Garth felt a surging of power, a sudden delight coursing through him, as if the infinite universe had been reduced to a toy that now rested in the palm of his hand. He reveled in the power, allowing it to course through his soul. Time lost all meaning, all sense, and he was not sure if a second had transpired or aeons.

“Now you know the power of the infinite,” a voice whispered to him.

For the first time Garth was aware that there was a presence with him. It was dark, foreboding, and yet for this instant he could sense an almost benign amusement, as if the Walker was an indulgent old man, showing new wonders to a child.

“The power you wielded is but nothing compared to what I am.”

The light ahead shifted, drifting out of purple into blues, greens-an infinite variety of a million hues. He felt as if he were soaring into the heart of a sun that was exploding into rainbows of fire.

Garth felt as if he could reach out and, with the flick of a finger, set suns spinning on their courses, that with the palms of his hands he could mold and shape worlds, and with his breath set the firmament swirling. He felt as if he had become a god and the power of it was all-consuming, reaching into his soul with its seductive strength.

He laughed, his voice echoing through the night.

The sensation of falling stopped and he felt a pressure on the soles of his feet. All was dark and then, ever so slowly, a hazy light formed, out of focus, as if he looked up into the sunlight from the depths of the sea. The light swirled, sparkled, and then took form.

He was standing in a shady grove, the trees around him reaching up into a crystalline blue sky flecked with high, drifting clouds. The air was rich with a heady scent of springtime flowers. Tropical birds of red, green, yellow, and dazzling white darted past, their songs echoing like a heavenly choir.

Garth turned, smiling, watching them pass.

“It is like paradise,” Garth whispered, and he was surprised that his voice was knotted, a tear blinding him.

And then the memory came. It was warm, soft, laden with the gentle light of childhood. It was the garden of his father’s winter palace, far in the southlands. He looked around closely. There on the green grass was a favorite toy, a wooden rocking horse upon which he would ride and dream of glorious charges. Next to it was a stuffed mammoth, the right tusk gone, the fur knotted from his tiny fingers busily twisting and tying the wool.

It’s a dream.

But it was not. He knelt down on the grass and, reaching out, he touched the horse, which rocked slowly back and forth.

He heard a soft laughter, rich and warm with love.

“Papa.”

He stood up, expectant. A shadow moved behind high bushes that were heavy with orange-and-yellow blossoms.

For an instant he felt as if all the years had been stripped away.

I can see. I can see with both eyes!

He moved as if in a dream, running on short legs, laughing, his voice high and filled with shrieks of delight.

Again there was the laugh.

“Come, Galin. Mama’s waiting.”

The shadow stepped out from behind the grove of trees. He was tall, red-haired, beard and mustache cropped short, a circlet of turquoise stones resting upon his brow, his long flowing robes of a simple cut, embroidered with edging of richest blue.

“Papa!”

He moved around the edge of a fountain, which danced and splashed. A gentle breeze took the water, spraying him with a fine mist, and he laughed at the coolness of it, the rainbow of light.

He reached up to his face to wipe the spray from his eyes.

His hand touched the patch over his left eye.

Stunned, he pulled his hand away and at that instant all faded. The garden melting, shifting, falling away. For the briefest of instants he thought that he did indeed see his father, standing before him with his sad, gentle eyes, reaching out. The image drifted as if falling away into a long dark tunnel and he wanted to reach out to it.

“Papa?”

The image held for a moment, the sad eyes gazing at him, a hand outstretched, beckoning, and he started to step forward toward it.

No! He’s dead. Murdered.

The image faded and Garth turned away, tears coursing down his face. He looked up again.

He was standing on a darkened field that stretched away into an eternity. No sun lit the sky, the world illuminated as if by an unseen and unholy light. Dark green clouds, moving impossibly fast, roiled overhead, racing by. The wind was damp, cold, and filled with a pungent acrid smoke that held with it the stench of corruption. Before him was a darkness that was shadowy, not fully formed, wavery, as if nothing more than mist. The form moved, its black robes fluttering in the breeze, and for a brief instant he caught a glimpse of a skull-like visage. He felt his blood go cold.

The shadowy form drew closer.

“I wanted to make it easy for you,” a voice whispered. “You would have died believing that it was your father you embraced.”

“And so this is the reward for winning,” Garth said quietly.

“You knew that from the beginning, didn’t you?”

Garth nodded.

The Walker chuckled softly.

“You interest me, Garth, or is it Galin?”

“Garth. The other died long ago.”

“It was too bad. I remember you well. You were eager, smart, able to use mana almost from the day you were born. You came of good blood.”

“My father and you were once friends. He saved your life once.”

The shadow nodded.

“Back when all was young,” Kuthuman whispered. “And that is why I wanted to give you the gift of a gentle death, at least a small token back to a friendship from another age.”

Kuthuman sighed, and in his voice was an infinite weariness.

“But unfortunately you were too strong-you saw through the mirage.”

Garth said nothing, still so shocked by the power of the mirage that he found it difficult to control the tears. Nor would he admit that for a moment he had been taken in entirely.

“You kill all who win the Festival, don’t you.”

“Are you hoping for an exemption?”

“No. I know better than that. Besides, there is too much between us.”

The shadow sighed and to Garth’s surprise actually sat down.

“Let us not finish this yet. Sit down, you must be weary.”

Garth hesitated.

“No tricks this time. Now that you know, I owe you that as well, as the son of a friend. Besides, it would be a passing pleasure to talk as I once did, without pretenses, without groveling fear. When the end comes for you I will grant you release as a man, standing with weapon in hand as is your right.”

Garth sat down on the chilled ground.

The shadow sighed.

“I always kill the winner of Festival.”

“You don’t want any future competition.”

“Of course not. You think the poor fools who so eagerly compete would have figured that out by now. As in your world, in the world that was once my sole realm, the mana is scarce. It is drawn slowly out of the lands, created by the life force of every creature who lives, and then tamed and controlled by those few born with the power to see it, to concentrate its power and use it. It took much of that mana for me to break down the barriers between worlds and to walk as a demigod between them. It takes the tribute of many such worlds for my power to be sustained and to grow.

“Now, do you think I would share such power with others? The power to walk between worlds, to be a Walker, rests upon that. If I allowed others to gain that power, they would be a threat as they grew.”

“So you strangle them in the cradle. You let us choose who might be the next threat and then you take them and kill them.”

The shadow nodded.

“Unfortunate, isn’t it,” he whispered as if troubled by the dark necessity of reality. “If I did not, there might be a day when someone could gather enough mana unto themselves so that they too could pierce the veil of worlds and walk as I now do. And if they did, then what would there be, yet another to struggle against in a universe of struggle.”