Alec pulled his blade free and staggered to the fire to check his wounds. His coat was badly torn and bloodied. He took it and his bloodstained shirt off and assessed the damage: he had deep bites on both arms and a gash across the heel of his left hand. He let them bleed for a few minutes to cleanse the wounds, then tore up his shirt and bound up the wounds as best he could. His hands were shaking and the night breeze felt colder than it had before. Grimacing, he pulled his coat over his shoulders and squatted by the fire to get warm, still trying to understand how he’d gotten here in the first place.

The flames gave off no heat.

“Illior’s Fingers,” he whispered, passing his right hand over the flames. Pain blossomed across his palm and he yanked it back. The skin tingled, like a slight burn.

Nothing made sense. He was certain he hadn’t gone through any door; one moment he was in the palace corridor with Seregil behind him, the next he was here, alone somewhere in the countryside, surrounded by sleepy sheep. He went to one of the dogs and touched its side. There was no blood.

Dogs that could bite, but not bleed.

Fire that could burn, but gave off no heat.

The sky was dark, but there were no stars or moon.

He tried to ignore the hammering of his heart as he looked around again, deciding what to do. The only direction that promised any answers was the distant town. Having his lightstone would make it a safer walk. He crawled around on his knees, finding what appeared to be it in a fresh sheep pat—shit seemed real enough here—but the magic had died; it gave off no light. Cursing under his breath, he wiped it off on the grass and stuck it in a pocket, then started toward the distant lights.

The hillside was littered with large stones and cut everywhere by gullies full of mud and reeds. He chose a large one and followed it, stumbling over rocks and rabbit holes, and falling often enough to scrape his knees and elbows and jar his throbbing wounds. He was seriously light-headed, hungry, and dreadfully thirsty but he knew better than to drink the fetid gully water.

The grey, overcast sky was beginning to brighten when he heard rushing water in the distance and followed the sound to a broad river. Falling on his bruised, bloodied knees, he washed his hands and scooped up handfuls of water. Or tried. It seemed to disappear in his mouth, leaving him parched. He tried again, then gave up. There was still dried blood on his hands.

Water that was not wet? Going by previous experience, he suspected that it would still drown a person. His stomach rumbled, cramping with hunger. His mouth felt like it was filled with dust.