Ivara Quill pressed her bare right palm against the keystone of the massive dark rock archway that separated the Gate Ward hall from the central mountain core.
“Listen to the stone,” she commanded, not turning her head as Len and Bram approached from the transit stair.
Len stopped two paces back, his boots finding purchase on the cracked solid mountain stone. He closed his eyes and let his Road Sense filter out the wet splashing of the workers’ boots and the distant, rhythmic hiss of steam from the lower drains.
Beneath the floor, the deep bedrock of the Star tower ridge was shuddering. It wasn’t the violent, jarring shaking of an explosion or the sharp snap of an earthquake. It was a low-hum, twenty-cycle hum that rang in the hollow cavities of Len’s chest. Then it made the brass buttons on his coat tremble against his ribs.
Fine, powdery lime dust was sifting down from the ceiling vault in delicate white curtains. It drifted like cold ash through the green beam of the copper lanterns. Every five seconds, a sharp, crystal-clear tink echoed from the mortar joints as twelve years of tightly packed stone strain released its grip on the stone blocks.
