The Grand Meridian Bridge spanned six hundred yards across the swollen, silt-choked waters of the River Skell.
In normal times, it was the commercial spine of Val-Khorat. A massive, four-lane viaduct of blackened cast-iron frame stands, riveted heavy beams, and wooden heavy cart-tracks carrying beer wagons, coal carts, and textile drays between the heavy-duty north and the office south.
Today, it was a physical manifestation of impossibility.
The eastern half of the bridge remained iron and timber, lit by flickering gas lamps wrapped in soot-crusted glass lanterns. The western half had merged with the ancient Sun-Crown Triumph Way. Soaring arches of pure white Carrara marble, stone railings carved with charging solar lions, and towering bronze pylons supporting golden sun-discs that hummed with stored solar heat wave.
Where the two architectures collided down the center of the roadbed, a visible, shimmering seam wavered in the air like heat over a summer road.
Stepping twelve inches to the right brought the smell of sulfur smoke, coal dust, and cold autumn river fog. Stepping twelve inches to the left brought the dry, scorching scent of sun-baked stone, cedar resin, and blooming jasmine.
At the exact midpoint of the bridge, directly over the central river pier, an oval table made of pale ash-wood had been set across the seam.
