At the far end of the chamber, mounted into the obsidian wall, a circular frame of runes began to ignite, one by one, until a vortex shimmered to life.
A portal.
The portal was different from Serena's pink constructs, different from Hyran's gold, different from anything any of them had built. This was old magic. Architectural magic. Magic that had been embedded in stone and left to sleep for millennia, waiting for the right blood to walk close enough to wake it up, and the right blood had just walked into the chamber covered in ash, vampire dust, exploding fruit residue, and the comprehensive trauma of a group who had been through fourteen near-death experiences in a single afternoon.
Aeron exhaled, staring at it.
"Well… that's either salvation," he said, "or a brand new brand of nightmare."
"Given today's track record," Gavriel said, "I'm putting the odds at sixty-forty nightmare."
"Generous," Maelor muttered. "I had it at eighty-twenty."
