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“I knew he couldn’t say no to Ziva once he learned who she is,” Petrik says. “My brother is a lover of all art. Music. Books. Paintings. Tapestries. He’s especially interested in the art of magic. He collects magic users, you might say. Inviting them to his court, paying them generous wages. Offering them safety and his silence.”

We turn down another hallway, Petrik’s boots squeaking along the stone floor.

“Did you have to tell him Ziva would be indebted to him?” Kellyn asks. “What if he asks for something she doesn’t want to give? And what are thesedoorsyou kept mentioning?”

“We’re almost there. You’ll understand soon.”

A few more turns. A set of stairs.

Petrik turns the necklace over in his hands. I spy a bronze key between his fingers.

We reach a door that has at least a dozen guards surrounding it. The man at their head nods to Petrik as the scholar promptly unlocks it before ushering us inside. When we’re through, Petrik immediately locks us in.

I walk to the middle of the room and spin in place, taking in the gorgeous portraits on the walls. There are five in total, spaced at even intervals. Each is shaped in a long oval, each taller than my person. The first one is of a woman. She looks older than I am but not by too much. Her skin is a deep brown, with rosy cheeks, and hair separated into tiny braids that rain down over her shoulders. She smiles, showing off a row of perfect white teeth. She looks mischievous, as though hiding a secret from whoever looks upon her.

The second is of a man, perhaps the same age or slightly older than the woman. Also dark-skinned, hands in his pockets, eyeslooking at something over my head. He wears his hair to several inches in length, and it stands up on end in a glorious halo around his face. He wears an earring in one ear, rings on his fingers.

After the man, there are two girls, and then a final man on the end. All with brown skin, different expressions, though similar features.

“Are these…?” I ask.

“The rest of my half siblings,” Petrik says. He turns to the portrait on the left of the door we just entered through. “Meet Ravis, because we definitely don’t want to run into him in the flesh.”

The oldest of King Arund’s children appears to also be the shortest. He wears his hair shorn close to his scalp—the same way Petrik likes to wear his. But unlike Petrik, Ravis’s eyes are more hooded, his nose smaller, his lips fuller. He looks dead-on at whoever’s watching, as though daring them to challenge him. He must be near thirty years of age.

“The detail is extraordinary. You’d almost think they were in the room with us,” I say.

“That’s because these were done by a magically gifted painter.”

Kellyn and I both shift in Petrik’s direction.

“I won’t disclose his name or identity because I’ve also been sworn to secrecy on his behalf. It’s no matter. We only need his paintings, which are magicked into portals.”

“Portals,” I repeat stupidly.

“Yes, if he paints the exact same image—detail for detail—in two different areas, they work as a bridge between the two places.”

I take in the paintings again, stopping at Ravis’s. “You mean—”

“With these, you can get to any capital in the span of a heartbeat just by stepping through them.”

I reach a hand out toward Ravis’s face, but Kellyn snatches it back.

“This is awfully convenient,” he says. “Why didn’t we use them to get here in the first place, then?”

“Like I said, the portals connect thecapitals. You must be in one to get here. We were in Amanor.”

“What about when we were in Lisady’s Capital fleeing from the warlord? We could have traveled here and been safe!”

Petrik grunts. “I don’t know where the portals are within each capital. I haven’t gone through them before! I just know they exist. I’d have to be able to take us to the portal directly. But once we walk through this one, we’ll keep track of where we go so we can bring Serutha back through it.”

The breath expels from my lungs. “You’re saying we can still save Temra.”

“We can save her.”

“Tell me what to do,” I say at once.

“First, we need to get dressed.” Petrik passes out the clothing, shakes out the wrinkles from his own garment, and begins to disrobe.