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. It was so
wide, its perimeter was lost in shadow, so high its ceiling was
obscured in shadow. No pillars supported it. No lights lit it. Yet
light there was, though none could name its source. It was a pale
light, white-not yellow. Cold and cheerless, it gave no warmth.
Though he could see no one in the chamber, though he could
hear no sound disturb the heavy silence that seemed centuries old,
Caramon knew he was not alone. He could feel the eyes watching
him as they had watched him long ago, and so he stood stolidly,
waiting patiently until they deemed it time to proceed.
He guessed what they were doing and he smiled, but only
inwardly. To those watching eyes, the big man's face remained
smooth, impassive. They would see no weakness in him, no
sorrow, no bitter regret. Though memory was reaching out to him,
its hand was warm, its touch gentle. He was at peace with himself,
he had been for twenty-five years.
As if reading his thoughts-which, Caramon supposed, they
might well have been-those present in the vast chamber suddenly
revealed themselves. It was not that the light grew brighter, or a
mist lifted, or the darkness parted, for none of that happened. Cara-
mon felt more as though he were the one who had suddenly
entered, though HE had been standing there upwards of a quarter
hour. The two robed figures that appeared before him were a part
of this place just like the white, magical light, the ages-old silence
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