It was, they said, carved up and carried back to the city in pieces, on greased sleds and low-riding ships, from the westward lands where the sun dies in winter. There was no stone with its strange green veins anywhere in Silhouine’s country; a dozen people could walk over it standing abreast.
She and Dulap make their way out of the nervous crowd around the remains.
“Were they making a point?” Silhouine asks.
“I don’t know,” says Dulap. “Do you feel pointed?”
“It was big and ugly. I never really liked it.”
Her bed is cold, and her kitten shivers.