Neri had expected a reservoir.
The space beyond the cut in the hill was full of flowers.
They grew from hanging mats of black root, pale cups opening toward cracks in the roof. Long stems bent beneath beads of water. The air smelled of bruised mint and wet stone. Farther in, where daylight reached only as a greenish haze, the flowers became smaller and the roots thicker, woven into shelves above a clear pool.
Garn stopped at the entrance and waited for their surprise to finish.
“The upper gardeners call it the lost cistern,” he said. “They bring pots down when the dry wind comes.”
He pointed to a row of ordinary clay pots on a shelf. Someone had written planting dates on them in a round, careful hand. The place had a use before it had a place on Neri’s new plan.
Nyla crouched beside the entrance spillway. A thin run of cold water entered beneath the flower mats and vanished through a crack in the floor.
“Can we meet the people who tend it?” Neri asked.
