As the last caravan of the day lumbered into the maw of the Barbican Cave, the great bronze doors swung closed, shutting out the darkening sky and rising stars. The iron brace slammed home. A red and gold clad honor guard fell into step alongside the painted wooden wagons as the caravan passed through the next gate. They marched in file along with the murder holes in the corridor until the whole ensemble reached the final gate and broke through into the Grand Cave. The bare rock walls were lined with torches, in between which were strung chains dripping with crystals, and lanterns hung by the doorway of every house and shop. Crowning the tiers of buildings, rose the Palace, its tall windows gleaming like cut jewels in the torchlight, its white stone façade like polished silver. At the base of the central stair leading up to it, the caravan stopped, and the doors of the wagons opened wide. The men who descended from the caravan mounted the stairway until they reached the central landing, where they turned to face down, to the assembled crowd, and stood, flanked by fountains. The honor guard lined up with sword points resting on the paving stones and hilts held out in stiff ceremony. Two more guards stood in deep blue tunics and breeches with the rings in their beards sparkling.

In the center of the line stood a figure clad in a white robe, with red beard cropped short and shoulder-length hair bound by two longer braids that hugged his head and ran to meet then divide again. Mihrol held the crystal topped staff in his right hand and raised his left in front of him. As he closed his eyes in concentration, the crystal globe began to swirl with color, tendrils of which then climbed his arm. He opened his eyes and chanted, gesturing slowly and ritually, stoking the torch flames. Green and blue arcs shot through the air from his extended fingers, showering the strings of crystals and making them shine from within. He set more lights in the roof of the cave to glisten above like stars. The arcs of power glistened and swirled, dancing above the heads of the crowd, weaving a complicated and beautiful web in the air. Mihrol put on a wonderful show, more spectacular than any fireworks that might be seen in Iotron, which few of these people had ever seeen. He lit the Grand Cave brighter than it had ever been lit, filling it with the colors of th sunrise and sunset. At first the Railie people stared in awe. When they began to clap and cheer, he let the colored webs of power drop, while the lights he had set continued to shine, illuminating the night's revels.

The Grand Cave was arrayed in festival attire; swaths of banners hung from windows and across streets, and flames of fire-eaters sparkeled like jewels in the city's adornment. Jugglers, acrobats, and street musicians performed on every coner, while bakers haulked pasteries and candies and brewers sold beer, mead, and liquor. With the show over, the delegation at the palace steps ignored, Mihrol turned to Strigil on his right, sighing, "Do these people really know the meaning of all this, or is it just a lucky day that the Thane called for a festival?"

"Do you seriously think they have ever experienced anything like what you just did in their lives? These people are not stupid. They know what this means. They have spent all their lives dreaming of Cor Melen, hoping they would see it, that their generation would be the one to regain it. They were raised to believe their home is there, not here. We have waited hundreds of years for this. How could they not know?"

"How can you love a place you've never been? Where not even your great-grand-parents have been?"

"You wizards, do you not love Pietrona, or at least the great towers, or the clear fountains of your homeland? Or are you just bitter? Bitter at the betrayl, bitter that you could be defeated? And your red-headed fishermen, what do they think? We are not like that. Cor Melen is not barren like the flatlands. It's glories still stand. We came west to accompany our neighbors, when all the world trudged toward Heliopolis, the last vestige of civilization. It's different now; people live beyond the Sword Mountains. We don't want to be here anymore. We are simply stuck here. For the moment."

"Your people did not come here simply to trade with tose who moved west. They were forced, same as the rest of us. They were attacked, same as the rest of us. There are some things not even Railies can defend against."

"Or wizards."