They continued to descend for an hour, perhaps two — time had no meaning in this narrow ice tunnel — and then Azhure heard SpikeFeather exclaim as he jumped down three or four steps.
"We're here!" he cried, and Azhure had to blink the tears out of her eyes.
She stepped onto an ice floor that was, unbelievably, smooth but not slippery. Above her the roof of the ice tunnel had soared into a beautiful opaque dome of pink ice, while before her the floor extended towards a waterway that wound through the ice cave from one wall to the other.
A brass tripod with a bell stood to one side.
SpikeFeather had a huge grin stretching from one ear to the other, and Azhure couldn't help the feeling that he felt as if he'd come home after too long away. She leaned forward and took Katie from him — the girl murmured sleepily as SpikeFeather transferred her into Azhure's arms, but otherwise did not stir — and the birdman turned to the two ice women standing before him.
"Thank you," he said, simply enough, but with such emotion that Azhure was stunned to see tears well in both the sisters' eyes.
"We long to see this Underworld of yours," said one of the sisters, "for we are weary of the hills and dales and turmoils of the Overworld."
"Don't you miss Faraday?" Azhure said, curious about what these women felt for the woman. After all, they'd spent a long time travelling as Faraday's devoted companions.
"Faraday was kind to us," said one of the sisters, "and she had a purpose which we were happy to aid her with. But..."
"But there are very few people we would wish to spend a forever with," the other finished. "Very few."
And, as one, both sisters switched their eyes from Azhure to SpikeFeather.
The birdman blushed to the roots of his hair, but managed a small and utterly exquisite bow to the two women.
They stared at him, and then their faces relaxed from their usual austerity into such utter beauty that Azhure gasped.
"The bell," one of the women finally and very gently prompted, and SpikeFeather grinned at his own distracted air.
"The bell," he agreed, and walking over to the tripod, struck it once.
It pealed three times, and within heartbeats a punt had floated out of the far tunnel where the waterway ran into the ice cave and glided to a halt by the group.
"I welcome you to my world," SpikeFeather said, and helped the three women into the barge.
Azhure sat down in the prow, settling Katie comfortably on her lap, and smiled as the two ice women sat — close! — on either side of SpikeFeather in the bow.
"Take us," SpikeFeather asked the waterways, "to a safe place close to the Maze, for that is the StarSon's purpose."
As the punt glided forward, each sister lifted a graceful hand and placed it on one of SpikeFeather's knees.
Azhure looked the birdman in the eye, arched an eyebrow, and grinned.
The barge glided through caverns that were empty, and caverns that were filled with the skeletons of cities and forests. In one cavern, Azhure stared about her in amazement at the city that crammed the spaces to either side of the waterway. Tenement buildings fourteen or fifteen levels high, halls that soared even higher, streets crammed with workshops and market stalls: all deserted, all covered with dust and neglect, all empty and haunting.
"What are they?" Azhure finally said. "Who lived here? What happened to them?"
To that SpikeFeather had no answer, but Katie stirred on Azhure's lap and sat up, rubbing her eyes as she looked about her.
"They are dead," she said, "and have always been. No-one has ever lived here."
"But —" Azhure began.
"They are nothing but memories," Katie said. "Memories of the world the Enemy once lived on.
Carried here by the ships, and built as memorials to the world that has been lost. Memories."
And the punt glided on.
Chapter 51
Sliding South
The brown horse and her black-clad rider flowed over the landscape like wind let loose from an age-long prison. The horse's legs stretched forth and ate up the landscape, yet so smooth was her motion that she scarcely seemed to move.
Axis leaned forward over Pretty Brown Sal's neck, urging her forward. He had not been this happy in decades.
Behind him — somewhere — came his war band of some three thousand riders and trees, and somewhere behind them followed the column, but for this moment in time Axis did not care if they ever caught him.
He was free, riding across this bleakened landscape, running south, riding this magical, magical mount.
Pretty Brown Sal leaned her head forth even more eagerly, and surged forward. She, too, loved to run (fly), and her slim legs ate up the landscape.
Even more than usual.
From the first day that Axis had led the column south he'd discovered something unusual about the way Sal moved. It had at first disorientated him, almost frightened him, but then he'd learned to accept it and to enjoy the freedoms it gave him. Pretty Brown Sal was, as the sparrow had said, a gift of flight.
Pretty Brown Sal's legs literally flew. For every stride she took, almost half a league of landscape slid by. That was the unnerving sensation, for the passing landscape became an inchoate blur as it slid past with no recognisable features. On the first day, once Axis had got over his initial surprise, he'd found himself halting Sal every six or seven strides just so that he could orientate himself again.
Then, as the day had worn on, he'd learned to trust the mare, and learned to flow with her as she coursed over the land.
