High above the cavern roof, in the flooded stone gallery where the Quiet Spring had once pooled, the dying circuit fought to draw the water back into time with the bell.
A heavy back-eddy surged up the cut channel, slamming against the improvised gate Chaska had rigged from her ruined cargo glider. The waxed sailcloth bellied out like a storm jib, and four inches of double-stitched linen seam near the upper grommet ripped with a sound like a pistol shot. Cold water jetted through the tear, striking Chaska squarely in the face.
She spat mineral water out of her mouth and planted both boots harder against the carved stone lip of the sluice. Her left arm was strapped tight against her ribs in a canvas sling where the falling basin beam had wrenched her shoulder joint out of true, leaving her only her right hand to hold the braided hemp guide rope. The wet line burned through her leather palm guard as the bell’s rhythm tugged at the sail.
“It’s trying to suck the slack back down the shaft!” Chaska shouted over the roar of the spillway.
On the slick shelf below her knees, Lilt flattened her wide, speckled sandray body directly against the stone buttress, using her broad right wing-fluke as a living baffle to turn the worst of the cross-current away from the tearing canvas. Lilt hissed once as icy spray hit her gill slits, her tail lashing the rock, but she did not yield an inch of…
