Carrying two—both Dorian and Sean—and traveling nearly twice the distance I went the night before is a much slower process. What had taken perhaps a quarter of an hour with Dorian, takes double that time, then double again in order to reach the trailhead that leads to the ridge above the reef where I encountered the Rényú two score years ago.
Circling the bay from the fisherman's wharf along a primitive trail, I can't help but appreciate the simple natural beauty here. The granite mountains rise out of a sea of azure waves and white sandy beaches, over forests and rocky peaks to scrape a cloud-dappled blue sky above.
As with the night before, as soon as we stop traveling at sylphid speed and materialize on the rocky, overgrown path, Dorian staggers, this time crashing to his knees. Releasing Sean's hand immediately, I kneel beside Dorian, curling my arm around his shoulders.
"Are you okay?"
