The sound of the bronze keys turning in the lock-housings of Entry hall 023 was like the heavy chiming of temple bells sunk under deep-water lengths of oil.
For ten thousand seasons, these twelve massive portals—each carved from a single slab of green veined stone four paces thick—had stood sealed against the lower drift. Their massive hinges, cast from sea-hardened bell bronze, had been packed with sheep fat and beeswax that had crystal-hardened into semi-clear, amber-scented resin. Under the slow, steady leverage of Qiao Ming’s six-foot hardwood sounding bar, the ancient tumblers released their catches one by one with deep, underground thuds that shook through the foundation flags.
As the central leaf swung outward on its counterbalanced bronze pivots, a gust of warm, dry air poured out across the threshold. It smelled of sun-dried limestone, ancient cedar shavings. The sweet, stone neutrality of air that had rested untouched in stone lungs since the drowning of the old world.
Behind Qiao Ming, three hundred thousand refugees stood in awed stillness upon the climbing ramps of the lower galleries. Their oil lanterns and rush torches cast long, golden fingers of light across the damp green threshold, lighting up the vast emptiness that lay beyond.
