The avenue of dark rock columns ended at the edge of a huge sunken round hall sixty rods in width.
Qiao Ming stopped at the top of the seven circular steps that dropped into the basin. Here, the water that had accompanied them through the avenue of columns ceased entirely. The steps were dry, cut from polished white marble that gleamed with a soft, milkish soft glow under the high vault. Not a drop of moisture clung to the risers. The air was warm, smelling of sun-warmed flax, dried lotus seeds, and the sharp stone fragrance of newly ground ink.
At the center of the round hall sat the Genesis Well.
It was an eight-sided water tank twenty arm-lengths across, built from pale red stone blocks bound with flush joints of hammered gold. Rising from the mouth of the water tank was no iron bucket or wooden crank winch, but a hovering sphere of liquid light three spans in width. The sphere rotated slowly along its sky axis, shedding tiny, drifting flakes of golden fire that floated upward into the dark dome like embers rising from a smith’s hearth.
Yan Zhiqiu stopped at Qiao Ming’s shoulder, her breath coming in slow, measured exhalations. She set her lantern down upon the dry marble step. The animal fat flame looked dull and reddish beside the pure, crystal-clear radiance that poured from the well.
