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"What do you suppose this was?" he finally asked, laying the glass on the altar slab.
"An unusual sanctuary lamp, I think," Camber replied. "I've found some drawings which
I'm fairly certain are from this place. If so, this was part of a great lantern of eight sides,
done in silver wire and amber glass etched with equal-armed crosses." He indicated the
debris of glass and twisted metal with a sweep of one leather-clad arm. "But as to whether
it fell or was pulled down for some reason, I couldn't say. Judging by the size of that chain,
I should think it unlikely that the lamp fell by itself but if it was pulled down, why? Or,
was it blasted by some great energy? I don't think the altar was ever deconsecrated, by the
way."
"No?"
"See for yourself," Camber replied. "When I first laid my hands on the altar, I thought my
senses must be playing tricks on me. If I wasn't new to magic, I was at least new to
priesting, and I hadn't expected Well, see for yourself. Remember every other altar
you've ever touched; remember the one in the haven chapel, after Cinhil celebrated his last
Mass and then tell me what this one says to you. In fact, don't touch the table slab at all.
Lay your hands on the black stone underneath."
With a puzzled glance at his father, Joram wiped his hands against the leather of his
riding tunic and moved closer to the altar. He wet his lips in concentration as he held his
palms a fingerspan above the black undersurface for several seconds, then closed his eyes
and let his hands rest gently on the stone. After a long moment, he exhaled softly through
slightly pursed lips and raised his head a little.
"I see what you mean," he finally said, eyes a little unfocused as he continued trying to
pin down the sensations he was experiencing. "There's power here still far, far more than
I would expect, after so many years and more than can be explained even if the altar were
still in use, which it clearly is not. Or is it?" He looked up shrewdly. "What was done here?
You know, don't you?"
Camber smiled drolly, the expression somehow almost mischievous on Alister Cullen's
weathered face, and folded his arms across his chest.
"I have my suspicions, at least in part. Look closely at the altar, at how it's constructed.
Then try searching some of your earliest childhood memories. That's where I found the
connection."
Frowning, Joram stepped back a few paces and eyed the mass of stone from another
angle, his expression clearly proclaiming that he saw nothing unusual in its appearance.
From an obsidian base, perhaps a hand-span in thickness and extending that much
around the edges, side panels of alternating black and white squares rose to waist level,
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four squares to a face. The now-destroyed table of white marble, originally the same size as
the base, had once rested on four fluted columns as big around as a man's arm, two white
and two black, though one of the black ones was fallen now, its shaft snapped clean across
the center by the same impact which had smashed the marble mensa.
Camber watched Joram's perplexed gaze follow the lines of the stones, then shook his
head resignedly and reached into the front of his leather tunic and withdrew a small black
velvet bag. Untying the scarlet cords which bound its neck, he leaned down to blow dust
from a portion of the black understone of the altar. He tipped the bag gently above the
cleaned ebony surface and captured the polished cubes with his right hand as they
tumbled out, four white and four black. The cubes seemed to glow in the baleful light of
Camber's handfire, casting hardly any shadows. Camber's bishop's ring glittered in
brilliant contrast to the quieter shimmer of black and white cubes.
"Wards Major?" Joram whispered.
Nodding, Camber sorted the cubes with his fingertip, moving the four white ones until
they formed a solid square. The velvet bag he laid aside as he looked up steadily at his son.
"You remember the spell, Joram," he said softly. "It was the first one I ever taught you.
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