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The lands of Aercanum.
I knew without looking where my favorite one was. Behind me and a little to my left. The painting showed a lush landscape of rich green forests and rolling hills. And a city in the far distance that might have been Camelot, if the artist had seen it hundreds of years ago, before I had ever been born.
I didn’t know how to say good-bye.
Maybe there was no good way. But I knew one thing had to be said.
“Don’t follow me, Draven. If I make it through, I’ll close the portal behind me. You’ll die if you try to follow.”
I turned and ran.
Across the rotunda, towards the painting of Pendrath.
I ran towards it, not knowing if my hunch was right. If it was wrong, I would either look very foolish or would wind up dead.
If I was right, I was leaving Draven behind. Possibly forever.
With a pang I thought of Nightclaw. But I had already considered that. Lancelet’s horse had died days after traveling through an arch. I couldn’t take that chance with Nightclaw. Not when he already meant so much to me.
I hit the painting with full force.
It was like stepping through a curtain. The moment I crossed the threshold, the canvas shifted and warped around me, pulling me into its depths with a swirl of colors and shapes.
There was a rush of energy.
And then there was only darkness.
I landed with a gentle thud on a cold stone floor in a dark room.
The air carried a new scent. As if I truly were in a new land. Slivers of light filtered in from above, as if from under a closed door high above.
Standing up, my eyes adjusted to the light, taking in the worn stone walls and a long curving staircase leading up to a heavy oak door.
Behind me lay the stone arch I had come through. The counterpart to the one that lay in the Court of Umbral Flames.
I had only seconds.
I prayed whatever I did to the arch would be clearly reflected in the rotunda where Draven stood, showing him conclusively that the way forward was barred and closed.
With a deep breath, I called the magic from my veins, pulsing and crackling down through my fingertips. Flames flickered up the sides of the stone arch.
Sweeping them together like a curtain of fire, I guided the flames, pulling them together until they encompassed the archway in a blazing embrace.
The fire swirled as the stone began to crumble.
A figure emerged. Hurtling through the flames with reckless abandon.
They landed on the stone floor beside me in a heap, their clothing ablaze.
I swept my hands once more over the arch, watching the stones crumble and fall, then rushed to the figure on the floor. Pulling off my cloak, I beat at the flames.
The smell of burning fabric mingled with the acrid scent of charred flesh, but gradually the flames yielded. As the last vestiges of fire were subdued, I cast my cloak aside and knelt beside the fallen figure.
It wasn't Draven. I had known that from the start.
The smell of singed feathers filled the air.
Javer lifted his head. His black pointed beard was nearly gone. Skin blackened with soot, he looked up at me, dazed.
