The silence extends to considerable lengths if it waits on the Ascian; Fandaniel doesn't interrupt it. He merely turns all his focus on his self-appointed task. Khardeen has plenty of time to nap.

But dozing too long will find the altar completed upon waking, its untarnished black surface smooth and gleaming, the arching wings of some indistinct form curved over it, a delicate runner of purple flowered vines winding up and around it. No such plant grows anywhere else, but it's certainly alive.

And Fandaniel himself, seated directly in front of it, head resting against the surface, exhausted. Silence is a gift.