“Elian said when she had got her breath back. She had won the race, plunging ahead even of the Mad One, skidding to a halt at the edge of the western meadow.
It was high, and sloped higher, almost to the level of the pass; there the mountains opened. Man’s hand had touched it, or perhaps the hands of giants; as she drew closer she saw the vast stone gates open wide, seeming almost to be a part of the peak, save that no mountain wall boasted hinges of grey and rustless metal.
The cavern was both broad and deep, smooth-floored, with hearths built at intervals along its walls and its center; from the air’s movement she thought there would be vents far above. There was ample room here for a hundred men, indeed for ten times as many.
Hooves clattered behind her; voices woke echoes.
“Magnificent,” breathed Mirain, halting by her side, springing from the Mad One’s back. “Look, there were lamps here once, set in the stone. And a stair— there. I wonder where—”
“Sire!”
He turned.
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