I should have asked if I could weather out the night at the monastery, Amy thought bitterly as she shivered in the icy evening air. She had acted on a moment of pride when she stormed out of the Buddhist temple and there was no going back now. She shook a layer of snow off the thick, red mane of her hair and grimaced as a few of the snowflakes drifted down the back of her collar. She should pull the hood of her cloak up, she knew, but she felt like the damp wool suffocated her thoughts when it hung about her face. She could not stand hearing her heartbeat throb in her ears when she needed to think clearly. Besides, it felt good to walk about without trying to disguise herself as a boy. The mountains were empty of people. There was no one to notice a lone girl climbing amid the rocks and snow, leading a shaggy pack mule burdened with supplies to survive in the harsh environment.
In Greece, the disguise hadn't made much of a difference, Amy reflected. The event, nearly two months past, was now far enough removed from recent memory that she could think on it with amusement. Her father had always warned her that the world was no place for a girl. A boy would be overlooked many places where a girl would draw unwanted attention, and allowed the kind of freedom that a girl could never enjoy. In Greece, however, having the appearance of a pretty thirteen-year-old boy was no better than being a sixteen-year-old girl. She had been groped in dense crowds and unsuccessfully bribed with coppers and candy to climb into carriages or go to a man's room at an inn. She had been lost in a large Grecian city and frightened of the things that might happen to her. Once she decided to turn away from fear, however, her futile wanderings in Athens had transformed into success. She turned her position to an advantage and had secured the information she needed by pretending to be awed by a man's wealth and power—power Mr. Adros had meant to use to get her into bed with him. He spilled what he knew of the Soul Edge, claiming the Pope himself had bestowed upon him a shard of the sword that would one day make him the most powerful man in Greece. However, before his advances on "Andre" could progress much further, she was already skipping off to Rome. No man can best me, trick me or force me to do anything I do not want to do. The only man who has power over me is my father, Amy thought proudly as she pushed the memories of her adventures in Greece aside.
The weather might overpower her, she realized a moment later, if she did not find shelter soon. The snow fell more furiously now, causing Amy to retreat into the damp folds of her cloak's cowl. Shard, guide me to safety, she prayed as she clenched at the pouch hanging from her belt. Inside were two fragments of sharp metal. One was a fake Soul Edge shard, a mere trinket she had been duped into buying in Rome. The other was a fake relic, also purchased in Rome. The merchant had claimed that it was a fragment of the Archangel Michael's sword, which had splintered off when he drove Satan from Paradise. Amy had paid the inflated price, however, because she knew it to be a soul shard—a piece of the Soul Edge. She had kept the fake shard, as well, so that she might jam it in the eye of the other merchant on her return trip from the Himalayan Mountains.
"Soul shard, mon oeil," Amy cursed as she pressed herself against an outcropping of rock. The overhang above was barely enough to shelter her from the wind and snow, but it offered little protection for her mule. It would do for a short rest, but she must move on and find better shelter soon. She fueled herself with angry thoughts to ward off the fatigue that threatened to overcome her. That merchant will get what's coming to him. It's karma, or so the Buddhists around here say. Except that karma doesn't work the way the Buddhists claim it does. There can't be any universal balance, unless one can claim that the situation in Toulouse is a fair one. The rich stomp on the poor and that is the whole of the universal law. It is up to the poor to command karma and force those evil deeds back upon the rich. That's what my father sought to do with the Soul Edge.
The wind abruptly changed direction, blasting Amy directly in the face. Beyond the sheet of snow that slashed at her face, the world was a pure white void. This isn't good. I won't be able to find another shelter in a whiteout. Pulling her hood completely around her face, she pressed her cheek against the chill rock of her narrow shelter and wrapped her arms around Souris, the mule, to lend warmth to them both. It was not much of a way to weather out a blizzard, but it was better than stumbling around blind in the storm. I hate stumbling around. I set out with a clear idea of where I thought the Soul Edge was located, but I've only gotten lost since then. Now here I am, the closest to the legendary sword than any person has ever been since Siegfried, the man who became Nightmare. And all I know now is that it's lying in a gulch somewhere in the highest mountains in the world. How can I be so close, yet so far at the same time? The angry thoughts heated her cheeks and made her blood race, but were not enough to fend off the fatigue that came dangerously close to lulling her to sleep. It was a sleep from which she would most likely never awaken; Amy fought it with tooth and nail. Damn you, Amy! If you fall asleep, you'll die. If you die, then Father will have your death to grieve as well as the loss of the Soul Edge. You wouldn't hurt Father like that, would you? she demanded of herself, reminding herself of the reason for her quest. She punished herself with harsher and harsher words, berating herself in order to keep her energy focused on her anger. Anger is fire. Fire will keep you warm. Warmth will keep you alive….
Amy's face slid down the rough surface of the rock as her body went limp. She felt like she was slowly sinking through a body of murky water. A fire raged on the surface, but its flames could not penetrate the cold veil of the water. She tried to reach for the fire, but her body was completely numb. Her limbs were useless weights, dragging her down to the bottom of the icy sea. Am I dying? I'm so cold…. Her thoughts moved as slowly as glaciers creeping down a mountain. I can't die. I can't. I'm cold. Cold. Amy's thick cloak, lined with yak hair, and her layers of wool clothing seemed only to encumber her limited movement and speed her into darker depths of the sea. The thought of removing them occurred to her. As soon as this thought registered in her sluggish brain, she found herself watching her fur-lined boots tumble away from her in the murky water. Then the voluminous folds of her cloak as well; it waved like a tangle of seaweed as it floated away from her. Her crimson-dyed, wool breeches would make a fine scarf for a mermaid, she noted dimly as they, too, disappeared into the chilly murk. And she'd never cared for that itchy shirt, anyway. Gone, all gone. She did not feel warmer, but she felt as if a great weight had been lifted from her chest. She had not realized that she had stopped breathing until her lungs began working again, letting a steady stream of small bubbles into the water around her. They burst as they reached the surface. Then Amy, too, was pushing through the surface of the water. She had not realized that it had been so close the entire time; she thought she had been sinking steadily away from it. She coughed and choked as she emerged into a world that was bright and warm.
"Where am I?"
