The Larion Senators

JONES BEACH STATE PARK

Steven and Gilmour walked south along the Meadowbrook Parkway, a ten-mile stretch of highway connecting Jones Beach and civilisation. With their backs to Long Island, they could have been on any desolate road in South Dakota or eastern Montana, not twenty minutes from the most densely populated region of the country. Jones Beach in winter was windswept, barren and cold. Only the heartiest of joggers, cyclists and fishermen, and the occasional bundled-up nature photographer, ventured into the park before spring officially arrived in April.

Thinking ahead, Hannah and Jennifer Sorenson had provided hats, gloves and scarves, and a tiny pink snowsuit for Milla, complete with a matching bobble-hat and a pair of pink mittens. The trunk was packed with blankets and a small kerosene heater. They all believed Mark would send a force across the Fold – even if it turned out to be just a small exploratory group first of all – but though they were sure about the location, no one had any idea when it would happen.

The others were crammed inside Jennifer’s car, trying to keep warm. Garec insisted on sitting in the front; he was like a child, wanting to press all the buttons, twist the knobs and play with the electric door locks. He marvelled at the automobile, insisting that Jennifer drive back and forth along Ocean Parkway until he understood the basics of steering and shifting gears. He had shouted for her to stop when the car reached fifty miles an hour, and was a little embarrassed when Hannah told him fifty was comparatively slow. Now, with Milla in his lap, the two fiddled with the vents and listened to music, wondering where the smokeless fires were burning and how the car managed to generate such heat on such a frigid day.

When the first jet took off from Kennedy, banked over Jamaica Bay and whined noisily towards Boston, Garec burst from the car, bow at the ready. ‘Get down, you two! Get down!’ he shouted.

‘What is it?’ Steven turned on his heel, anxiously searching the dunes.

‘I don’t know what it is!’ He aimed at the jet, a mile up now and climbing.

‘Whoa, whoa, Garec.’ Steven took him by the wrist. ‘Don’t waste your arrows, my friend. It’s perfectly safe. We travel long distances in those.’

‘Up there?’

‘Up there.’

Garec said, ‘I want to go home. I’ve seen enough.’

Gilmour smiled. ‘You haven’t seen anything yet.’

‘I’m not sure I’m feeling well,’ he said. ‘And what’s this language we’re all speaking all of a sudden? It feels funny on my tongue.’

‘It’s called English, and it feels funny on all our tongues. Don’t fight it.’ Steven took the arrow. ‘We have to get rid of these, though.’ He helped Garec out of his quivers and took the Ronan’s bow. ‘We might be off the beaten path, but if a park ranger happens to patrol out here, you’ll be in handcuffs before lunch. Let’s put these away.’

‘I don’t like being here without my bow,’ Garec said to Gilmour, trying to hide the fear that was almost paralysing him now.

‘We’ll keep it close by,’ Gilmour promised as he ushered him back to the car.

They drove together to the Central Mall, where a stone tower in the middle of a roundabout overlooked closed concession stands, a restaurant and public toilets. A wooden boardwalk flanked the beach for about a mile in either direction, with concrete steps leading down to the sand at regular intervals. Behind the boardwalk, vacant car parks were interspersed with rolling dunes.

Further along the beach, the outdoor amphitheatre was silent, awaiting another summer of concerts and night-time shows.

‘Come on,’ Steven said, ‘I’ll show you the beach. Mark always says you can barely find a place to sit out here when the weather’s nice.’

‘But not today,’ Hannah shivered. ‘We have the whole place to ourselves.’

‘For now,’ Alen muttered, smoothing gloves over stiff fingers. ‘Who knows how many will show up later?’

The beach stretched ten miles east from Point Lookout, across the bay from Rockaway. The Central Mall was about five miles from the point, near the centre of the park. An elderly beachcomber, looking almost swamped in a big padded parka, wandered around.

‘Maybe she’s looking for seashells,’ Steven said, and waved from the bathhouse, but she ignored him. ‘Right,’ he said to himself, ‘now, I forgot where we were.’

Jennifer asked, ‘How will we know if this is the right place, or even the right day?’

‘Good question,’ Garec said, ‘and this is a long beach, Steven, so how can we be sure Mark will choose this spot?’

‘A couple of reasons,’ Steven said, ticking them off on his gloved fingers. ‘First, Mark always talked about being a kid out here, playing with his sister, doing the regular beach stuff with his family, but every time he described those outings, he always talked about his father taking him up the beach to buy ice cream. Now, I know that isn’t much to go on, but I can’t see any other place out here for a kid to get ice cream. So I’m guessing the Jenkins family used to stake out their family plot somewhere nearby.’

‘Sure,’ Jennifer said, ‘that makes sense: two kids, restrooms right up the beach, why not? How else will you know?’

Steven replied, ‘We’ll know when, because I think the magic will tell us when. It always has so far, and I’ve no reason to think it’ll fail now. So I think aspects of this place will begin to fade slightly, to become blurry around the edges, and then I’ll know for sure.’

‘Because that’s what’s happened before,’ Jennifer said.

‘Well, yes and no,’ Steven said, ‘and I’m sorry to be so vague, but here, today, I’m betting on yes.’

‘Fingers crossed,’ Hannah said.

‘However,’ Steven went on, ‘I’d prefer it if you and Hannah left us now. Go back to the island and find a room, and assuming we’re all right tonight, I’ll call you and you can come and get us. There’s no reason for you two to stay.’

Jennifer nodded. ‘I agree,’ she said, clearly happy to get away. ‘I mean, I would stay if I thought we could do anything, but you’re talking about things I don’t even begin to understand. And you don’t need Hannah for this bit, do you?’

‘That’s right,’ Alen said, ‘the rest of us may be called upon today, but you two have nothing to gain by being out here. You should go.’

Hannah, seeing a fight coming, just shook her head.

‘But Hannah-’ Jennifer began.

‘No, Mom,’ Hannah explained. ‘I want to be here – I need to be here. Who knows what might happen? Everything could be lost just because we weren’t here-’

‘What can we do? Tell me honestly, and I’ll stay with you.’ Jennifer looked to Steven for support.

‘I don’t know,’ Hannah said. ‘I honestly don’t – but that’s why I think we need to stay. And come to think of it, how on earth will you manage to keep warm out here all day? You’ll freeze to death in this wind. You need the car.’

‘We’ll be fine,’ Steven said. ‘We can break the lock on the restaurant, or that concession stand. Once we’re out of the wind, it’ll be warm enough – we’ve got the kerosene heater, or we can build a fire.’

‘And what if Mark doesn’t arrive today?’

‘We’ll stay until he does.’ Steven was adamant. ‘There’s got to be a payphone somewhere around here, so if it looks like we’re going to be camped out here for a few days, I’ll call your mother’s cell phone and you can ferry out food and more blankets, but we’re staying. This is the place; I’m sure of it.’

Hannah sighed. ‘All right,’ she said, ‘but take these, in case you get bored later.’ She took some sheets of folded paper from her back pocket and handed them to him. ‘I’ll explain it all tonight.’

‘What’s this?’ Steven asked.

‘A little surprise for you,’ Hannah said. ‘I had my suspicions when I first met Gilmour and Garec. This clinches it.’

Confused, Steven tucked the pages into his jacket and took Hannah in his arms and whispered, ‘Please, go now. I just want you safe. Soon this’ll all be a distant memory.’

‘Promise?’ Hannah said.

‘I do.’

‘Well, when it is, I want to go someplace and get naked.’

‘As long as it isn’t in Eldarn, I’m right there with you.’

As she kissed him, Steven felt the tension leave his shoulders; his legs threatened to buckle. The wind off the water brushed the hairs on the back of his neck and he would have been content to stand there all morning, feeling her body pressing up against his.

Garec shattered the moment when he asked suddenly, ‘Where’s Milla?’

Alen said, ‘She’s right-’

‘Shit!’ Jennifer pushed past the others on the boardwalk and ran to a little pile of clothes: the pink snowsuit topped with the little girl’s matching hat and mittens. ‘Milla!’ she screamed, panicked.

‘There she is.’ Garec pointed down the beach at the distant figure making for the water.

‘Holy Christ,’ Hannah said, running for the steps, but Alen was already ahead of her, bounding wildly across the sand. Steven, Gilmour and Garec followed.

Steven cast off his own jacket as Milla dived into the surf.

The gull was still cawing when Mark woke, the side of his face dusted with a layer of white sand. He blinked his eyes into focus and searched as far as he could see without moving. At the edge of his peripheral vision, the ancient stone tripod supporting the Larion spell table stood unattended. The hilltop was quiet.

Nearby, Mark spotted the branch he had used to kill himself – his former self. It was within reach and, with a fluid motion, he rolled over until he could reach it, grabbed it and rose to a wary crouch. He checked out the side of the dune he had been unable to see, but still there was nothing.

‘Where are you, shithead?’ he whispered, following the slope into the marsh and around the confused tangle of banyan roots where he had hidden from the coral snake.

He was alone.

Standing over the table, Mark hacked impotently at it with the branch until, sweating and frustrated, he gave up and tossed the battered limb back into the swamp. Then he tried to tip the table over, hoping to stand it upright and roll it downhill. He thought perhaps it would crash through the brush and sink in the enchanted pool, where it would be guarded for ever by tumour-ridden tadpoles and sentient diamond-headed serpents. But it was too heavy; Mark couldn’t get it to budge.

He leaned on the table edge and considered his options. He couldn’t stand by while evil used the table to open the Fold and bring about the end of Eldarn, nor could he defeat himself. Lessek’s key was missing, and it would take days to excavate enough of the hillside to shove the granite artefact into the swamp – and even then, there was no guarantee it would shatter, or sink forever out of sight. He would have to go back to the marsh, maybe use one of the banyan roots to dig up and then drag loads of slick mud and rotting leaves, enough to grease the hillside, making the slope slippery ‘Mark?’ a voice called from somewhere behind him.

He leaped to one side and crouched down, expecting another fight, then he heard the strange voice again.

‘Mark, is that you?’ The voice was gentle, non-threatening. It appeared to be coming from the opposite side of the dune, the side he had forgotten, the side leading out to the azure sky and freedom. ‘Mark? Mark Jenkins?’

‘Who’s there?’ he asked softly, inching his way across the hilltop. ‘Who is that?’ When he stood, Mark could see down the other side, to the beach.

His father, young and lean, wearing his old bathing suit and carrying a beer can, was looking up at him.

‘Dad?’ Mark slipped in the loose sand and tumbled to the base of the hill. Embarrassed, he regained his feet and shook the sand off himself. ‘Dad?’

‘Mark? Where have you been?’ His father leaned over to help him up. ‘Your mother and I have been looking for you for an hour. She’s convinced you drowned out there somewhere.’

‘What?’ Confused, Mark hugged his father like he had as a five-year-old, throwing his arms around the older man and clinging as if it was the last time they would ever see one another.

‘Whoa, whoa, sport,’ Arlen Jenkins said as he hugged him back, ‘you’ve only been missing a little while, but your mom is upset. You know how she always tells you not to wander off. There’s too many people out here, Mark, too many strangers.’

‘Too many-’ Mark looked beyond the dune. Thousands of people were on the beach. Hundreds of beach umbrellas dotted the strand, a flowing garden of vibrant flowers. The North Atlantic heaved and rolled, its waves crashing in the throaty roar Mark had heard before falling asleep. ‘Jesus, it’s Jones Beach,’ he whispered.

‘Of course it’s Jones Beach, crazy person. Where else would we be today? You didn’t hit your head or anything, did you, son?’

‘Not here,’ Mark stammered, ‘it can’t… no, this can’t be it.’

‘You all right? You need some water or something?’ His father took him around the shoulders. The feeling was reminiscent of every comforting thing he had ever known in his life.

‘Wait, Dad.’ Mark looked between the sand dune and his father. ‘I need your help with something. Come here, it’s not far. Come with me, quickly.’

‘All right, but it’ll be both our butts if we miss lunch.’ Arlen seemed simultaneously amused and concerned at his son’s antics, but he followed Mark up the dune regardless.

‘It’s just up here, Dad,’ Mark said. ‘We need to shove this stone-’

The table was gone.

Out of breath, Arlen pulled himself up beside his son. ‘What is it, sport? Pirates? Cowboys? Not the New York Yankees!’

‘No, Dad, it’s- It’s nothing, sorry.’ He checked the sandy hilltop, then crossed to the marsh side and looked down into the tangle of brush and rotting foliage. Maybe I pushed it hard enough, he thought. Maybe it was sliding a bit and I didn’t notice.

But the marsh had disappeared as well, no humid maw of foetid organic decay, no swamp filled with coral snakes, banyan trees, or mutant tadpoles, just the scrub pine and scraggly brush that lined the boardwalks of Jones Beach State Park.

He was home.

Behind the sea of beach umbrellas, blankets, sunbathers and children digging in the sand with a rainbow array of plastic toys, the roads were crowded with big sedans and slat-sided station wagons. It was the height of summer in New York. Beyond the stone tower in the middle of the roundabout several big trucks turned in to the amphitheatre. There was a concert tonight.

For a few seconds everything was frozen in a sun-baked tableau. Only the breeze moved, brushing sand from his clothes and hair. Beside him, his father was young and strong, a fit, healthy thirty-year-old, the Arlen Jenkins Mark knew only from glimpses of black-and-white memories. Now, with his father’s arm around him and the sea breeze caressing his tired limbs, Mark felt the tension, the anxieties and fears, the anger and especially the hopelessness of the past several months begin, slowly, to seep away. He started searching the beach in front of the Central Mall, looking for his family’s yellow umbrella. It was eight feet across, difficult to miss, even on a crowded beach. His mother would be there, and his sister, and, presumably, a four- or five-year-old version of himself, another Long Island kid digging for China.

‘Can we go back?’ he asked himself.

‘Of course,’ his father answered, ‘getting down off this thing’s going to be a lot easier than climbing up. But you go first.’ He ushered Mark towards the windward side of the dune. ‘I think your mom’s got tuna in the cooler. I do love a tuna sandwich with a cold beer.’

‘I know,’ Mark said, checking once more for the missing table. It should have been there; it couldn’t have disappeared in the two minutes that he was away. Something was wrong, but being home had eased his sense of foreboding until there was just a faint trace of discomfort.

‘Come on, Mark,’ his father said, sliding through the sand, heels first, his beer can in one hand, ‘and after lunch, we’ll go and find some ice cream.’

Mark followed, entranced by the gentle grip of deja vu. As he passed, people talked, radios clamoured, children shrieked, he even heard a dog barking; the summer fugue clouded Mark’s senses and dragged him further from his marsh prison and the Larion spell table.

Gerrold Peterson, his high-school German teacher, sat in a collapsible nylon-web chair reading a dog-eared Gunter Grass novel. He looked old, even here, in whatever year this was: 1981 or 1982. He wore the same buttoned-down short-sleeved shirt he had worn every Friday of every week of every year that Mark had attended Massapequa Heights High School. He lifted his pointed sunscreen-smeared snout far enough over the edge of his book to frown and say, ‘Wie ist die Suppe heute, Herr Jenkins?’

Mark didn’t answer. Hurrying to keep up with his father, he caught sight of Jody Calloway, looking as she had when Mark had known her in high school. Jody, trapped in the taut young body of a fifteen-year-old, was in a bikini and playing volleyball with some friends. Mark thought he would slip past her unnoticed, but Jody tossed the ball to him, smiled an alluring grin and waved him over. She was every bit as sexy as Mark remembered, as buxom as a woman, yet still as thin as she had been as an adolescent. He was nearly twice her age, but he toyed with the idea of taking Jody up on the offer; if this was a hallucination, the sex would be sandy, perverse and exciting, a far cry from the clumsy fumble they had shared behind the columns in the Schonbrunn Gloriette.

‘Of course, that’s a felony,’ Mark told himself. He rolled the ball back and waved. Maybe next time, he thought. Jody’s body, like Herr Peterson’s old shirt, would remain unchanged in his memory for ever.

‘You’d better move along,’ a familiar voice warned from nearby. ‘That girl is too young for you now, soldier.’

‘Who’s that?’ Mark searched the beach. His father was disappearing into the throng; there wasn’t time to waste.

‘I’m over here.’ The reply came from several places at once.

‘Brynne?’ he said, hesitantly, ‘Brynne, where are you?’ He turned a tight circle, praying one of the beachgoers would transform into the attractive knife-wielder.

‘I’m here.’ She was behind him now, closer to the water.

Mark took a last look at his father and ran for the surf. ‘Brynne!’ he shouted, ignoring the irritated sunbathers. ‘Brynne! Where are you? Please, Brynne, wait!’

‘I’m here, near the waves.’

‘I can’t find you!’ Mark jogged into the foam. ‘Brynne?’

A young girl in a bright yellow bathing suit kept pace with him. She couldn’t have been more than four or five years old. She had a head of rowdy curls that blew hither and yon in the breeze. ‘Do you want to watch me swim?’ she called as she splashed into the breakers.

‘What? Who?’ He was only half-listening.

‘Who? You, silly,’ she cried and ducked beneath a rolling wave. When she popped up, she brushed the hair from her face and said, ‘I can do the scramble!’

Mark moved along, still searching the myriad faces for Brynne. ‘That’s nice, dear,’ he said, ‘but you shouldn’t talk to strangers. This is Long Island. Where’s your mother?’

‘Watch this!’ she shrieked, paddling excitedly towards Galway, but fifty yards out, she ducked beneath the surface, then emerged again and turned back towards the beach. She made a halfhearted attempt to stay calm, paddling and kicking tenaciously, then disappeared again.

‘Hey!’ Mark stopped. ‘Hey, kid! Hey!’ He ran a few steps up the beach, pointing and calling, ‘Anybody know that little girl? Anyone? Out there, in the yellow!’ A few sunbathers heard him, lifting their heads and looking around, but no one replied, and no one went in after the girl.

‘Ah, shit,’ Mark spat. ‘Shit and shit. I don’t have time for this.’ He kept an eye on her while shrugging Redrick’s tunic over his head. She was in the throes of a panic attack now, clearly drowning in the undertow. ‘Brynne,’ he called into the crowd, ‘stay here. I’ll be right back.’

He sprinted into the waves, diving over incoming breakers and towards the struggling child.

Milla ran until the waves reached her waist. She dived beneath an incoming breaker, holding her breath and paddling furiously for deeper water. The ocean here was icy and rough and her body felt like it was being stung with a thousand prickly needles. When she finally went numb, it was worse, because then it was nearly impossible to get her arms and legs to keep going. She was cold and scared and she sank twice before giving up and casting a spell to warm the water. She knew she shouldn’t use magic here; they’d all told her she mustn’t, but it was too cold to go on otherwise. Beyond the breakers a man struggled, drowning, flailing and shouting for help.

‘Look at me, Hannah,’ Milla said, but she wasn’t sure anyone could hear. ‘I’m doing the doggy-scramble.’ Her tangled curls matted on her head in twisting coils; she kicked her way towards the drowning man.

‘Hold on,’ Milla shouted to him, ‘I’m coming.’ The water was still rough, but at least it was warm now. Alen and Hannah followed, swimming through cold waves, trying frantically to catch up. Milla didn’t wait for them. So far, none of the others seemed to realise she was swimming out to greet them.

Steven pulled up just short of the waves. It was happening, now. The sand and surf blurred, melting into a bluish-beige canvas. ‘Shit, this is it,’ he shouted. Alen and Hannah were already in the water. Milla was paddling out past the breakers; why, Steven had no idea, but he needed them all back. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen, not with three of them in the water, for Christ’s sake. What the hell was going on?

The elderly beachcomber appeared suddenly, tugging gently at his sleeve. ‘It’s time, Steven Taylor,’ she said. Are you ready?’

‘What?’ He nearly lost his footing in the wet sand. ‘Who are you? How do you-? Mrs Winter?’

‘Hello, Steven. I’ve been waiting for you to get back.’

‘What? Mrs W? You can’t be here; this isn’t right. What are you doing here?’ Despite the waxy backdrop that had been Jones Beach State Park, Mrs Winter, the woman who owned the pastry shop next to the First National Bank of Idaho Springs, was standing there, in sharp focus and looking at him expectantly. ‘I don’t understand,’ was all he could manage to say.

‘I’m here to see you through this,’ she said. ‘Now, pay attention.’ She gestured with a bony finger, out past the place Milla was determinedly swimming towards.

‘What am I supposed to do?’ he asked, bemused.

‘Exactly what you came here to do, Steven.’ Mrs W spoke as if the answer was obvious. ‘Close the Fold. You can do it.’

Knee-deep in roiling grey surf, Garec shouted over the wind, ‘There! Steven, Gilmour, look!’

A muscular black man rose from the water until he was chest-deep. Apparently oblivious to the cold, he studied the length of sand. He didn’t look like he was treading water to stay in place; it was more like he was sitting on something, a pedestal, maybe, or a submerged bench. His arms hung calmly at his sides; he was obviously waiting for something.

As Steven felt the magic rise, he tried to remember everything Gilmour and Alen had taught him about the ash dream. The sea blurred beyond recognition; but Milla’s tiny form, still swimming, remained. She paddled towards the newcomer, shouting to him and reaching out, but all the while, the man – Mark Jenkins, presumably – ignored her.

In a moment, Steven understood why.

Three rips, the ones he had come to expect, formed in the paraffin backdrop, just as they had in Idaho Springs, and again in the glen when he had faced Nerak. The irregular edges were like ragged tears in cloth. The ocean rolled and broke, lapping steadily at the beach, until it encountered one of the tears. Then it simply ceased to be.

Inside the first of the jagged rips, Steven saw what could only be Welstar Palace. Stark and forbidding, sitting atop a short rise above the river, the great keep stood sentinel over a massive military encampment. Alen and Hannah’s descriptions had not done the place justice. Steven was glad he had never reached it. Thousands of shadowy figures stood in patient formation, division after division, all awaiting their lord’s summons.

Inside the second rip, Steven saw what he expected: a mirror image of the state park, complete with him, Gilmour, Jennifer and Garec. The Ronan bowman was running up the beach, his feet kicking up sand as he hurried towards the Central Mall. Through the Fold and from over his shoulder, Steven heard Gilmour shout in stereo, ‘Garec, wait!’

‘I need my bow!’ came the disembodied reply.

‘There’s no time! Come back!’

Steven didn’t know whether Garec heeded Gilmour’s call because he was distracted by what he saw through the third tear. It stood to reason that one opening in the Fold would show one’s origins, while the second would reveal a destination, an adjoining room a world away. However, nothing had prepared Steven for what was behind the third. It showed Mark, standing over the spell table, calling forth all manner of dangerous-looking magics, swirling amalgams of creativity and destruction. Leaning into his work, Mark’s arms disappeared to the elbow, buried in Ages of accumulated mysticism and knowledge. When he drew them forth, the power of the Larion Senate spilled over the sides in dazzling waves of energy.

Mark was on a sandy hilltop, like a dune, flanked by a forested vale so thick with tangled trees and underbrush that it was impossible to see within, even by the light of scores of braziers emitting clouds of treacherous black smoke.

That’s it! Steven thought. That’s how he poisons them. It’s the smoke.

The tears, suspended above the breakwater, moved together and melded into one amoebic laceration, now a gaping hole in the fabric of the world. While Steven watched, the rip moved backwards, coming to rest on the water and swallowing the muscular black man.

‘Do it, Steven,’ Mrs Winter said, ‘before it’s too late.’ She was still at his side and Steven wondered for a moment why he hadn’t seen her when he peered back at himself through the Fold. Was she truly there? Was she some figment of his imagination, a phantom born of his fear and anxiety?

‘Do what?’ he asked. ‘I don’t know how to get inside the dreams. I’m not ready.’

‘Don’t you worry about their dreams,’ she said. ‘Fantus is taking care of that. You close the Fold. You know how. You could paint the damned thing yellow if you wanted.’

Who is this woman?

He decided to start with the black man on the submerged pedestal. Perhaps blasting him into submission might throw off-balance whatever it was Mark had planned.

But the man was gone. And so was Milla. When Steven checked back, he saw Alen swimming clumsily to where the little girl had been; he disappeared into the vacant rip in the mystical canvas. He tried to shout, but Alen had already vanished. Jennifer waded into the surf and started pulling on Hannah’s arm, dragging her daughter back to the beach. It looked like Hannah had given up; perhaps she had seen Milla sink beneath the surface, or even disappear inside the Fold. He could see she was shivering and sobbing, inconsolable. Her mother held her tightly across the shoulders as the freezing waves continued to lash at them from behind.

What’s happening? Steven thought. This is mayhem. I don’t even know where to start.

‘Think, Steven,’ Mrs Winter said, as calmly as ever, ‘think. You know how to do this, but you must act quickly.’

The place where the conjoined tears fell was changing, no longer waxy-blue and beige; now the area was grey, mottled with dabs of black, dark blue and forest green. But it wasn’t the colour change that worried him, nor the fact that the rips had joined one another and now spread out like some sorcerer’s blanket – my mother’s old coverlet. What worried Steven was how rapidly the area was growing, and why. In only a few seconds, the hole had stretched nearly the length of the boardwalk. He could smell it now: dank with decay and death, and sweet, like gangrene, a magic tunnel to pestilence and who knew what monsters and atrocities.

The stone-faced black man had disappeared, but as the Fold tore ever wider along the Long Island coast, there remained a disturbance where he had been: a figure, like a man, but formed of sea spray, foam, and some of Mark’s dangerous black smoke still stood there, nearly invisible, but there, nonetheless.

It’s him, Steven thought, that’s who’s directing all this. He opened the Fold, and I stood by and watched it happen.

The first regiments appeared in a line beyond the break, an inhuman wave, twenty thousand-strong and spread out, shoulder-to-shoulder, over several hundred yards. Their faces bore a mixture of pleasure and pain, of awareness and blissful ignorance. Some could clearly understand what they were doing, where they were and why they had been transported to another world, while others could scarcely recognise even that they were chest-deep in the sea. Some were covered with open sores, or had obviously broken bones and dislocations, even amputations. There was clear evidence of rampant infection, bacterial and viral, but the invasion force ignored all of it. There were some who hooted, chuckled or even roared with laughter; they were trapped somewhere in their lives where life had been hilarious. Others wailed, sobbed or screamed in anger.

But though different memories had them ensnared, they all trod through the breakers, this wall of indefatigable warriors, following the same orders: deliver the milled bark; enslave the populace and await the master’s arrival. A second rank followed the first and before the front line had reached the beach, a third emerged from the depths.

Gilmour was sitting cross-legged in the sand, his eyes closed in concentration. He didn’t see the first of the warriors as they splashed up the beach.

For Mark, there was nothing like swimming, nothing that made such intense physical demands of him. While he was a New York state champion on the surface – the butterfly, the crawl, the backstroke – he lived for those days when he could dive into the inhospitable waters off the Long Island coast. He had grown up training in a pool, but he and his friends learned early that the real test came after their competitive meets, when they would gather on this very beach to discover who was truly the island’s strongest swimmer. The race, from Point Lookout across the bay to Rockaway and back, was the unsaddling of many swimmers; Mark had seen too many brazen students, some foolishly emboldened by alcohol, setting out boldly, only to find themselves giving up the fight and being hauled into the trailing rescue boat for the ultimate row of shame.

Today, as he made for the drowning girl, Mark anticipated his body’s responses, his muscle memory reminding him why he so loved these waters… But nothing happened. Instead of the sleek, economic gestures he expected, Mark found himself kicking and thrashing clumsily: Redrick Shen had obviously not been a swimmer. Christ, I just hope I don’t drown, he thought. This guy’s times in the 200 metres would be shit. I’ll be fish food inside an hour.

On the surface, he sucked in a massive breath and found the little girl, twenty yards out and in serious trouble, flailing and slapping at the water. A wave broke over her head and Mark watched her go down mid-scream. Damn it, that’s not good, he thought, she got a mouthful on that one. The current was dragging her along, so he picked a point to her left, where he guessed she would be after the next wave. She must be scared shitless – she’ll never get in the water again. Frigging parents’ fault, wherever the hell they are.

The wave passed and the girl sank. When she didn’t resurface, Mark dived after her. Hang on, kiddo. I’ll be there in five seconds.

Below, the ocean was peaceful. The child’s yellow bathing suit was easy to spot in the summer sun. She was drifting listlessly towards Jamaica Bay, no longer struggling, her arms and legs moving with the current, her hair a mass of stringy curls. Mark reached for her, snagging her wrist, and hauled her towards the surface, all the time praying that he could keep both of them afloat long enough to start her breathing again.

Less than five feet from safety, he felt something grip him about the chest, as if he had been taken from below. He thought he’d been grasped by a tentacled creature bent on crushing him beneath a rock, tenderising him for dinner. Iron bands squeezed until his ribs felt ready to snap. He tried to break free, but his hands simply slid uselessly across Redrick’s muscular chest and abdomen.

He was being pulled towards the bottom.

What in Christ’s name -? Mark, in his own body, would have fought the panic; panic meant exhaustion and death, and all good swimmers understood that there was no panic quite as terrifying as drowning. But trapped inside Redrick Shen, Mark realised he was lost. The Ronan sailor couldn’t hold his breath and he couldn’t kick free, and still the bands around his chest constricted as he sank towards the sandy bottom. When panic struck, Mark was helpless against it; he grasped at anything, the little girl included, as he fought for the surface. Finally his hands closed around something, her ankle, and he tugged, willing to climb her like a lifeline if it meant escape from the deadly ocean.

To Mark’s horror, the girl looked down at him; eyes wide and curls bedraggled. She was smiling.

Gilmour wanted to help Jennifer as she dragged Hannah up the beach. The water had numbed his feet through his boots; he couldn’t imagine how cold Hannah was. He assumed that Milla and Kantu had both drowned – he hadn’t seen Milla sink, but he had watched in horror as his old colleague, still swimming after the little girl, simply disappeared. One moment he was there and, with the next wave, Kantu was gone. Now Hannah lay on the beach sobbing, her mother’s and Steven’s coats draped over her shivering body. To Garec, Gilmour shouted, ‘See to her; I’ll watch for that South Coaster to come back. I can’t figure where he’s gone.’

Garec pulled off his own cloak and added it to the layers covering Hannah.

Gilmour, staring at the sea and hoping for Alen and Milla to reappear, saw the elderly beachcomber come up beside Steven. The two were talking, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying. He took a couple of tentative steps towards them, still watching the ocean as it hammered ceaselessly at the beach… then the soldiers arrived.

They came through the shallows and foam, moving with the steady rhythm of a fugue. There were too many to attack with fire or explosions, and Gilmour knew he would be alone if he sneaked inside their collective nightmare. He sat in the sand, felt the cold caress of the ocean and closed his eyes. If only he had read Lessek’s spell book earlier; if only he had made the connection between the ash dream and Lessek’s other seminal works. If only he had returned to Sandcliff Palace, retrieved the spell book and kept it from Nerak all those Twinmoons ago. If only, if only, if only…

Gilmour narrowed his thoughts to a point and felt in the wintry air for the legions of warriors closing down on him. He could smell their breath, and the stink of their injuries and infections. Here we go, he thought, and slipped inside their memories. It wasn’t as difficult as he had expected, but once inside, Gilmour knew he would not succeed in time.

Steven retreated up the beach. Mrs Winter tagged along. To his right, Garec and Jennifer were half-carrying, half-dragging Hannah away from the macabre warriors emerging from the water.

He screamed as Gilmour was swallowed up, his body trampled and torn to pieces by the few soldiers who paused long enough to pay the old magician any heed. The sea foam about their ankles bubbled crimson, staining the sand.

‘No! Jesus Christ, no!’ Steven fell to his knees. He cast a wild blast into the forward ranks, devastating the creatures nearest Gilmour’s remains. Their shattered bodies flew up and out, like organic shrapnel, into the ranks behind. The amphibious landing slowed for a second or two, then resumed as before.

‘What is magic, Steven?’ Mrs Winter prompted. ‘Remember what Fantus taught you.’

‘Do you not see them?’ Steven cried. ‘Can you not see that I’m busy?’ He blasted another spell into the soldiers closing on Garec and Hannah, which bought them a few seconds to escape.

‘This is not the answer.’ Mrs Winter was calm, as complacent as ever, an old woman who swept the step in front of her shop every morning. ‘Think about the clock. Why did Fantus have you restart that clock? And I’m sorry, but I can’t give you the answer; I simply cannot. You must decipher this yourself.’

‘What?’

‘The clock.’

The clock. It was a test. Restart time in Eldarn. Why? Why restart time? Because time and the ability to keep time are essential for any culture to evolve. Appointments need to be kept, timelines established, calendars drafted and adopted. They continued their retreat up the beach. Could Gilmour have done it? No. He didn’t have the magic. What is magic? Magic is power and knowledge. He didn’t have the knowledge to start the clock. Magic is useless without knowledge – that’s the fundamental premise of the Larion Brotherhood.

‘He didn’t have the knowledge,’ Steven said aloud.

‘Correct, what knowledge? We can paint the damned thing yellow. Well, Steven, it’s time: get painting.’ Mrs Winter zipped her parka up tight, as if the chill along the beach might kill her long before the legions of homicidal warriors got to her.

‘It was magic, compassion and maths,’ Steven said. ‘Maths – all right, I get it – but what maths? This isn’t a maths problem…’

‘Oh yes it is,’ she said.

‘But I don’t see-’ Steven stopped his backwards withdrawal. What’s here? What am I missing? There are soldiers, thousands and thousands of soldiers. They’re in ranks, but they aren’t straight. It’s a mess. No straight lines. They came though a hole. What hole? The Fold. How deep is it? Do I fill it? The tears, those rips, that’s where the hole came from. They’re irregular, nothing predictable or even. An irregular hole, constantly changing shape. It’s a half-mile long and three hundred feet across. And how deep? How deep is the Fold? How far is it to Eldarn? It approaches infinity. A half-mile by three hundred feet – but fluctuating – by a number approaching infinity. Fuck this. Fuck this!

Garec and Jennifer were shouting something. Hannah, still wrapped in three coats, was running towards him. Milla and Alen were gone. Gilmour was dead, torn to pieces. And Mrs Winter, the old woman he had nearly trampled as he hurried home for Lessek’s key, was here on Jones Beach, prompting him as calmly and reassuringly as a tutor.

A half-mile by three hundred feet, by a number approaching infinity. But it’s all in motion; it’s a frigging amoeba, impossible to measure, impossible to capture. It isn’t a circle; it’s a hole, a messy hole. But what? What do I do with it? I can’t kill all these people, these – these whatever they are. It was maths, magic and compassion. I can’t kill… Nerak deserved compassion. It was the hickory staff. Nerak needed a chance; he’d been taken against his will. Compassion was the answer. This is the Fold. This is evil. This is different. Maths, magic and knowledge. Not compassion.

‘Not compassion,’ he said to Mrs Winter.

‘Not this time, no.’

‘I was wrong,’ Steven said, ‘it isn’t about compassion. That was for Nerak; the staff’s magic, that’s how I defeated Nerak.’

‘But this is about knowledge.’ Mrs Winter took his hand. ‘What have you learned? What knowledge have you gained?’

‘Magic is about knowledge.’

‘And of compassion?’

‘It is more powerful; I am most powerful when I-’

‘But not now,’ she interrupted.

‘We bury these fuckers alive. It’s evil; they get nothing from me, from us.’

‘Maths, magic and knowledge, Steven.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘Get painting.’

Mark Jenkins’ invasion forces were five ranks deep and nearly half a mile across. Steven estimated their numbers at more than fifty thousand – positively overwhelming, far too many to battle head-on. The jagged tear in the Fold, the origin, the destination and the Larion spell table, had expanded like bacteria mutating in a petri dish. The breakwater south of Jones Beach State Park had all but disappeared, opening into a foul-smelling void that bridged the gap between Steven Taylor and the military encampment outside Welstar Palace. It’s why he ordered them all back to Malakasia, Steven thought. He needed as many as he could bring to bear against us. This is the occupation force, cruelly deformed, that held Eldarn hostage for generations. A half-mile by three hundred feet, by a number approaching infinity and growing.

‘Let me up,’ Hannah cried, pushing Garec and her mother back.

‘Can you run?’ Jennifer asked frantically. ‘Honey, we need to run!’

‘What’s that?’ Hannah pointed into the breakwater, behind the last row of soldiers wading to shore.

Garec squinted, then stood up suddenly. ‘Whoring rutters, it’s Milla!’

‘What’s she doing?’ Jennifer asked. ‘Is that someone with her? Alen?’

‘We have to go!’ Hannah shrugged out of the layers. ‘We have to reach her.’

‘Through them?’ Jennifer wrestled her towards the boardwalk. ‘We have to save ourselves – there’re twenty thousand of those things between us and them.’

Hannah wasn’t listening. ‘Steven,’ she muttered, trying to break free, ‘not yet, Steven! Don’t do it yet! Milla’s out there!’ Twisting away, she ran to Steven and the old woman with him.

Garec cursed. ‘I’ll go after them.’

‘Are you out of your mind?’ Jennifer shook. Creatures from her worst nightmares – no, even more horrific than that; she could never have dreamed such monstrosities – had emerged from the North Atlantic and were trudging up the beach.

‘Maybe I can go around them,’ Garec murmured to himself.

‘They stretch for half a mile on either side, you raging idiot – you’ll get yourself killed.’

Garec grimaced, lowered his shoulders and, unarmed, charged the forward ranks. He managed to bully his way through the first line of dazed killers. The second, however, did not part for him; Garec screamed when they dragged him to the sand.

‘Steven,’ Hannah cried, ‘you have to wait. Milla’s out there. She’s alive.’

‘What?’ Steven hoped he’d misunderstood. ‘What are you talking about? They’re fifty feet away – we can’t wait.’

‘Look.’ She pointed into the breakwater. Someone else was there; Steven guessed it was Alen, but the Larion sorcerer wasn’t swimming well: he’d been injured somehow.

‘It’s all right,’ he said, ‘she’s outside the ranks, outside the Fold. I don’t think she’ll be hurt.’

Mrs Winter nodded. ‘That’s right. Well done.’

Steven went on, ‘We’ll get her in just a moment.’

‘What if she can’t wait a moment?’ Hannah pleaded.

‘Then, like us, she’ll be dead.’ He closed his eyes. Someone nearby was screaming, an unnerving shriek for help. It was a man’s voice, but Steven didn’t bother to look up. He couldn’t afford the distraction now. Milla was paddling towards shore, so he had to finish this quickly or the little girl might swim directly into the Fold. The being of spray and sea foam that Steven had seen orchestrating the invasion was still there, suspended above the very place where the black man, the one oblivious to the cold, had disappeared.

A half-mile by three hundred feet, by a number approaching infinity. Those are the dimensions, but the frigging thing isn’t regular. It’s all over the place and moving, for fuck’s sake. Magic is knowledge and there is no compassion, not today. Today is maths and magic. Christ, it’s cold out here. Knowledge and magic equal power, powers of magic, powers of math, powers of dimensions. Holy shit. Holy shit, that’s it. Give it limits, what, zero and infinity. No, not infinity. Zero and half a mile, zero and three hundred feet. Yes, length and width, as a function. F of X between zero and half a mile, zero and three hundred feet. F of X minus G of X; all of it times the derivative as depth approaches infinity and fuck you very much.

The numbers lined up in his head, his own ranks of disciplined soldiers. The magic responded like a wellspring, surging from the depths of his consciousness, not a wild blast or a frantic spell to save his life, but a concerted, organised attack, perfectly formed for the threat at hand.

He remembered everything:

Gilmour on horseback in the Ronan meadow: The Fold is the space between everything that is known and unknown. It is the absence of perception and therefore the absence of reality. Nothing exists there except evil, because the original architects of our universe could not avoid creating it.

With Gilmour on Seer’s Peak: I was angry with myself, because anyone incapable of mercy is the most evil enemy we can face. That night, I became that person.

With Gilmour, Garec and Mark beside the Falkan fjord: We need to know what Lessek knew. He found it, called it a pinprick in the universe… he knew how to get to it, how to arrive at that place where he could reach out and grab it – like the air at the city dump. It was no different than it had ever been, but I held it in my hands, pressed against it and moved it around.

With Gilmour before battling Nerak: That’s exactly right… sometimes what’s real does change; other times, well, it’s just an illusion. That’s what separates us from carnival magicians.

And finally, with Gilmour after their escape from the rogue tidal wave on the Medera River: Where do you think new spells come from? Why do you think we spent all that time in your world, collected all those books? Why would we have sponsored research and medical teams from Sandcliff Palace for all those Twinmoons? Those spells weren’t constructed because their incantations were similar; the incantations were derived because their etiologies, their origins and impacts, overlapped: they had common effects because they were based on overlapping fields of knowledge or research.

‘I can do it,’ Steven said without opening his eyes. ‘I can see it all, just like Gilmour said; it’s a view from above. I can, Mrs W. We’re going to be-’

Gnarled hands, impossibly strong, took him by the upper arm, the wrist, the neck, his coat lapels. There were fingers on his thighs, between his legs and around his ankles. Someone grasped at his face; another took a handful of his hair and all at once, all together, they pulled, digging in with cracked yellow fingernails, ripping through his clothes and tearing his skin Steven opened his eyes and screamed, his spell forgotten.

Mrs Winter was under attack. She had waited, giving Steven as much time as possible to work out his spell, but it had taken too long. She didn’t wish to intervene, wasn’t even sure if she would be permitted to, but circumstances gave her no choice. When the first of the rotting warriors grabbed for her, the old woman raised one hand, palm out and released a blast that incinerated a dozen of them and ignited even the wet clothing of another score as they slogged up the beach. One by one, she touched the creatures attacking Steven; it didn’t take much, a push here, a gentle tug there until they released him, backed away a pace or two and collapsed, dead.

There were more coming, however, far too many for her to deflect with old parlour tricks or heavy-handed blasts. She had given Steven a moment to gather his thoughts, but the young magician was still on the verge of panic; his eyes were wide and his skin as pale as new parchment.

‘Do it now,’ she said, taking his face in her hands and forcing him to look into her eyes. ‘There is no more time, my friend.’

Behind her, Hannah had fled up the beach and was screaming. Her mother rushed to drag her to safety, but still the young woman wouldn’t be budged.

Below, the warriors that had been beating Garec to death stopped suddenly, leaving the Ronan archer lying senseless in the sand. Mrs Winter didn’t know why they had let him go, but she could do nothing for him – she had to remain with Steven.

Then the sand at her feet was moving, tumbling over itself in waves, like thin corrugations in the beach, curling and rolling towards the water. Mrs Winter looked with surprise along the narrow ribbon that was Jones Beach, along the rows of Malakasian warriors, and everywhere she saw the same thing: narrow stretches of sand, rolling in perfect waves towards the water.

‘What’s this then?’ she said and turned back to Steven. He was standing straight, some colour back in his face, ignoring the blood dripping from half a dozen deep cuts. He stared over the invading army, his eyes locked on a nearly translucent figure of a man formed of sea foam and smoke and floating above the water, just outside the grim cleft still spewing forth monsters. A veritable hum of resonant energy came from Steven, and the soldiers, oblivious to their surroundings thus far, stopped in their sandy tracks. All along the forward ranks, the grim-faced killers pulled up and waited, all of them watching Steven.

From somewhere deep within the Fold, something howled, the cry of a furious god, of evil rousing itself to claim them all. Steven stood his ground.

‘Good gods, then, you’ve got them!’ Mrs Winter cried and hurried to drag Garec’s body further up the beach. She was able to elbow her way through the throng to reach him; none of the warriors appeared to notice her at all.

Hannah and Jennifer Sorenson waited near the concrete steps to the Central Mall, neither of them screaming any longer. Like the invading army, they stood transfixed by Steven Taylor.

F of X minus G of X; all of it multiplied by the derivative as the depth approaches infinity. Set limits, from zero to three hundred feet and from zero to half a mile, maybe more now, but no matter. Steven imagined the sand and the water awakening to help him. Depthless sand and black water, as deep as the Fold itself – as depth approaches infinity.

He shouted, nothing that made sense, just a primal scream, when he realised it was working. The sand was rolling back, setting limits – from zero to three hundred feet – while the water bubbled up in an irregular line, the outline of a ragged hole, just a tear – from zero to half a mile. The sand corrugations met the water and the circle was complete. All Steven had to do was to fill it – F of X minus G of X, times the derivative. Now, fill the hole.

‘As depth approaches infinity.’ Steven looked at Mrs Winter and smiled. His muscles were locked; his hair blew about his face, but his eyes were bright with understanding. He could see it all, scrawled across Professor Linnen’s blackboard at the University of Denver. He had to understand the Fold: the absence of perception and the absence of reality, a place where only evil can exist, where even light, love or energy cannot escape. He understood magic’s subtleties: it’s most powerful when we appreciate the fundamental tenets of what we are trying to change, to save, even to destroy. He knew himself: a magician whose strength comes from compassion, but Steven had also gained knowledge about his foe: it’s an enemy from inside the Fold, like the tan-bak, an entity powerful enough to be the Fold’s overlord. It deserves no mercy, no compassion.

‘Bury these fuckers alive,’ he said again, and raised his arms. The sand and water complied, rolling furiously down the beach, churning the seas to a boil.

The soldiers on the beach were taken by the ankles and dragged towards the breakers. Those unfortunate enough to be in the water, even knee-deep, were swallowed by the waves. As depth approaches infinity!’ Steven shouted, stepping forward and slugging one of the invaders hard across the jaw. The soldier fell backwards and was absorbed by the beach, gone in a moment.

A handful of the warriors recognised what was happening; they tried to fight back, wrenching at their ankles, attempting to swim as the ocean yawned to engulf them whole. The cries they emitted when they realised they were falling into oblivion were horrific, like the screams of terrified children. It unnerved Steven to hear them. Enraged, he focused his anger on the creature of sea foam and spray and smoke, now dancing wildly on the water, flailing and pushing its hapless soldiers back into the fray.

‘It’s you,’ Steven said, pointing at evil’s emissary, ‘you’re the one. You killed my friends. You killed my roommate, my best friend. You may not die, but I’m going to take you apart.’ He punctuated his promise with flicks of his wrist ‘-piece-’

The spray and sea foam creature wailed as part of it was torn away, scattered by the ocean breeze.

‘-by-’

Another cry as more of the figure broke apart.

‘-piece-’

Steven breathed deep, summoning reserves of energy he could never have imagined, power unlike anything he had wielded, even in his battle with Nerak. ‘Now-’ He reached for the creature again, taking a few strides down the strand to get closer. The translucent figure was in a panic; its army was being swallowed by the very ground it had hoped to conquer, and it itself was being slashed and broken into harmless spores by the raging magician coming at it through the shallows. It swirled and spun and searched for an escape, but the only place to hide was inside the Fold, which was rapidly sealing itself. It couldn’t retreat across the water; the maniacal sorcerer would surely follow it, and to flee onto land would be inviting destruction. Instead, it hurried back and forth along the line of dead and dying warriors. Some shrieked and reached for it, their fingers passing harmlessly through its smoky limbs.

‘Now,’ Steven said again, ‘it is time for you to go.’ He gestured towards the figure and it burst apart, the sea foam and spray dissipating, falling harmlessly like rain, while wisps of smoke blew inland across the dunes.

The beach swallowed the last of the soldiers. Some still reached skywards through the sand, hoping for a lifeline, while others simply sank away, still chuckling at whatever had been so funny countless Twinmoons earlier. Those swallowed by the sea did more than drown; they were lost inside the Fold, carried into the void by the chilly waters of the North Atlantic. And as the ragged hole closed for ever, Steven caught a final glimpse of Welstar Palace, where mayhem raged as thousands of soldiers disappeared headlong into the muddy banks of the Welstar River. With them sank the smoothly polished granite spell table, still half-encased in its wooden packing crate.

Jones Beach was empty. Only the waves and the breeze muffled the sounds of a little girl, doggedly paddling through the surf and dragging something along with her.

Garec Haile, the Bringer of Death, sat up, helped by Hannah and Jennifer Sorenson. He was confounded; he had cheated death by the slimmest of margins, but how, he had no idea. He couldn’t begin to guess why the soldiers tearing him apart had stopped so suddenly.

When he saw Milla, he forgot how much his head ached or how his arm felt as if it had been broken in a dozen places. He ran down the beach, splashed through the shallow waves and dived into the deeper water. It was cripplingly cold, but Garec welcomed the numbness.

Mrs Winter wandered down the strand and knelt where Gilmour’s body had fallen; she was visibly upset as she touched the ground gingerly with one hand. Nothing was left but a crimson stain that would fade with the next tide; the broken limbs and torn flesh had all been swallowed up with the Malakasian divisions.

Steven was dumbstruck at what he had done. Now he wanted to comfort Mrs Winter. He wanted to help Garec, to be with Hannah and Jennifer as they carried Milla to warmth and safety, but he stood rooted in place, his boots half-buried in the sand. He recalled an autumn day, a decade earlier, when he had awakened with a paralysing hangover after a fraternity party and some barman’s atrocity called Hapsburg Piss, an unappetising concoction made from hazelnut liqueur and plum schnapps. He had thought about skipping class and staying in bed until the coffee was hot and the opiates had quieted the ruthless, thudding pain in his head. But he hadn’t; instead, Steven had rolled out of bed, dragged his listless self into the maths building and sat through one of Professor Linnen’s lectures on functions and the area under the curve. Now, ten years later, he thought back to the countless undergraduates, and all the times they had complained that they would never need calculus in the real world, and Steven Taylor laughed to himself.

Hannah broke his reverie with a shriek; she stood frozen, her hands clasped together as Garec, staggering from the surf, waved wildly at him further down the beach, while Jennifer sat numbly in the foamy splash of the breakers. They each, in turn, shouted something he couldn’t hear. Then Garec cupped his hands over his mouth and bellowed, ‘It’s Mark!’

Steven stood in stunned silence, staring mutely as Garec helped a muscular black man to his feet. It didn’t look like Mark, but when he grinned and waved, Steven knew his roommate was back.

The sounds and smells of the ocean, the feel of the sand and the chill on the breeze, all of it came back to Steven in a rush. It was fundamentally human, and real, an affirmation of everything he had been trying to do since the first time he picked up the hickory staff, that long-ago night in Rona. His stomach roiled painfully; his knees gave way and Steven started to cry.