On the other side of the wall, spread out before him in the shadowy purple of the Ulnese night, lay the heart of the dead city. From this height he could see its plan, its prospect. There, ragged strips that once had been broad avenues radiated out from a central park. There, a spider-web of cross streets showed, linking the great arteries together.
And there, too, were the ruins Kyla called the Triad—the huge, three-winged structure that rose in the park's heart.
Somewhere beneath it lay the shrine of Xaymar, queen of storms, living goddess of all Ulna.
Awe gripped Haral. Silent, brooding, he stared across the fallen splendor.
Such splendor, so far fallen.
These others, who once had walked this mighty city in its day of greatness—they, too, had been strong. They, too, had felt the drive to power.
Now they lay in dust beneath his feet.
And here he sprawled, beset and wounded, driven by a dream on a madman's quest, mayhap to meet death himself in this silent city of the dead.
His weariness welled up once more; engulfed him.
How had Sark put it—"Why have you come so long a way to die?"