How small they must have felt, huddled on the uppermost lip of that precipice, looking down through miles of catwalks and ladders to the base below our captured ship. How vast and dark is our universe, how arrayed against us—not indifferent as the ancient magi would have it—but hostile and cruel. And yet above them—above it all—unrolled like a carpet of diamonds black as ink, the silent stars whirled. Each placed there, if Dorayaica spoke truth, by the Quiet’s hand, to light our way in the Dark. Each had been painted with deliberate care, that each ray of light might fall as a sparrow, in
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Nicely put
