Yeseph lived in a quarter of the ruined city near the library. As they walked along together, Quentin looked upon the home he had come to love. His eyes, long ago accustomed to the tumbled structures that still met his gaze on every side, seemed not to notice the destruction, but instead saw it all the way it had been in the time of the mighty Ariga.

In his mind he saw stones lifted back into place one upon another; arches reconstructed with their colorful tiles, and beautifully carved doors thrown wide in welcome; courtyards once again abloom with flowering plants; streets echoing with laughter and song. He saw it all as he imagined it had been. Quentin always experienced the same magical sensation when he moved about the city. In the ten years he had lived in Dekra, he never lost the rapture it held for him, or the feeling that he belonged there, that Dekra was his home as was none other he would ever find.

“It will be once again,” said Toli as they moved along the quiet streets, over stones worn smooth with time.

“What will be?” asked Quentin absently.

“This city. It will be again what it once was: the way you see it in your head.”

“Do you think so?”

“Don’t you?”

“I believe that it will. I want to believe it. Though it seems sometimes that the work goes so slowly. There is so much to be done. We could use more hands.”

“But look how much has been accomplished since we came here. And every year our numbers grow. Whist Orren blesses our efforts with his own.”

It was true. The work of restoring the ancient city and populating it with people who shared the dream of rebuilding it to its former glory, of studying the ways of the Ariga and their god-that was going on at a fine pace. Much had been done in ten years’ time.

The work of a lifetime, however, still remained. And that was what pricked Quentin’s impatience.