The northern wall of the Deep Gallery rose fifteen feet from the dry floor to the arched ceiling, a massive upright canvas of dense, dark gray hard black rock granite mottled with white veins of crystal-clear quartz.
Tomas raised his safety lamp. Then, the yellow flame lit up thousands of razor-sharp chisel marks cut cleanly into the surface of the rock.
They weren’t random scratches or desperate clawings of dying men. They were lines of disciplined, perfectly lined up block letters, each character two inches high, carved with the sharp-angled care of a master stonecutter who had spent forty years inscribing civic monuments on the high squares of the province.
Tomas stepped close to the rock face, his breath catching in his throat. He reached out his bare fingers, tracing the deep, clean incisions in the granite. The stone was cold, smooth as glass where the chisel had planed the hard black rock, and in the bottom of each letter lay a fine deposit of pale quartz dust that had rested undisturbed for sixteen winters.
“Mara,” Tomas called softly. “Bring your lamp.”
Mara Flint stepped up beside him. Her eyes fell upon the first line of carved text. Then, she stopped as if struck by an iron sledge. Her staff dropped from her hands, clattering against the dry stone floor. She buried her scarred face in her calloused hands. Her shoulders heaving with was silent, racking sobs.
