A deep, respectful silence settled over Entry hall 650—the deep-water stillness of a sunken temple resting thousands of deep-water lengths beneath the surface of the world.
The howling sulfur gale had dropped to a quiet, fragrant breeze that carried the scent of crushed juniper and ancient cedar resins. The scalding amber waterfalls that had threatened to engulf the altar were now flowing in gentle, golden rivulets. It cooled into semi-clear beads of crystal-clear gemstone along the mossy furrows of the bark.
Across the vast three-league floor of the round hall, the boiling sulfur pools settled into glassy mirrors that reflected the chartreuse glow of the hanging amber stalactites. The sound null of the dome held the great chamber in total, contemplative hush. There, the only movement was the slow, rhythmic curling of fragrant steam rising toward the stone-hard ceiling.
Qiao Ming and Yan Zhiqiu remained kneeling upon the green chlorite altar, their bodies motionless, their breathing timed together with the sixty-hertz vegetative hum that now rang through the heartwood with peaceful, uninterrupted grandeur.
Their moss mantles hung loose around their shoulders, glistening with fine droplets of cooled resin-mist. The terrible tiredness of their upright journey seemed to evaporate from their limbs, soothed by the huge, healing medicine aura streaming from the ancient wood.
