On the morning of the twenty-fifth day, the Gray Rush looked as peaceful as a monastic carp pond.
From the wide marble stone railings of the Upper Walkway, wealthy guildmasters and patrician aldermen leaned out over the misty gorge, holding steaming clay pot mugs of spiced cider and admiring the view. The surface of the river, normally a raging, mud-choked torrent in late autumn, had smoothed into a broad, glassy sheet of dark olive-green water. The massive granite cutwaters of High Bridge didn’t throw spray into the air. The current parted around their stone noses with barely a ripple. It slid silently into the great arched intake portals of the Hollow Crown.
Two academy criers in scarlet tunics walked the terrace walkway, their brass handbells clanging brightly through the cold morning mist:
“Rejoice, citizens of Lathmere! By the divine stonework of Master Davin Sorell and the sacred geometries of the Hollow Crown, the autumn mountain flood has been brought into perfect ringing balance! Let all trade continue without hindrance or fear!”
Councilor Vesk stood by the stone railing, his fur-trimmed town cloak pulled tightly across his chest against the raw northern wind. Beside him, Pella Rook stood in her stained cart driver trousers and heavy wool coat, her hands shoved deep into her canvas tool pockets. Her brow tightened as she squinted against the grey daylight.
