Niam faced the door, which was much more than a door. So different from the boxes, a distant part of him realized, but he pushed all thought away. He closed his eyes against a garish light pouring out of the thing, but it did no good. What he saw was not light, but more like an inner illumination of another person’s mind, somehow condensed into something physical—viscous, inky, and ultimately malleable. When he looked at it, what he saw were writings and drawings, yet that wasn’t exactly it, was it? What had first looked like words flowed and transformed into brilliant and complexly woven strands. Niam felt that if he reached his hands out, he could touch them like yarn. This was part of the trap, too, he knew intuitively, for the glowing strands were like sticky webbing waiting for prey to become ensnared in their lines. Yet instead of a spider there were the five symbols on the door, each one of them deadlier than a red-belly lurking in a woodpile.
Through Niam’s closed eyes, light that was not light pierced his lids and seared into his skull. His head throbbed and then began to pound. He closed his eyes even more tightly, and the lines and threads still glowed in the darkness. Somewhere nearby, someone urged, “You’ve got to hurry.” But Niam paid no attention to it. He pushed that voice away. Where the Sorcery impressed itself on his awareness as writing, now Niam saw currents of energy, a script working the threads of someone’s will into the fabric of the world. One that was also drawing his attention toward a powerful nexus. That was very clever, but he forced himself to direct his attention away. The pressure behind his eyes began to recede, and he noticed a curious gap in the weave.
Anyone attempting to use their knowledge of magic to undo the warded door would become ensnared by the thing and set it off without even having to touch the door. This was meant to protect what lay on the other side from magic users and non-magic users alike. With force of effort, he reached his hand out, dangerously close to the nexus that threatened to tear his head apart—so close to it that only a fool would have dared keep his attention on it for long. Curiously, his fingers did not want to move, but Niam made them move. He opened his hand and pulled at one of the threads within the sorcerous weave.
Suddenly, all of the pressure in Niam’s head vanished, and he was aware that his legs wobbled. Maerillus whispered urgently, “Grab him.”
Niam fell as strong arms reached around his chest and pulled him through the doorway. Darkness closed in, and for a time, he knew nothing except a burning in his palms.