SpellMan nodded. "I hear the ghosts cry in the night. They cried last night, mourning their loss, and our loss, but they are hedged in by anger and hate and can do nothing." SpellMan dug under his rags and pulled out a piece of chalk. He swiped it across the surface of the Block, but the mark he made faded nearly as fast as he made it. "A magic that is not magic. A legacy of the makers, that none should defile the purity of their hate. It is their shame, and our shame."