by Sharon Lee
There weren’t many people on the north side of the Pier. To my right and up a block or two, I saw three teenage boys playing with a glow-in-the-dark Frisbee, and, ’way up-beach, what might be a family group walking in a loose gaggle. Between me and them, the beach was empty.
No, not quite empty.
Some blocks away—say, right at the Dube Street intersection, if Dube Street ran all the way down to the sea—stood a tall form, hands in pockets, facing down toward the Pier.
The land gave an excited shout, and pelted ahead.
I was too dignified to shout, but I did run. In fact, I ran so fast, I might possibly have become airborne in those last few moments.
Borgan caught me in mid flight. I wrapped my legs around his waist, caught his face between my hands and kissed him, thoroughly.
He cooperated with enthusiasm, which left us both pretty much breathless, and probably having scandalized the youth of America.
“Hey, there,” he said, his voice shaking.
“Hey, there, yourself.” My voice wasn’t so much shaking as quivering in and out of incompatible ranges. “How are you?”
“You gotta ask that, maybe I should kiss you again.”
“That sounds like a good idea. Can you stay?”
“I think I might manage—”
A noise like no noise I had ever heard—a noise that maybe a thousand harpies screaming in unison could have produced—split the sky and the peace of Archers Beach. I screamed in reflex and covered my ears, but that was worse than useless. Borgan slammed to his knees, his face pressed into my chest. I felt him trembling. The land howled, and a vision of the carousel swung crazily inside my head, jikinap boiling off of it in streamers of wet colors.
The ungodly racket stopped.
I wilted in Borgan’s arms, my head on his shoulder.
“What d’you expect that was?” he asked.
“The carousel.” I straightened, his arms tightened. “The Wise—oh, God; the Wise…”
I wrapped my arms around his shoulders.
“Hold tight,” I whispered, and we were there, Borgan kneeling on the concrete floor, and the enclosure full of burning jikinap and the stink of too much power. I gagged; it was like trying to breathe toxic gas—and suddenly there was a breeze, fresh and damp, shredding the clouds of poison.
I extended my will, snapped open the lock on the gate and thrust the storm walls back.
Fire sparked around us; mustard-colored gas swirled, and through the shredding yellow fog came Mr. Ignat’, Arbalyr the not-Phoenix on his shoulder and Gran at his side.
Borgan set me gently on my feet and rose.
“Katie!” Gran grabbed my shoulder. “Are you all right?”
“If we don’t count terrified, I’m perfectly fine.”
“What happened?”
“The carousel…” She and I turned toward it. I stepped into Side-Sight, but there was nothing to see. By which I mean…there was no spellcraft to see.
Which was wrong. I should at least be seeing the binding spells I’d made to hold the non-prisoners, but—the bindings were gone; the fake soul-glow was quenched.
“The Gate,” Gran murmured.
I threw my will out in the way I’d been taught, and triggered the Gate.
Power struck, flared, and rebounded, knocking me off my feet, and back into Borgan. He caught me around the waist and held me gently against him.
“So, news of the latest transgression got to them early,” I said.
“What about that war you an’ the lahleri told me about, happening between the Worlds? That’s all they have to know; they’re sealing up all the holes they know about.”
I wondered what the hell a lahleri was, but held to the point.
“Prince Aesgyr and his allies had a head start; to make more and better holes.”
“Well reasoned, Pirate Kate,” Mr. Ignat’ murmured. “Aesgyr will have prepared egress points well ahead of mounting any attack.”
The land whined, showing me shadows moving in the night; moving toward the carousel. I shifted and Borgan let me go, to turn and face the trenvay of Archers Beach, and a smattering, too, of those others, who heard the music at Midsummer Eve.
Felsic was there, her arm around Peggy’s waist, Vornflee and Moss behind them. I saw Joan Anderson, and Daddy; Nancy…and the land reported more coming in, gathering outside the enclosure.
“Kate, what happened?” That was Felsic.
“The Wise have closed the World Gate,” I said, willing the land to carry my voice to everyone gathered. “We’re cut off from the other Five Worlds.”
“We are,” Gran cried, from the deck of the carousel itself, her voice carrying effortlessly to every corner of the crowd.
“We are free! We are no longer forced to be jailers! We are no longer subject to the whim of the Wise! It’s been a long time coming, my friends, but we’re free at last!”
The cheer that greeted this was almost as noisy as the closing of the Gate, and I leaned back into Borgan and sighed in sheer relief.
Chapter Forty
Tuesday, September 5
High Tide 9:42 P.M. EDT
Sunset 7:12 P.M.
“Bus’ll be here in fifteen minutes,” I cautioned, leaning against the operator’s station.
I crossed my arms over my chest, and watched Vassily jump to the decking and move between the animals, light-footed and respectful, his fingers trailing along carved haunches, patting this one on the nose, rubbing that one’s ears.
“This,” he said, his voice echoing off the storm walls, “this I will miss.”
“Only for a little while. You’re coming back next year, aren’t you?”
“Samuil says I have done well, and that he will speak to the company, and tell them that I should have a contract for next year.”
He vanished around the curve, and I sighed, realizing that I’d miss Vassily, too, and that winter was the longest season.
The remainder of the summer had passed pretty much without incident, and the Chamber was letting it be known that Archers Beach had just completed its best August in twenty years.
That was good, though it did make the lack of a Late Season this year more poignant. The town council had, after all, acted with expediency, and come through on the leaseback plan. Unfortunately, you can’t just turn an amusement park around on a dime. Fun Country, New Jersey, had books to close, and other corporate paperwork to be completed. All of which meant the gates would stay locked until we opened the Super Early Season, last week in April, next year.
Then, though, there’d be no stopping us, especially not with Peggy Marr managing. The woman had already set up a war room in the spare bedroom of the condo she and Felsic had moved into, mid-August. I had a feeling we were all in for some changes.
“This one,” Vassily said, draping his arm around the dainty neck of the batwing horse. “This one I like very much, though too short a time to know her. Next year, we will be good friends.”
“Not a bad plan,” I said, and shifted slightly against the box. “You ready?”
“No,” he said, stepping off the deck to the concrete and bending to pick up his duffle bag. “I am not ready, but I will go, so that Samuil can say that I am, oh, so very good, and I will come again, next year.”
“Keep that thought uppermost,” I said, falling in beside him as he walked toward the door. “Be very good—or as good as you can be.”
“I will do this—ah!”
He stopped and turned to face me, eyes bright, and face animated.
“Almost I am forgetting that I have a message for you, Kate Archer, from my angel. He asks that I say to you that there are many paths to his kingdom, and that you have not been forgotten.” He smiled. “You see, Kate Archer? Even though you will not pray, the angels in heaven care for you.”
Or, one particular non-angel in not-exactly heaven. But why quibble?
“I’m grateful to your angel. Please give him my best, the next time you talk with hi
m.”
“I will mention you in my prayers,” Vassily agreed, and waited while I locked the gate.
The two of us ducked through the gap in the main gate, and walked across Fountain Circle, to the yellow school bus waiting there.
“Vassily,” said the burly fellow waiting by the open door, “almost you are late!”
“Almost is not is,” Vassily said with dignity, and turned to offer me his hand.
We shook. Vassily released my hand, and made a small, perfect bow.
“Good-bye until next Season, Kate Archer,” he said softly. “Thanking you.”
* * *
I waved until the bus made the turn at the top of the hill, onto Route 5. When it had passed off the land completely, I walked over the boardwalk to the beach, and turned south, toward Kinney Harbor.
There were a few folks on the beach, walking along the twilit water, and a guy tossing a flying ring for his dog. The dog was an impressive jumper.
Ordinarily, I’d be hearing the band tuning up at Neptune’s, but tonight, the band was going to be at the municipal park, where the townies—all the townies, mundane and trenvay alike—were throwing ourselves a party.
Well, why not? We had a lot to celebrate: the rescue of Fun Country, the triumphant return from the plague of jellyfish, the rising of a new trenvay—the end of the Season, and the hope of a better Season, next year.
More than enough reason for a party, any of them. All together?
The town might not stop dancing ’til suppertime tomorrow.
Fun Country was behind me now, and a few minutes later I passed Googin Rock, black and bladed in the gloaming. Ahead was the foot of Heath Hill, with sea roses tangled all around it.
I rounded the foot of the hill and met Borgan coming off the dock.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said, taking my hand with a smile. “I was down visiting Frenchy.”
“How’s she doing?”
“Pretty good,” he said, as we turned back toward town. “Turns out that the fella from Away? The one put up all the fuss about the cats?”
“What about him?” I asked darkly.
“No, now, you’ll like this. He’s putting the summer house up for sale. Gonna look on the Vineyard, s’what Frenchy heard.”
“Well.” I considered that; decided I was pleased. “I hope there aren’t any cats on Martha’s Vineyard.”
“Bound to be cats,” Borgan said seriously. “They do a bit of fishing down there.”
“Is there a Guardian?” I asked suddenly.
“Vineyard Guardian?” He frowned, as if considering. “Had been, but she’s always been a little funny. Don’t care for people, much. Trenvay, either. I could find out, if you want, I guess, Kate, but I doubt she’s got a cell.”
“I do want,” I said, decisively. “In this day and age, there’s no reason why the Guardians can’t have their own listserve to, to keep in touch. Share tips.”
“Recipes?” Borgan asked.
“Go ahead, laugh!” I said threateningly, and he showed me his palm in surrender.
“I don’t dare.”
We’d come abreast Googin Rock again, and both of us turned to look at it. Borgan stopped.
And I did.
The land whined a question.
In the black surface, a black door opened, and a black mist swirled, gaining shape and substance until a lady stood among the rocky blades above us. She was tall and elegant in her dappled robes, her dark skin shone as if she was lit from within.
Improbably, I knew her: the Opal of Dawn, Princess Leynore of Daknowyth.
Her sightless blue eyes turned unerringly upon us.
“I’m happy to see you, Princess Leynore,” I said, with complete truth.
“Princess Kaederon,” she answered, “I am happy to see you. And you also, Prince Borgan.”
“Evenin’,” said Borgan easily.
“Mind telling me what you’re doing, here in a World on which the Wise have closed the Gate?”
“Ah, in my Land, we say that a Gate never closes, but a door opens,” she said, her smile showing dainty fangs. “The war is won, and the Worlds are again in alignment.” She curtseyed, irony plain.
“I renew my invitation to both of you to come to me, as your duties allow. We have much to speak of, I think.”
“I might take you up on that,” I said. “Winter’s long, and visiting passes the time.”
“Then I await winter, and your visit, with anticipation. Until then.”
She curtseyed again, the shadows swirled, and I heard a quiet snick, as if a door had, gently, been closed.
“Well,” Borgan said, eventually, “there’s news.”
“Good news?” I asked, as we continued our walk.
“Have to wait and see.”
We walked in silence for a bit, the land gamboling around us, then Borgan lifted his head.
“Is that Andy’s guitar I hear?”
The land brought me the sound, and I smiled.
“I do believe it is—and Mother’s dulcimer, too.”
“Gonna be a hell of a party.”
“Good. We earned it.”
