One mile into the mountain, the tunnel opened into a tiered arena of stone so huge that the yellow beams of their two lanterns were swallowed by the gloom.
Tomas stopped on the edge of a dropping limestone ledge, his breath hanging in the cold, still air like white wool. He hoisted the ash pack frame half an inch higher on his shoulders, adjusting the belly-band until the weight rested squarely across his hips. His left forearm was stiff, the calfskin brace cold against his skin. But the dull ache was manageable so long as he kept his fingers moving.
“Hold the light,” Nessa said.
She unbuckled the brass sound horn from her chest harness, unhooked the said clearlyaimed mounting tube. Then she fitted it securely to the rim of her right ear. From her instrument case, she withdrew the first sounding bell—a four-inch hemisphere of cast bell-bronze, turned on a lathe and tuned to three hundred and forty shakes per second.
She walked out onto the center of the limestone floor. She set the bell’s iron bracket against a clean, flat outcropping of pale limestone. Then she released the spring-loaded striker.
Ting.
The note was high, crystal-clear, and impossibly pure. It flew outward into the darkness, striking invisible walls and returning in a cascading, multi-layered wave of overlapping echoes that rolled through the vast chamber for nearly five seconds.
