The journey back to Valmere was not a transit; it was a violent tearing of the landscape. We didn't use the primary mana-veins this time. The "Civilized" routes of the South were too slow, too regulated, and too far from the direct northern axis. Instead, I forced the Ley-Line Skiff's pilot—a terrified young man named Elian—to dive into the Low-Altitude Overcurrent, a jagged, unstable stream of raw energy that hugged the mountain ranges like a jagged blade of lightning.
"The engine can't handle the turbulence!" Elian screamed over the roar of the wind. The skiff was vibrating so violently that the silver trim on the dashboard was beginning to peel. "The filters are going to shatter! We're going to stall over the Black-Water Gorge!"
"I am the filter," I said, standing in the center of the cargo bay.
