With a dramatic sweep of his crimson sleeves, Master Davin Sorell struck his sapphire-tipped staff three times against the polished red stone paving of the belvedere. High above the gorge, the thirty massive bronze support posts of the Hollow Crown—each twenty feet high and wound with endless coils of heavy gold leaf—began to hum with an intense, bone-deep ring that set the teeth on edge. Then he made the fur collars of the aldermen shiver.
From the great intake water chute carved into the living rock of the cliff face, the river surge entered the academy pool. But instead of thundering over the granite cutwater into the lower gorge, the water seemed to hit an invisible, curved glass dome. With a sound like singing crystal, a huge dome of emerald and silver water rose forty-five feet into the air above the marble terrace, hanging suspended without a single timber prop or stone weir.
The water flowed upward in shimmering, semi-clear ribbons that curled around the bronze support posts, perfectly calm, perfectly smooth-flowing, and fully silent. Not a drop splashed onto the marble flat stone slabs. Not a wisp of spray dampened the velvet robes of the watching aldermen.
A chorus of gasps and polite, high-born applause broke out among the council benches. Master Davin Sorell stood up, his gloved hands clapping enthusiastically. ‘Superb!’ Malcor exclaimed. ‘Marvelous! True potion-made mastery! The Gray Rush tamed into an ornament for the civic garden!’
