The Golden Door (8 page)

But I am not here to choose for myself, Rye thought, and felt a pang of regret as he turned away from the wooden Door.

He knew that Dirk and Sholto would not have felt the same as he did.

He knew without a doubt that Dirk would have chosen the golden Door — the Door fit for kings and heroes. And, almost certainly, Sholto would have chosen the silver Door — the elegant door of knowledge, puzzles, and secrets.

So if Rye was to do what he had set out to do, it was a choice between those two. And in fact, if his family was ever to be united again, there was no choice at all.

Dirk was the eldest brother. Dirk was a hero and a leader. Dirk had become the family’s protector and strength after his father’s death. If Dirk could be found and brought home, he would be able to save them all.

Rye stepped forward. As he stretched out his left hand toward the golden Door, he heard the orphan girl sigh.

He had almost forgotten she was there. And there was no time to think of her now. The next instant, his hand had closed on the vast gold doorknob, the door was creaking open to reveal a shining, colorless space, and he was being jerked forward, sucked off his feet, into emptiness.

W
hen Rye came to himself, he at first thought he was dreaming. He was lying on his back, his bell tree stick still gripped in his hand. There was a strange, sharp smell in the air, and a whispering voice somewhere very near.

The first sign … do you see?

Rye’s eyes flew open. High above him, huge tree branches thick with rustling leaves were swaying like the flailing limbs of some great, shaggy beast. The sight was so unnatural, so terrifying, that at first Rye could not move a finger. Then a word Sholto had taught him came into his mind.

Wind.

Wind was a thing that existed beyond the Wall and in the skies above it. It was like the evening breezes that sometimes stirred the still air of Weld but much, much stronger. It was wind that sometimes blew dark
rain clouds over Weld, then whisked them away again after the rain had fallen. The same wind beat on the unprotected coast of Dorne and drove the ships that sailed the Sea of Serpents.

It was wind that was making the treetops move.

And the trees were giants because their roots were not confined in clay pots like Weld trees, and their branches were not pruned to the proper size each year. They were wild trees, which had been allowed to grow and spread till they became monsters.

I am beyond the Wall
, Rye thought. Cautiously he sat up, and the stick fell from his hand as he instinctively crossed his fingers and his wrists.

He could see great rocks that in Weld would be priceless treasure. He could see untidy drifts of overgrown bushes and the countless trunks of untamed trees. Fallen branches lay everywhere, the precious wood tangled with rampant vines, and covered in fungus, left to rot.

Dead leaves blanketed the ground. No one had raked them up to make compost that would help crops to grow. They just lay there, decaying where they had fallen, going to waste like the wood, feeding the monstrous trees.

There were no roads or paths. There were no signs giving directions or warning of dangers. Except for the rustling of the swaying treetops, there was no sound.

No sound of digging or hammering. No sound of
cart wheels rumbling. No voices calling, singing, or chattering. No bells.

No human sounds at all. But Rye had a growing sense of hostile life silently watching, waiting….

Abruptly he twisted to look behind him. His stomach turned over.

The golden Door was not there. The Wall of Weld was not there.

Nothing was there but more towering rocks, more straggling bushes, more trees.

Sweat broke out on Rye’s forehead. His legs tingled with the urge to leap up and run, run wildly, searching for the Door.

Panic kills
, he seemed to hear Dirk whispering in his ear.
I have seen it so often, on the Wall. When disaster strikes, workers who keep their heads have a far better chance of survival than those who do not.

Rye gritted his teeth and turned slowly away from the place where the Door should have been. Pressing his crossed wrists firmly against his chest, he forced himself to remain still, trying to fight down the fear.

He thought of the shining space he had glimpsed behind the golden Door just before he was pulled through it. Clearly, the Door was no ordinary door. It was a thing of ancient magic which did not obey the rules of the everyday world. Perhaps, for the safety of Weld, it delivered those who used it to a place well away from the Wall.

He was somewhere in the Fell Zone. He felt he could be sure of that. Perhaps it was because the place seemed so utterly barren of signs of human life. Perhaps it was because of the feeling of dread that was still making his skin crawl.

Rye pictured the map he had looked at every morning for so long. The Fell Zone was a band of land that encircled Weld. Just a narrow band. The giant trees hid the Door and the Wall from sight now, perhaps, but the trees could not go on forever. Once he was beyond them, the Wall, at least, would be clearly visible. Dirk would help him find the Door again. When he found Dirk …
if
he found Dirk …

His heart thudded sickeningly. Again panic rose in him.

Then his glazed eyes fell on the scruffy girl in red, lying not far from where he sat. His breath caught in his throat, and a sudden wave of relief surged through him. He had forgotten the girl — forgotten that he was not alone.

No sooner had this thought crossed his mind than relief was swamped by mingled irritation and shame.
That girl is no friend of yours
, he told himself angrily.
You do not want her company!

But the fact was, just the sight of another human in this alien place had given him courage. He no longer felt the urge to run. Slowly he uncrossed his wrists, took hold of his stick, and stood up.

The girl was curled up on her side, her hands clasped under her chin. Her eyes were closed.

Perhaps she was injured. Rye felt a sharp stab of unease but instantly suppressed it. The girl was not his responsibility. She had forced him to bring her here. He could not,
would
not, allow her to interfere with his search for Dirk.

Still, he could not leave her lying unprotected in the open, any more than he could have left the baby goat to die of thirst. He glanced around warily, then approached the girl and tapped her shoulder gently with his stick.

The girl’s eyes opened. They were muddy brown with a green tinge, like the water that lay in the Wall trench after rain. She rolled onto her back and blinked up at Rye. Her pale lips moved.

“We are through?”

Rye nodded.

The eyes closed briefly, as if with relief. Then the girl struggled to her feet.

The second sign …

Rye jumped. The words had been soft as sighs, but he had heard them — he was sure he had heard them. Quickly he looked around, half fearing to see someone standing behind him.

There was no one there. Slowly, Rye turned back to face the girl.

She did not seem to have heard anything. As she straightened, Rye realized that she was not as young
and scrawny as her ill-fitting garments and ugly cap made her look. In fact, though she was slender, she was as tall as he was.

He watched her take a deep breath, and then another. She shivered all over. Then she glanced around.

Rye waited for her to see there was no sign of the Door. He waited for her to show terror and cross her fingers and wrists. But she merely frowned and began fumbling with the knot of the scarf that still hung around her neck.

“I might have known the golden Door would send us straight into the Fell Zone,” she muttered, pulling off the scarf and tying it to the nearest bush. “Any fool could see that it was a lure for those who fancy themselves as heroes. Most of the volunteers chose it. No doubt they are all dead by now.”

Fear and rage shot through Rye like flame. “Hold your tongue!” he snapped.

The girl jerked back, blinking as if she had been slapped. Recovering herself, she tossed her head and set off through the trees, plowing through the dead leaves. In moments, she had disappeared into the undergrowth.

Rye told himself he was glad to see the end of her. Then, as his anger cooled, he began to change his mind.

Whatever he felt, his reason was telling him that for the present any companion, however disagreeable, must be better than none. The Fell Zone was a place of
monsters. Sholto had been sure the skimmers bred there. Whether they did or not, it was clearly a fearsome place. If even the bloodthirsty barbarians of the coast would not enter it, its dangers must be many, and terrible.

And perhaps one of those dangers was watching Rye now — one or several. For he was sure he was being watched. He could feel it. His nerves were jumping under his skin.

But did it make sense to follow the girl, just for the sake of company? She had plunged into the wilderness without thought. Clearly she had no idea of where she was going.

The next moment, a piercing scream settled the matter. Rye did not hesitate. He snatched up his bundle and ran, following the scuffed trail in the fallen leaves.

Just past a monstrous vine thicket, he found the girl in red lying facedown on the ground.

“I tripped,” she babbled, scrambling up and shaking off his hand as he tried to help her. “It was not my fault. There was something hard, hidden under the leaves, and I …”

Her voice trailed off as she saw Rye staring down, his face frozen.

The leaves that had covered the hidden object had been brushed away by her fall. A stone had been revealed — a smooth stone with words crudely scratched upon it.

“Joliffe,” Rye whispered, falling to his knees.

His heart seemed to twist in his chest. Rough as the scratchings were, he knew without doubt that it was Dirk who had laid Joliffe to rest.

Had Dirk simply come upon his friend lying dead? Or had they been together when …?

“Did you know him?” The girl’s voice seemed very faint. “Did you know this Joliffe? Was he a volunteer?”

Rye swallowed and nodded.

“I must have met him, then,” the girl said huskily. “I tried to persuade every volunteer who entered the Chamber of the Doors to take me through the Wall.”

Rye made no answer.

“I apologize….” His companion cleared her throat. “I am sorry for what I said — about the volunteers who chose the golden Door. I meant … no disrespect.”

“Yes you did,” said Rye. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and got to his feet again.

The girl hesitated, as if she was about to say
something more, then seemed to decide there was no point. She turned and moved on, making no comment as Rye followed her, a few steps behind.

“Have you any idea where you are going?” Rye asked coldly.

The girl glanced at him over her shoulder. “I am just following the path,” she said. “I could not think of a better plan.”

Rye shook his head. There was no path that he could see. The girl was mad.

But still he followed her. Anything was better than being alone in this place.

After only a few moments, however, he knew that something was wrong. The walking was far too easy. Sweat broke out on his brow as he realized it was harder to slow down than to keep moving. An invisible force was drawing him on.

“Wait!” he shouted.

The girl stopped, skidding a little on the leaves. And it was only as she looked back in alarm, as she looked
up
at Rye, and he looked
down
at her, that he saw his mistake.

Sorcery had not been speeding their progress. Walking was rapid and easy because the ground on which they trod sloped downward!

Rye seemed to hear Sholto jeering in his ear.

Ignorant people often call things magic when they do not understand them.

Rye cursed himself for being so stupid. It was no
excuse that Weld was perfectly flat, and he had never walked down a hill in his life before. He was not in Weld now — he knew that! And the girl in red had not been deceived.

“What is it?” she called softly, looking nervously from side to side, then back at Rye.

“I …” He could not bring himself to explain. “I want to know your name,” he finally burst out, snatching at the first question he could think of.

The girl folded her arms and pressed her lips together. It occurred to Rye that perhaps she clung to the old Weld belief that to know a person’s name gave you power over that person. She was strange enough to believe anything.

“You know
my
name,” he pointed out. “It is only fair that you should tell me yours.”

“Sonia,” she said at last. “My name is Sonia, if you must know.”

She turned and hurried on.

The slope was becoming steeper. With every step, the rocks grew less, but the trees grew larger, and the bushes and vines more luxuriant. Ferns massed on the ground, splashing the fallen leaves with bright, tender green. Rye kept thinking he caught glimpses of movement from the corners of his eyes, but whenever he turned to look, he could see nothing.

Sonia wound her way quickly through the trees, occasionally hesitating before choosing one direction or another. At first, Rye could only trail after her
blindly, but after a time, he found that he was able to guess which way she would go.

There
was
a path. The marks of it were very faint, but they were there. Once he had seen them, Rye could not understand why he had not noticed them before.

At least
, he thought,
Sonia is not as mad as I thought, and we are not just wandering aimlessly. The path must lead somewhere.

But where?

Rye forced that disturbing question out of his mind. For good or ill, he and Sonia really had no choice but to follow the path if they were to have any chance of living through the night. The rustling treetops hid the sky, but he knew that by now it must be dimming. Soon the sun would go down, and the skimmers would take flight. He and Sonia had to find shelter by then.

“We had better —” he began, then found himself crowding into Sonia as she stopped abruptly.

He saw what had halted her, and his blood ran cold.