The Golden Door (15 page)

M
oving as quickly as he dared, Rye tiptoed back the way he had come. His mind was buzzing, but his first concern was that Nanion and FitzFee did not suspect they had been overheard.

Safely reaching the bathroom again, he set off to try to find Sonia. He could not wait to tell her what had been said.

He knocked quietly at every door he came to, but received no reply. Then, without warning, he turned a corner and found himself in a little courtyard garden that was bathed in sunlight and almost filled by the graceful tree that grew in its center.

The sight brought a lump into Rye’s throat, for the tree was a bell tree. It had been stripped of fruit and was far larger than any tree was allowed to grow in Weld. Still, it reminded him painfully of the garden at home, as it had been before the skimmer attack.

As he approached the tree, he saw that beneath its branches, close to its trunk, was a stone slab, with another stone at its head. A grave.

Moving closer, ducking beneath the drooping, leafy boughs, Rye read the words carved into the upright stone.

Rye stared sadly at the carving. After hearing what Nanion had said to FitzFee, it was easy to guess that the deaths of Ethena and Juste D’Or must have had something to do with the tyrant Olt.

The lines about Faene D’Or looked sharper and newer than those in memory of her parents. The young woman had followed her mother and father quite recently, then. And the people of Fleet had felt it right to lay her to rest in the same grave and add her name to their stone.

Rye heard feet on the path that circled the little garden. He turned quickly and pushed his way out from the shade of the tree.

He met the surprised eyes of two pretty young women. It took a few startled moments before he realized that one of them was Sonia!

His mouth must have fallen open, because Sonia’s eyes narrowed and she dropped a mocking curtsey.

“You look better, too, Rye,” she remarked. “But I am not so impolite as to stare!”

“I am sorry,” Rye managed to say, feeling his face grow hot. “It was a surprise, that is all. I have only ever seen you —”

Sonia raised her eyebrows. “Covered in soot, mud, fell-dragon slime, and goat droppings?” she finished for him sweetly.

“Well — yes,” Rye mumbled. “I did not even realize your hair was …”

Red — magnificent golden red, like the hair of the Fellan. Washed clean and freed from the confining cap, it curled in a shimmering copper cloud about Sonia’s face and shoulders.

Knowing that nothing he could say would undo the damage done by that first, astounded look, Rye turned to Sonia’s companion.

And she … she was beautiful! She was like a picture of a princess in a book of old tales. Her heart-shaped face was exquisite. Her golden skin was perfect. Her gentle blue eyes were warm. Her tawny hair fell down her back in shining waves as thick and smooth as honey.

She smiled with great sweetness. “Greetings,
Rye,” she said softly. “I am glad to meet you. Except for your hair, you look very like your brother.”

Rye’s heart gave a great leap. “You know Dirk?”

“Oh, yes indeed,” the young woman murmured, her smile faltering a little. “Dirk was with us for many months. He was very ill at first, but once he began to recover, we … he spoke of you often. You and your other brother, Sholto, and your mother.”

Rye gaped at her. “Dirk told you about —?”

“He missed you all very much,” Sonia cut in loudly. “Because you were so far away. Though he could not say where, of course.”

The beautiful girl nodded. “I guessed his home must be on the other side of Dorne — on the east coast. A great many people went there, to escape from Olt. But he had been forbidden to speak of it, he said, and as there were things I could not tell him either, I did not press him.”

“Oh.” Rye swallowed, appalled at how nearly he had blurted out the truth. How could he have thought that Dirk would break his vow and reveal that he came from Weld? Dirk would never do such a thing, whatever the temptation.

He shot Sonia a grateful glance. She smirked and raised her eyebrows, her eyes dancing.

“Mainly, we spoke of the books I read to him, or the music I played,” the blue-eyed girl went on, plainly delighting in the chance to talk about Dirk. “And later, when he was stronger, we would go for walks and visit
the horses. Dirk liked the horses very much. He had never ridden one before he came here, he said. I have always heard that the east is a place of high cliffs and wild winds. It is too rugged for horses, perhaps?”

She looked at Rye under her lashes, clearly hoping he would let slip a few shreds of information about Dirk’s home.

“It — ah — it is true that there are very few horses where we come from,” Rye said awkwardly.

“This is Faene D’Or, Rye,” Sonia said, deciding it would be best to change the subject. “The clothes I am wearing are outgrown ones of hers. No doubt you think they are a great improvement on my old ones?”

“Faene … D’Or?” Stunned, Rye glanced back at the grave beneath the tree.

“Yes!” Suddenly all seriousness, Sonia hurried forward, pulling Faene with her. “Rye, Faene has been telling me — Rye, we did not understand! We have been wrong, completely wrong! On Midsummer Eve —”

She broke off in alarm as there was a chorus of shouts, and a bell began to clang wildly.

“Beware!” a hoarse voice cried. “Gifters on their way! At the gallop!”

Faene’s beautiful face paled in shock.

“Again?” she gasped. “But why —? Oh, Sonia, make haste!”

She and Sonia ducked under the branches of the bell tree. By the time Rye had turned around, they
were kneeling by the grave. Faene was pressing the carved decoration above her name on the headstone.

And the slab on the ground was moving! It was sliding smoothly toward the foot of the grave, exposing a long, dark cavity in the ground.

Horses’ hooves pounded somewhere outside the guesthouse, and there was a rumbling sound, like cart wheels on paving stones. People were still shouting, and the bell clanged again and again.

“Make haste!” Faene urged, crawling into the cavity and pulling Sonia after her. “Rye, get in! We can make room!”

But Rye knew they could not. There was barely room for two to lie in that narrow, shallow space, let alone three.

“I will find somewhere else,” he said rapidly, and backed away, ignoring Sonia’s panicking cries. “Make yourselves safe!”

Faene took him at his word. She must have pushed another lever inside the tomb, for the stone slab began sliding back into place. In seconds, the grave looked exactly as it had done before.

Loud, rough voices were bellowing inside the guesthouse now. Rye thought he could hear booted feet stamping on the wooden floors.

Clearly the Gifters, whoever they were, were dangerous. They must be clever and determined hunters, too, if Faene D’Or had to hide in a false grave to save herself from them.

It was tempting to run. With the magic ring to speed him, Rye was sure he could outrun the Gifters as he had outrun the bloodhog. But if he tried to escape, they were sure to catch sight of him. And if they had weapons like FitzFee’s crossbow, they would be able to cut him down even from a distance.

Better to hide, then, at least until he knew what sort of weapons they carried.

He swung himself up into the bell tree, climbing as high as he could and crouching among the thick leaves.

It was not a clever hiding place. But games with Sholto and Dirk in the old days had taught Rye that expert hunters often failed to check the obvious places. They expected their quarry to try to outwit them.

He heard heavy feet approaching the courtyard. He clung to his branch, flattening himself against it, as still as if he were made of wood himself.

Six huge young men strode into the courtyard. They wore black helmets that concealed all but their eyes and mouths. Each carried what looked like a slim black club. Each wore black boots, black leggings, and a scarlet tunic with a gold crest embroidered on the center of the chest. Peering cautiously down, Rye saw that the crest was a large letter
O
formed by a sea serpent swallowing its own tail.

“Why have you come here again?”

The voice was Nanion’s. He had followed the Gifters into the courtyard and was facing them alone, refusing to be cowed by their size or their weapons.

“Two of the prisoners have escaped the fortress — freed by rebel scum,” the leading Gifter said coldly.

Nanion’s steady eyes did not flicker. “I am glad to hear it. But what has that to do with Fleet?”

“The blood of seven is required. The lost prisoners must be replaced.”

“Then perhaps you and one of your fellow Gifters could volunteer to make up the difference, Bern,” Nanion suggested pleasantly. “I am sure there is nothing you would not do for your master.”

The Gifter’s top lip twitched. “Gifters serve the Chieftain, may he live forever, in another way,” he snapped.

“Ah yes, so you do,” Nanion agreed with barely veiled contempt. “You buy your lives with the lives of others. Yet it may not be wise to trust your beloved master too far, Bern. If Olt becomes desperate, who knows what he might ask of your loyalty?”

“Be silent!” thundered Bern as his two tallest companions glanced nervously at each other, and the third, a hefty, round-shouldered brute with a sulky mouth, shifted his feet uneasily. “We have been promised safety. The two replacements will be found in the usual way.”

“Then you had better waste no more time in Fleet,” said Nanion. “You already know that there is no one here to suit your vile purpose.”

The Gifter had recovered himself. He smiled
thinly. “We are now not so sure of that,” he said. “Perhaps you would care to see why?”

He drew a folded note from beneath his tunic and handed it to Nanion.

Peering down from the tree, Rye caught his breath. Had he and Sonia been betrayed? Had someone who had seen them arrive …?

Nanion hesitated, then unfolded the note. As he glanced at it, he grew very still, but when he looked up, his face was quite controlled.

“How did you come by this piece of nonsense?” he asked, casting the paper carelessly away.

The note fluttered through the air and fell faceup on the moss, not far below Rye’s perch. Rye strained his eyes to read it, and fear laid an icy hand on his heart as he slowly made it out.

Numb with horror, Rye looked back at Nanion and Bern.

The Gifter’s smile had broadened. He was enjoying his triumph.

“The treachery at the fortress was discovered while the second prisoner was being released. One of the rebels — a savage wielding a giant hook — stayed to fight while the others escaped. Unfortunately he, too, escaped in the end, but his coat was torn off in the struggle. That piece of nonsense, as you call it, was in one of the pockets.”

“It must be years old,” said Nanion. “You know —”

“It is not old,” Bern cut in. “Not nearly old enough.” He turned to his companions and jerked his head at the bell tree.

Slightly raising their clubs, the two tallest men marched forward. Rye heard them move beneath the branches of the tree. He held his breath and did not stir.

“Surely the Gifters have not sunk so low that they will do violence to a grave!” Nanion exclaimed.

Cautiously, very cautiously, Rye turned his head a little and looked down.

Through a screen of leaves, he could see the two red-and-black figures standing directly below him, on either side of the grave. They were pointing the slim black clubs at the grave slab.

“Traitor scum deserve no reverence from us,” Bern snarled. “But we are not interested in them, as
you well know. We are interested in a newer burial. We wish to know how a girl supposedly dead of fever half a year ago was able to give a note to her rebel lover so recently that the paper is still crisp and white.”

He raised his voice. “Open it!”

Humming beams of red light sprang from the tips of the black clubs, striking the head of the grave slab and turning it the color of blood. Keeping the beams steady, the two Gifters sidled toward the grave foot. And as they moved, there was a groaning, grating sound, and the slab itself began to move.