Across the vast expanses of Entry halls 050 through 070, the Great Silt Plaza had been transformed into a city of flickering amber hearths.
Forty-eight thousand small campfires, fueled by dried black kelp briquettes and driftwood fished from the upper retention basins, burned in orderly rows between the towering fluted pillars. The acrid stench of damp wool and bilge sulfur that had hung over the refugee camp for weeks had been replaced by the rich, comforting aromas of communal cooking. Toasted kelp cakes, steamed wild tubers gathered from the drainage shelves, and pots of dried garfish simmered with sweet cooled water and sea-salt.
Three million mortals—weavers, farmers, sailors, scholars, and children from twenty drowned provinces—sat elbow to elbow upon the banded limestone stone floor.
Beside them, standing or seated upon their ancient sculpted stone stands, were hundreds of semi-clear stone giant statues and spirit artisans. The living and the awakened dead shared the wide stone terraces, their long shadows mingling across the grey silt floor in the warm firelight.
Qiao Ming walked through the central thoroughfare of Entry hall 058, his bare feet moving quietly over the warm stones.
His amber oilskin coat was unbuttoned at the neck, revealing the salt-whitened collar of his homespun tunic. At his side, Yan Zhiqiu walked with a light, measured stride, her fingers resting lightly on the cold jade rim of Empress Yan Huaisu’s Broken Slate.
