The concussion of the iron drills did not arrive as a single shock; it came as a rhythmic, grinding pulse that vibrated through every tooth in Tessa Dene’s jaw.
Down in the great circular gallery of the Hall of Witness, forty feet below the limestone foundations of the hill fort, dust fell from the carved ribs of the vaulted ceiling. It was not the white, clean lime of Noll Vey’s mortar; it was ancient, powdered shale, grey as lead shavings, drifting down through the yellow beam of Fen’s horn lantern.
CLANG-THUD.
CLANG-THUD.
“Tessa!” Noll shouted through the blue stone chip set into the brass clasp of her pouch. “Get your hands out of that lintel! The stone is tripping its release!”
The carved porphyry face above the double riverstone doors was groaning. The narrow vertical seam in its stone mouth, where Noll’s copied slate was still gripped by the ancient legal circuit, began to shudder. Tiny flakes of porphyry sheared from the lip-seams, ticking against Tessa’s knuckles like dropped needles.
Tessa did not panic, but her face had gone the color of skimmed milk. She dug the heels of her boots into the white mineral circle, flexed her wrists, and gave the bottom edge of the slate a sharp, downward jerk to break the magnetic suction.
