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And now the northerlies
rising fierce, equatorial,
the madman's wind,
the mistrals of prophecy,
guiding me into the bay.
Karthay tumbled by to the portside,
the city of harbors
where the sorcerer's tower
waits out the erosion of mountains,
as the northerlies lifted
my boat from the waters' embrace.
Into the Bay of Istar we rushed
like an unforeseen comet,
like a dire thing approaching
the webbed and festering streets,
the harbor's edge
where the wind sailed over me,
calming the vessel
at the feet of the mountainous piers:
where the wind sailed over me,
catching the web of the kingdom
as it blew where it wished,
and none could tell
where it came or went,
and it dove through the alleys,
vaulted the towers,
and lay waste the house
of the last Kingpriest.
The augurers took it
as one immutable sign,
to add to the bloodtears
of alder and vallenwood,
to the pillared eruptions
of campfire and forge,
to the flight of the gods
and the gods returning.
And the sound of my coming
was a warning sign.
Ten visions, O Istar, lie sleeping
in the great crystal dome
of your Kingpriest's Temple,
where the walls recede from the plumb line,
where foundations devolve
through corundum through quartz,
through limestone through clay,
to the half-fallen dreams of foundation
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