The Golden Door (21 page)

He blinked. Surely in Olt’s chamber there had been three male and four female prisoners. Now there seemed to be three females and four males.

The man at the end of the line was still resisting. The chains binding his wrists and ankles glinted in the light of the lowering sun as he struggled.

Olt bared his teeth and flicked a finger. The man’s body jerked. Slowly he sank to the ground. And it was only then that Rye realized who he was.

The man was Dirk.

Rye took a deep breath, and dived.

T
he water was like cool silk on Rye’s skin. He cut through it like a spear, feeling its power with fierce joy, knowing he was master of it. He could no longer feel the weight of the cutters on his back, or the pouch of grease on his belt. He could no longer feel the weight of his own body. He was at one with the sea, freer and stronger than he had ever been in his life.

When at last he surfaced to breathe, he had reached the rougher water. The surging, whitecapped waves tried to tumble and buffet him. Rye dived deeper and streaked through them, using their force to speed him, always aiming for the fortress and the rock.

Then the rock was ahead. He could see it through the swirling water, rising like a wall from its blanket of foam. He let the next wave flow over him. Then, when it had spent its fury, he coasted into the frothing shallows.

The great rock was taller than he had realized. Stretching his arms up, he could just reach its top with his fingertips. But a shallow ledge, carved out by the sea, ran right across its face not far above his knees. In moments, he was standing on the ledge, peering cautiously over the rock’s flat surface.

The Gifters standing at the bottom of the walkway were startlingly close. The lowest two — the two standing at the point where the walkway joined the rock — were so very near that Rye was almost afraid to breathe, in case they heard him. He also became very aware of the smell of the serpent repellent rising from his skin and feared that, at any moment, one of them would catch the scent.

But the Gifters were not trained soldiers. They were not on the alert. Their senses were dulled by the sound of the sea, the tolling of the bell, and the wind that blew unceasingly into their faces. And they were all looking up at the viewing platform, totally absorbed by what was happening there.

Bern was surveying the ragged line of kneeling prisoners, his dagger held high. He slashed the dagger downward, and instantly the tolling of the bell ceased.

A breathless hush fell over the crowd pressed to the fence.

“Citizens of Oltan!” Bern shouted, his voice echoing over the shore in competition with the beating of the waves. “You have come to witness the Gifting — the renewal of our beloved Chieftain, Olt!”

The watchers at the fence cheered frantically and waved their flags. The watchers at the back remained silent.

“Our Chieftain Olt loves all of Dorne’s people!” shouted Bern, gesturing at the silent, wizened figure crouched on the serpent throne. “Our Chieftain Olt grieves that young lives must be sacrificed so he may live. But he knows, as we all know, that he
must
live! The circle of magic he weaves around our island is all that protects us from the ancient enemy who wishes to destroy us all!”

Cries of fear rose from the crowd at the fence. Bern waited until they had subsided before going on.

“In his great generosity of heart,” he shouted, “our Chieftain Olt has this day released the youngest of the prisoners chosen for sacrifice. He has put in her place an enemy of Dorne. This traitor last night attempted to free the sacrifices, so as to leave Dorne undefended against the evil sorcerer who is his master!”

He pointed his dagger at the kneeling figure of Dirk.

The crowd by the fence hissed in anger. Even the people behind them looked at one another, murmuring uneasily.

It is not true!
Rye wanted to shout.
Dirk knows nothing of the Lord of Shadows! Dirk is not your enemy! Your enemy is Olt!

But he kept silent. The avid watchers at the fence believed Bern utterly, and their minds would never be
changed by the shouted words of an invisible stranger. And the people behind, the great mass of the people, were too cowed by Olt and his Gifters to rebel, even now when seven lives hung in the balance and the sorcerer’s powers were at their weakest.

Bern flourished his dagger and bent over Sonia. Rye felt a chill, even though he knew from what Hass had told him of the Gifting ceremony that Sonia’s life was not yet in danger.

Sonia did not stir as Bern seized her hand, lifted it, and pressed the point of his knife into her index finger. The crowd at the fence cheered as the blood flowed.

With his left hand, Bern dabbed at the wound and turned to smear a line of Sonia’s blood on Olt’s mottled forehead. Olt’s lips moved, muttering words Rye could not hear. Deep in his cavernous eyes, small spots of scarlet burned, like coals glowing in pits of darkness.

Bern turned to the prisoner beside Sonia, took blood from him, too, and anointed Olt’s brow for the second time. Again Olt’s lips moved soundlessly. The ghastly ceremony was repeated with all the other prisoners in turn. And with every fresh smear of blood, Olt’s eyes seemed to kindle a little more, and he sat a little straighter on his monstrous, decaying throne.

When the last blood, Dirk’s, had been taken, Bern bowed low to Olt and returned to stand behind the
throne. The tyrant’s lips were still moving. His burning eyes were fixed on the horizon.

The seven Gifters dragged the prisoners to their feet and began hustling them down the walkway, toward the rock.

Not yet
, Rye told himself, as his hands tingled and his heart began to race.
You can do nothing yet. If you make a move too soon, all is lost. You must wait. When the time comes, Dirk will help you. He will see what has to be done. He will lead the others.

But it was agony to stand there, motionless, with the waves beating the backs of his legs, as Sonia, Dirk, Faene, and the other prisoners were dragged onto the rock. It was agony to watch helplessly as again they were forced to kneel in line. It was agony to see the chains that bound their ankles looped through the iron rings, and locked.

Stay still. You must wait till the Gifters withdraw. Wait
…

Rye edged across the rock till he was so close to Dirk that he could have reached out and touched him. He longed to whisper to Dirk, to let him know that help was at hand — that together they had a chance.

But he knew he could not risk the Gifters hearing him. And as he stood gripping the edge of the rock, so near to the brother he had come all this way to find, he began to see that any words he might say would be useless in any case.

Dirk’s head was bowed. His broad shoulders
were slumped. His chained hands hung limply between his knees. It was as if whatever Olt had done to him on the viewing platform had robbed him of his will to resist.

Rye watched helplessly as Faene leaned toward Dirk, sobbing his name. Faene’s beautiful face was wet with tears and with the spray now spattering the top of the rock with every wave that broke.

Dirk lifted his head. It was plainly a huge effort for him to do even that. His eyes were glazed. His skin was gray. His shaggy hair, grown to shoulder length, blew and tangled in the wind. He looked leaner, and much older, than he had when Rye last saw him, marching out of Southwall with Joliffe and Crell by his side.

The sight of him struggling to turn to Faene brought a burning ache to Rye’s throat. And when, with a low groan, Dirk dropped his heavy head again, resting it on the weeping girl’s shoulder, Rye thought his own heart would break.

But grief and pity were not the only things he felt. There was something else, too — cold, sinking dismay.

He had not realized till this moment how much he had been depending on Dirk. Now he faced it. When he had seen that Dirk was still alive — that Dirk had not been killed in the pit but only stunned — he had felt not only piercing joy but also a huge sense of relief. It was as if a crushing weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

He had thought that when the time came, his older brother would take the lead, as he always had. He had thought that Dirk, quickly understanding the plan, would ensure it was carried through.

Now he knew this would not be —
could
not be. Dirk was too weakened by Olt’s sorcery to do anything to help himself or anyone else.

It makes no difference
, Rye told himself desperately, as the seven Gifters straightened from their task, glancing uneasily toward the horizon.
I am no more alone now than I was when I thought Dirk was dead. The plan still stands.

But it was as if his mind’s brief, comforting slide back into the habits of a lifetime had weakened him, as the flick of Olt’s finger had weakened Dirk. Suddenly he felt unsure. Suddenly he was remembering Hass telling him that it was impossible to save the prisoners, that he was mad to attempt it.

But Hass, in the end, had helped him. As FitzFee had helped him. And the Fellan Edelle. Unsure, all of them, that they were doing the wisest thing, they had still decided to trust him.

Unconsciously, Rye squared his shoulders as if to take back the burden of responsibility he had so gratefully shrugged off such a short time ago.

It was then that he felt a stirring in his mind — a soft tugging, as if something he had forgotten was trying to come to the surface. He had the feeling that it had been going on for quite a while, though he had
noticed it only now. And suddenly he knew where it was coming from.

He tore his eyes from Dirk and looked toward the other end of the line, at Sonia.

Sonia’s damp, draggled hair was whipping around her head like weed caught by the tide. Her face was pale with dread, but hard and set. She was turning her head left and right, as if she was searching for something — or someone.

Searching for me
.

The knowledge ran through Rye like flame. Sonia knew he would not abandon her. She knew he must be somewhere near. Even at this last, desperate moment, she was still hoping against hope that he would find a way of saving her.

As fast as he could, Rye edged back across the face of the rock. He had just reached Sonia when a chorus of shouts rose from the crowd by the fence.

Dozens of people were pointing out to sea. The Gifters lining the lower half of the walkway abruptly deserted their posts and hurried up to higher ground.

Rye looked quickly over his shoulder. The sky was bright orange, streaked with red. The sun was a huge, fiery ball sliding toward the horizon.

And the sea was heaving with more than waves. Long, glittering shapes were undulating through the swell. Terrible, spiked heads were rearing from the water, silhouetted against the blazing sky.

The serpents were coming.

S
creams of terror burst from the line of prisoners. The seven Gifters turned and almost ran from the rock. Their boots clattered on the walkway as they made for the safety of the viewing platform.

So it is now or never
, Rye thought grimly.

Sonia had made no sound, but her eyes had widened and darkened. She was staring at the sea, her face blank with dread.

“Sonia!” Rye hissed, clinging to the rock with one hand and unfastening the bag of grease from his belt with the other.

Sonia stiffened. She looked in the direction of Rye’s voice, and her shoulders sagged as she saw nothing. Clearly, she thought the voice had been in her own mind.

Rye slung the heavy bag onto the surface of the rock, pulled it wide open, and slid it over to the girl so that it pressed against her chained hands.

“Sonia, you cannot see me, but I am here!” he said rapidly. “There is no time to explain. Smear yourself well with this grease. Then pass the bag on. Keep it hidden. Tell the others!”

The moment he took his hand away, the bag became visible. With a muffled gasp, Sonia hunched forward, pushed her fingers into the foul-smelling grease, and began to smear her clothes wherever she could reach.

She disguised her actions well — very well. From behind, and even from the side, it must have looked merely as if the obstinate copper-head had at last given way to despair and was bowed and rocking in an agony of fear.

Rye hauled himself up onto the rock. It took all his strength to do it, with the heavy cutters dragging at his shoulders. If he had still been carrying the bag as well, he might not have managed it at all.

Lying facedown on the rock’s flooded surface, he tore the sling from his back and wrestled the cutters free. The ghostly shape of the cutters glimmered faintly in the weird sunset light, but the kneeling prisoners hid it from Olt and the Gifters. Rye could only hope that the people at the fence were too intent on watching the approaching serpents to notice it.

He hooked the blades of the cutters around the chain that fastened Sonia’s ankles to the iron ring. Using the rock to brace one of the cutter handles, he pressed down on the other handle with all his strength.

And the blades sliced through the iron like a knife slicing through butter. Elation thrilled through him.

“Sonia, the chain is cut,” he panted. “But do not move yet. Olt must have no warning. Stay till the last minute — till everyone is free, and it is too late for the Gifters to capture you again. I will give the signal.”

She gave a slight nod to show she had heard. Then she slumped toward the round-faced boy beside her, as if she were drawing close to him for comfort. She muttered in the boy’s ear, at the same time pushing the bag of grease toward him.

The boy started and turned to stare at her, his eyes glassy. Sonia muttered again, urgently. The boy plunged his hands into the grease and began clumsily to smear his knees, thighs, and chest.

Rye was already in front of him, cutting through his chain. As the freed length clanked onto the rock, the boy’s whole body jerked.

“Stay still!” Rye ordered. “Till I give the word.”

The boy made a strangled sound. He thrust the grease bag at the dark young woman who was next in line, making no effort to hide what he was doing.

“Spread this on your clothes!” he gabbled through chattering teeth. “Then pass it on. Keep it hidden. Don’t let them see. The copper-head says. The copper-head has conjured up a spirit to save us! But only if we do as she orders.”

“Serpent repellent!” the dark girl hissed. “I could
smell it, but I thought I was dreaming!” She eagerly plunged her hands into the grease as Rye crawled past her, and the cutters did their work.

The powerful young man who was next in line was harder to free. Rye had to try twice before the chain fell away from the ring. And as he wrestled with the chain of the fifth prisoner, a thin, curly-haired boy, he realized with dismay that the cutters had been badly blunted. The curly-haired boy had smeared himself with repellent and fumbled the bag along to Faene D’Or long before the task was done.

“Stay where you are until I give the word,” Rye warned as at last the chain broke free.

The boy’s mouth opened, but he did not speak. He stared past Rye, blinking rapidly.

Rye glanced over his shoulder, and his blood ran cold. Close to shore, a wave was just breaking in a thunder of foam. The wave swelling behind that was a writhing mass of serpents.

A glittering silver head burst from the churning water, twisting into the air in an explosion of spray. Needle-sharp fangs glinted in the red light. A harsh, hooting sound rang out.

Rye looked back, straight into the terrified eyes of Faene. She was just turning from Dirk, plunging her hands back into the bag at her knees. She had smeared the repellent on Dirk before using it for herself.

Rye clamped the blades of the cutters around Faene’s chain, just above the iron ring, and pushed
with all his might. The chain dented but did not break.

The crowd at the fence roared. The boy Rye had just freed was staggering to his feet.

“No!” Rye shouted, still struggling to cut through Faene’s chain. “Olt will see you! Stay where you are!”

The curly-haired boy took no notice. Wild with panic, he lurched from the rock and began to hobble up the walkway, the cut chain trailing behind him.

There was a cry from above. Olt staggered to his feet. He was tottering from his failing throne, his mouth a gaping black hole, his brow dark with dried blood.

“Stop him!” Olt shrieked, pointing to the boy on the walkway. “There must be seven of them! Seven more years of life! I must have them! I
will
have them! Stop him! Stun him!”

Bern darted to the top of the walkway, scorch in hand.

The scorch whined. A yellow beam hit the staggering boy full in the chest. He dropped like a stone and rolled back down the ramp, coming to a stop where it joined the rock.

“Why do you stand there, you fools?” cried Olt, gesturing wildly at the seven Gifters hovering uncertainly behind him. “Move the sacrifice back into place! See that the others are secure!”

The Gifters hesitated, their eyes on the heaving, writhing sea.

“Do it!” Olt shouted, his voice cracking. “Do as I say, or I will kill you all!”

“Jump!” Rye bellowed to Sonia and the others. “Down behind the rock! Use the walkway for cover! Get yourselves up beyond the waterline! Go! Go!”

There was a confusion of movement as the prisoners scrambled up. Struggling with the cutters, Rye could hear Olt’s screech of rage.

He could hear other things, too — a clashing, banging noise and voices bellowing defiance. The sounds seemed to be coming from the fence.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of what seemed to be a riot at the section of fence that was nearest to the rock. The fence was rocking, and the metal net was bulging, as if it was being pushed by people determined to break through.

Rye caught his breath. Was that big, dark figure at the front of the crowd Hass?

He had no time to think about it. The next moment, a crash drowned all other sound, spray was thick in the air, and foaming water flooded the rock’s surface. Dimly, Rye realized that this was the last of the wave he had seen breaking. The serpents were in the next wave. The serpents were almost upon them.

“Leave me!” Faene screamed. “Whoever you are — leave me! Go to Dirk! Save Dirk!”

At that moment, Rye felt the chain give way.

“Jump down, Faene!” he gasped. “Behind the rock! Jump!”

When she hesitated, he pushed her, pushed her roughly. “For Dirk!” he shouted. “Do it for him! He would want it. You know he would! I beg you, go!”

With a sobbing cry, she obeyed him, crawling to the fortress side of the rock and disappearing over the edge.

And then, Olt’s frenzied commands and the crowd’s roars ringing in his ears, Rye turned to his brother. He hooked the blunted cutter blades around the chain that held Dirk captive. He hurled his whole weight onto the handles and pushed with all his might.

And again, the chain dented but did not break. Rye freed the cutters and tried for the second time.

“No, Faene!” Dirk mumbled, shaking his head and trying to push Rye away. “Save yourself!”

“Dirk, be still!” Rye shouted.

“Leave me, Faene!” Making a supreme effort, so heroic that it wrung Rye’s heart even as he yelled in frustration, Dirk knocked the cutters out of his brother’s grip.

Rye pushed back the hood of concealment. What did it matter if he was seen now? He seized Dirk’s bowed head between his hands and tilted it so that Dirk could see his face. The glazed eyes stared at him without understanding.

“Faene is not here!” Rye shouted. “Faene is safe! Dirk, look at me! It is Rye! Rye!”

Dirk’s brow wrinkled in bewilderment.

“Rye,” he said slowly. “Rye? But how —?”

Water thundered down upon the rock, beating on Rye’s back, sending him sprawling. In terror, he heard the clatter of the cutters as they were swept away.

And as the water began pouring back toward the sea, he found himself sliding with it.

His fingers scrabbled uselessly on the surface of the rock. The serpent scale could not help him now. The rushing water was not deep enough to swim in. It was nothing but a force too strong for him to resist. His feet, and then his legs, slithered over the rock’s edge.

Frantically he kicked the empty air. His ears were filled with the sound of rushing water, Olt’s squeals of fury, the roar of the crowd, and the hoots and hisses of serpents following the wave, eager to be the first to seize him.

Then, with a jerk, the terrible backward slide stopped. Someone had caught hold of one of his wrists. Someone was holding him fast as the water rushed past him. And as the torrent eased to a trickle, someone was pulling his arm, helping him to scramble back onto the rock’s surface.

His mind was full of Dirk. But it was not Dirk he saw when he shook the water from his eyes.

It was Sonia.

One foot thrust through the iron ring that had once secured Faene, chained hands still gripping Rye’s wrist, Sonia lay facedown and gasping on the rock. As Rye stared, trying to take in the fact that she had not
jumped and run with the others, but had stayed to help him, Sonia raised her head.

Her nose was running. Water streamed from her hair, clothes, and face.

“Come away,” she shouted to Rye, scrambling up and pulling him up with her. “The Gifters are refusing to come near. The crowd is storming the fence. We have a chance!”

She saw him glance at Dirk, who was again slumped over, his head almost touching the rock.

“There is no more you can do!” she shrieked. “The cutters are gone! Rye, you must leave him!”

“I cannot leave him!” Rye cried in agony. “Sonia — he is Dirk! He is my brother! My brother!”

Sonia’s eyes widened. She glanced at the bowed figure of Dirk, her face twisted in dismay. Then, as she turned back to Rye, she screamed piercingly.

She was staring over Rye’s shoulder. He spun around.

The silver serpent loomed above them. Its jaws were gaping. Drops of pale gold venom dripped from its fangs and fell sizzling into the churning water. Its eyes were glittering like cold stars and fixed on Rye.

It was poised to strike, yet it did not strike.

The repellent is holding it back
, Rye thought.
It does not quite know what to make of me.

He knew this would not last, could not last. The serpent could see him plainly. The strong scent of kobb was making it wary, but the moment it decided Rye
was merely prey, there would be no more hesitation. He had seconds to decide what to do.

It was not difficult. At that moment, it seemed to him that there was only one decision he could make.

Slowly, he pushed his foot through the iron ring that Sonia had just kicked off, bracing himself against the waves. At the same time, he slid the bell tree stick from his belt and raised it high. He lifted his other hand, too, fingers spread, making himself as large as he could.

The silver beast recoiled, very slightly.
Yes
, Rye thought with grim satisfaction.
This is not how prey behaves, is it, serpent? Prey tries to escape you. It does not stand and stare. Be careful. Take your time….

“Sonia,” he said in a low voice. “Go now! Slowly — very slowly. While it is watching me.”

“But you —” Sonia gasped.

“I cannot escape,” Rye said, his lips barely moving. “It will strike at once if I try. But if I can just hold it like this till the sun has set — keep it from taking Dirk or that boy on the walkway just till then, the Gifting will fail. Olt will not be renewed, and Dorne will be free of him. That is something I can do, at least.”

And you will be safe, Sonia
, he thought.
You, and Faene. If you live and Olt dies, then Dirk’s death, and mine, will not have been in vain.

Briefly he thought of his mother, alone and grieving. He thought of his father, killed protecting Weld. He thought of Sholto, questing somewhere
unknown, and Tallus the healer, solitary in his workroom. He sent them all a blessing. Then he straightened his shoulders and gripped the bell tree stick more firmly in his hand.

There was a rush in the water before the rock, and a blue-black serpent rose beside the silver one. The silver hissed warningly but did not take its eyes from Rye. Towering above him, it swayed slightly. The blue-black serpent drew back its head and seemed to freeze, its terrible jaws agape.

Behind them, other serpents were coming to the surface. The sea heaved with writhing bodies. Water showered from a dozen spiked heads of green, yellow, blue, and black as they rose against the scarlet sky and hung there, motionless as masks in some nightmarish puppet show.

It was as if they were in a trance. It was more — far more — than Rye had expected.

Is the repellent so very powerful? he thought hazily. Is it because I am refusing to run?

And as he stood there wondering, the sun, like a ball of liquid fire, began to melt into the blazing horizon.