The walk back through the avenue of ancient dark rock columns was marked by a heavy, contemplative stillness.
Qiao Ming walked with his measuring rule held across his palms, his bare soles stepping rhythmically into the shallow, receding sheet of clear water. The water had dropped another half-inch since their first passage. The granite flags beneath were already beginning to dry in patches, exposing the fine, crystal-clear sparkle of the quartz grains. Overhead, the drifting veils of internal cirrus clouds had parted slightly. It showed the dark, huge barrel vault where the keystones hung in silent, massive balance.
Beside him, Yan Zhiqiu carried the Broken Slate nestled in the crook of her left arm. In her right hand, the tin lantern swung in a short, measured arc, casting amber ripples across the black dark rock stone bases. Her eyes were fixed on the floor ahead, watching the way Qiao Ming’s calloused heels left drying, five-toed impressions upon the stone.
“You speak of dirt and open sky as if they were simple gifts, Caspian,” she said, her voice cutting through the hollow acoustics of the pillared hall. “You have spent twenty seasons with the lead line and the sounding wax. You have lived on dried mullet, sea-cabbage, and sweet water caught in marble gutters. You have forgotten what mortal history was like before the Great Flooding.”
