Thirty paces ahead of them, the ceiling river sagged toward the cavern floor like the belly of a soaked canvas tent.
Instead of running twenty feet overhead, a broad, dark blister of water hung barely six feet above the pebble path, swaying and bulging under its own terrible weight. Muddy, iron-black water poured from its lowest curve in a thick, splashing curtain that had already flooded the middle of the dry road ankle-deep. Above the bulge, the living mat of mineral roots was torn and gaping; every few seconds another thin root-fiber parted with a wet twang like a snapping fiddle string, and the water belly dropped another half-inch.
On the gravel bank just short of the flood, four of the blind otters’ stone markers had been kicked flat into the mud.
Half a dozen pale, sightless otters were scrambling frantically up and down the nearest rock pillar, carrying mouthfuls of magnetic silt in their jaws and trying to plaster it into the widening tear overhead. Each time they packed a clump of mud against the stone, the sagging rush of water washed it straight out again and sent the otters tumbling down into the puddle with shrill, distressed chitters.
