"How can you ignore something that big?" he retorted. "I wonder if it knows how ostentatious—and even vulgar—it is."

"You're being irrational," she said. "The mountain doesn't care how we feel about it. It's going to be there long after we're all gone." She paused. "Is that what bothers you, Kheldar? Coming across something permanent in the middle of a transient life?"

"The stars are permanent," he pointed out, "So's dirt, for that matter, but they don't intrude the way that beast does." He looked at Zakath. "Has anybody ever climbed to the top of it?" he asked.

"Why would anybody want to?"

"To beat it. To reduce it." Silk laughed. "That's even more irrational, isn't it?"

Zakath, however, was looking speculatively at the looming presence that filled the southern sky. "I don't know, Kheldar," he said. "I've never considered the possibility of fighting a mountain before. It's easy to beat men. To beat a mountain, though—now that's something else.''

"Would it care?" Eriond asked. The young man so seldom spoke that he seemed at times to be as mute as Toth. He had of late, however, seemed even more withdrawn. "The mountain might even welcome you." He smiled gently. "I'd imagine it gets lonesome. It could even want to share what it sees with anyone brave enough to go up there and look."

Zakath and Silk exchanged a long, almost hungry look. "You'd need ropes," Silk said in a neutral sort of tone.

"And probably certain kinds of tools, as well," Zakath added. "Things that would dig into the ice and hold you while you climbed up higher.''

"Durnik could figure those out for us."

"Will you two stop that?'' Polgara said tartly. "We have other things to think about right now."

"Just speculation, Polgara," Silk said lightly. "This business of ours won't last forever, and when it's over—well, who knows?"

They were all subtly changed by the mountain. Speech seemed less and less necessary, and they all thought long thoughts, which, during quiet times around the campfire at night, they tried to share with each other. It became somehow a time of cleansing and healing, and they all grew closer together as they approached that solitary immensity.

One night Garion awoke with a light as bright as day in his eyes. He slipped out from under the blankets and turned back the flap of the tent. A full moon had arisen, and it filled the world with a pale luminescence. The mountain stood stark and white against the starry blackness of the night sky, glowing with a cool incandescence that seemed almost alive.

A movement caught his eye. Aunt Pol emerged from the tent she shared with Durnik. She wore a white robe that seemed almost a reflection of the moon-washed mountain. She stood for a moment in silent contemplation, then turned slightly. "Durnik," she murmured softly, "come and look."