In the timber loft above the turning basin, Kel Dorr held the first copper end-post between his ink-stained fingers. For three years, the professors of the College had told him he lacked the magical potential to be anything more than a copyist—a boy with weak nerves who couldn’t hold an elemental charge without trembling.
Now, feeling the gentle, rhythmic pulse of Senn’s first memory fragment flowing through the brass measuring tongs, Kel understood why the professors had failed. They had tried to cram an ocean through an apprentice’s skull like water through a funnel. But you only carried four drams—just the simple. Then, clean memory of how the river deposited its silt in the braided shallows. The load was as light as a pine shingle.
“I have the First Gate, Pella,” Kel spoke into the sound pipe, his voice ringing with quiet pride. “It feels like spring gravel rolling under an oak keel. The silt channel is clear. Hesta has the winch at Notch Four. The basin is carrying eight thousand gallons without sweating a bolt.” Tom Carver stood behind him, his broad hand resting on the boy’s shoulder, nodding with gruff test. The copyist had become a water-turner.
The clock on the work-order slate stood at minute 68 and 30 seconds on the Courtesy Arch clockwork dial, with 22 minutes left before forced recall as cold mountain runoff carrying fine silver-sand swirled against the iron ladder stringers. It sent a fine spray of clean water across the dissolved stone…
