming, more imposing. Even beneath the thick mantle of ice, it was not difficult to see why Basil insisted the inselberg was the lifeless body of the ancient Mother Queen. The crag resembled the figure of a fleshy woman kneeling deep in the snow, with her haunches resting on her heels. Her thighs were two snow-capped knolls that led up to the rounded slopes of her rolling stomach, her bosom was a pair of stony buttresses, and her arms were steep aretes that curved down sharply from her massive shoulders. An ice-draped boulder hung tipping out over the goddess’s chest, resembling a rather flat-faced head with deep, shadowy hollows for a mouth, nostrils, and eyes.
Basil stopped at the base of the tor, where a small, deep-shadowed crater lay at the southern end of the rift. Beyond the basin, a chain of smaller depressions-the titan’s snow-filled footprints-advanced from around the corner of Othea Tor. Despite the clear night and bright moon, it was difficult to tell much more about the site. Since Lanaxis had passed through, several storms had battered the area, blanketing the entire site beneath three feet of fresh snow. Tavis had been waiting for dawn’s light to make his careful inspection and learn the secret of his quarry’s escape.
Apparently, Basil saw no reason to wait. He gathered a handful of snow and packed it into a tight sphere, then removed an awl from his cloak and carefully traced one of his magic symbols on the surface. The ball’s surface turned icy and hard. In the heart of the orb, a shimmering glow sparked to life and rapidly brightened. The runecaster waited until the light had grown painfully brilliant, then tossed it into the sky above the crater. As the globe reached the top of its arc, he pointed a crooked finger at it and commanded, “Stay.”
The ball stopped in midflight and hung motionless, casting a dazzling silver radiance over the face of Othea Tor, the surrounding drumlins, and the crater at their feet. Tavis could now see that the small basin was about fifteen feet deep, with the indistinct outline of a buried firecircle in the center. Flanking the fire-scar were a pair of ten-foot terraces where the titan had placed his feet, and on the rim above was broad depression where his rump had rested.
“The titan stopped and made camp.” Tavis glanced back to make sure Orisino and the other verbeegs were keeping their distance, then sheathed his sword and climbed over the rim into the crater. “He was waiting.”
“That rules out one of my most troublesome theories.” Basil started down the slope after Tavis. “If Lanaxis stopped to wait here, his magic isn’t what opens the rift-or holds it closed.”
Galgadayle had to scramble to catch up. “What were they waiting for?”
“Lanaxis’s punishment was to live forever in the twilight of Othea’s shadow,” Basil explained. “So it seems probable that the rift opens at twilight. That would be the only time it could open without allowing the sun to pour in.”
Tavis reached the bottom of the crater and scraped the snow away from the fire-scar, then pulled a half-burned torch from beside the stump.