Slowly, the tall ebony and silver doors of the temple slid open, rolling soundlessly on bronze bearings. Adrian's mind reflexively murmured three citations and an epic poem on the building of the Maiden's Temple; all of them described the effect, and all of them inaccurately as far as he knew. The cult image came forth on brass rails set into the marble of the pronacs floor, gliding with oil-bath smoothness. It was hidden in a tall cedarwood and silver shrine, emblazoned with the full moon on all sides. At a touch the sides sank down to reveal a rock. Black, slagged and metallic-looking in spots with a trace of rust, a metorite and very ancient.
Adrian Gellert had long since been trained in the precepts of the Grove; that God was Number and Form, and all the lesser images merely avatars or imaginings of men unable to conceive of the One. God did not need to Do, only to Be — but he still felt a trace of numinous awe as he extended his hand. And of course a gentleman showed respect for the ancient cults.
"Scholar of the Grove—"
Adrian held up the scroll in his left hand.
"Scholar of the Blade—"
His brother Esmond raised his sheathed sword.
"Receive the blessing of the Goddess, your patron."
Adrian closed his eyes and let the hand rest on the sacred rock. It was cool, cooler than it should have been, and—
* * *
Where am I? Where am I?
He thought he screamed the words, but he had no lungs. No eyes, for surely even the darkest night at the bottom of the silver mines of Flowerhill was brighter than this. He was nothing but Fear, adrift in a world of midnight. Stroke. Heart attack.