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"Patience," the priest said, softly. "First you must be
prepared for the miracle."
Erasmoth took my arm and escorted me in the
forefront. The priestess Kassandry raised her hands and
uttered a sharp cry. The acolytes fell into rank behind us.
The group led me higher into the hills of Halcyon.
We made an odd procession - the priest and myself
marching in the vanguard, followed by the crimson-gowned
priestess immediately behind and the silent file of masked
apprentices, making our slow and deliberate way in a
winding column up the twisting trail.
This lofty solitude seemed an appropriate place for the
worship of gods. Blankets of mist shrouded the valleys,
draping the gray-green domes of the hilltops like fine linen.
Above, soft crests of heather and grass rose in pleasant
majesty, without the craggy menace of higher mountains
such as the Khalkists.
We came upon a small valley, where stood a cluster of
neat, thatch-roofed houses, whitewashed and surrounded by
bright flower gardens. A crystal pool of water, formed by
the damming of a narrow stream, looked cool and inviting
after the exertion of the march.
There!" proclaimed the priest, seizing my arm and
gesturing with a finger toward the upper distance.
My eyes swept across the vast shoulder of the nearest
hill, following the rising ground until I saw a tall white arch.
A long white wall expanded out from either side of the arch.
Several tall spires dotted the length of the barrier.
"What is it?" I asked
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