The shift occurred at the thirty-second pace beyond the bronze water gate. It was no physical barrier. Rather, it was a sudden, sickening inversion of balance that made the stomach drop and the inner ear spin like an unbalanced flywheel. The lead line-weight hanging at Qiao Ming’s hip swung out at an angle of twenty degrees, straining against its braided cord as if pulled by an invisible mountain rising to the west.
Qiao Ming stopped instantly, sinking his weight into his heels, his bare toes curling inward to grip the rough mortar of the floor seam. He extended his left arm, catching Yan Zhiqiu by her shoulder before her forward driving force could carry her into the zone of shear.
“Halt,” he commanded softly. “Look up.”
Yan Zhiqiu looked up, and the breath went out of her in a sharp, silent gasp.
Above them, suspended from the soaring vaulted ceiling of Entry hall 468, was an entire grand row of stone pillars that existed in complete defiance of terrestrial shape. Seventy life-sized statues carved from semi-clear white alabaster sat upon stone stools, their feet resting flat against the overhead ceiling vaults as if the stone roof were their floor. They were arranged in two parallel rows of thirty-five, facing each other across an inverted central avenue of dressed green jasper.
