The shift from Entry hall 129 to Entry hall 130 was marked by a change in the voice of the stone.
As Qiao Ming waded through the flooded transverse hall, the water reaching just above his ankles, the dull, muffled slosh of the dark rock halls suddenly vanished. In its place arose a clear, metal chime that accompanied every step of his calloused bare feet. A bright, singing deep ring that rose from the underwater stone floor and traveled up the fluted piers like the ringing of a struck anvil.
He stopped at the threshold of the Phonolite Gate.
Before him rose an archway ninety-four arm-lengths tall, carved from a single huge monolith of dark, greenish-black phonolite. The sound ringing-stone quarried from the roots of the First Mountain before the ancient deluge. The stone was dressed to a soft, silky sheen, unmarred by flutings or bas-reliefs. Its surface shook with a nonstop, tiny tremor that caused the water lapping against its base to form fine, detailed sharp-angled ripples resembling the scales of a carp.
Qiao Ming leaned his weight upon his ash-wood sounding staff, his toes gripping the underwater doorstep.
He took a deep, steady breath of the cool air that blew through the huge opening.
