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-’