The Golden Door

The Gifters at the graveside gaped down at their find. “It’s not empty, Bern!” one bawled. “There are two of them alive in here! Two! Both perfect! And one’s a —”

“Subdue them, you fools!” barked Bern, his voice cracking in excitement.

And in that instant, as Rye tensed himself to leap from his perch, there was a high whining sound, and the Gifters blasted Sonia and Faene full in the faces with bright yellow light.

Nanion’s iron control broke. He roared and lunged forward. But Bern was ready. Like lightning, he snatched the club from his own belt and pushed it into Nanion’s back. There was a whining flare of yellow, and the big man crumpled to the ground.

Rye froze, seeing all at once that any attempt to attack the Gifters, or even divert them, was doomed. What hope would he have against weapons such as these? No hope. None at all.

Stay where you are, the voice of reason told him. Stay hidden. Stay free. You will be no use to anyone as a prisoner.

So, though it was one of the hardest things he had ever done, he tightened his grip on the tree and forced himself to be still.

“You should have used the blue beam on him, Bern,” the Gifter with the sulky mouth muttered, eyeing Nanion’s sprawled body with disgust. “You had no cause to be gentle with him. He is a traitor to Dorne and deserves to die.”

“There will be time enough for that,” snarled Bern, pulling off his helmet to reveal close-cropped brown hair and a shrewd, narrow face. “After Midsummer Eve, when Dorne is safe once more, Nanion will die a thousand deaths. But only after he has seen his town burned to the ground, his people reduced to beggars, and his precious horses taken into the Chieftain’s keeping.”

He kicked Nanion viciously.

“Bring the prisoners!” he ordered the men beneath the tree. “Take care as you lift them! They must not be bruised or marked in any way.”

“We know, we know,” grumbled the Gifters at the graveside, bending to their task.

They changed the settings on the handles of their clubs once more and turned red beams back onto the slab to finish opening it. Only when the whole length of the tomb was exposed did they lift first Faene, and then Sonia.

Both girls were breathing, but deeply asleep. Cradling them as if they were made of precious china, their captors carried them out from under the tree.

“Red hair!” gasped Bern, goggling at Sonia as if he was hardly able to believe his good luck.

“So I tried to tell you.” The Gifter who was carrying Sonia scowled. “But you were so busy giving orders —”

Bern punched the air, barely able to contain his glee.

“The daughter of the traitors D’Or and a copper-head! Both unmarked! What a reception we shall get in Oltan! Ah, never will there be such a Midsummer Eve as this!”

And the Gifters marched out of the courtyard with their prisoners and disappeared.

Shaking, Rye slid to the ground. The grave-shaped hole gaped dark and empty at his feet.

I do not need to chase them, he thought dully. I know where they are going. They are going to Oltan. When I am ready, when I know more, I will follow.

He moved out from under the tree, to where Nanion’s body lay motionless in the sunlight.

Dirk is in Oltan, his thoughts drifted on. I have only to find him and tell him that Sonia and Faene have been taken. He will think of a way to save them.

He crouched and shook Nanion’s arm, but the big man did not stir.

“If he was blasted with the yellow flame, he will not wake for an hour or two. It depends how much they gave him.”

Rye looked up and saw FitzFee standing at the courtyard entrance, his daughter in his arms and several silent Fleet people behind him. Popsy’s eyes were wide and dazed. The small man’s weathered face was gray.

“A bad man killed the poor clink dead!” Popsy whispered to Rye. “She came out of the chimney to get a piece of pie I threw. Then a bad man came in and shot blue light at her, and she died!”

Tears filled her shocked eyes and rolled slowly down her cheeks. FitzFee patted her back helplessly, and she buried her face in his shoulder. A young woman with a dark red birthmark covering one side of her face moved quietly forward.

“Popsy, would you come and help me give the horses some tarny roots?” she murmured. “They have been frightened. They want comfort, and they always like to see you.”

The little girl hesitated, then bravely nodded. FitzFee put her down and she trotted off holding the young woman’s hand. Without a word, Serri and Peron, the two young men who had unloaded the goats, bent to Nanion. Their companions followed as they carried him out of the courtyard.

None of them spared Rye a glance. Perhaps they thought that somehow he and Sonia had brought this disaster down upon them. Perhaps they were simply too shocked and grieved by the loss of Faene D’Or to notice he was there.

“I told you to stay where you were safe!” FitzFee muttered to Rye when they were alone. “Just like Nanion told Faene to injure herself like others her age did. But you wouldn’t listen. And Faene wouldn’t listen, oh no!”

His blue eyes were dark with pain as they moved from Rye’s stricken face to gaze at the gaping grave beneath the bell tree.

“Faene put all her trust in the hiding place this stranger she was fond of made for her before he went barging off to join the rebels in Oltan. And now look! She’ll die on Midsummer Eve, and your friend with her.”

“Why will she die?” Rye made himself ask. “Why Faene, at least?”

“Are you mad?” spat FitzFee. “You saw her!”

Rye closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again. “Just tell me please, Master FitzFee,” he said quietly. “Why will Faene and Sonia die on Midsummer Eve?”

And finally, staring, FitzFee told him. At last, Rye heard the truth that Sonia had learned before him from Faene D’Or.

The seven prisoners to die on Midsummer Eve were not captured spies. They were simply seven perfect specimens of Dorne youth — seven young people between the ages of fourteen and twenty-four, without a blemish, and in full health and strength. And they were to die so that Chieftain Olt, the ancient, failing sorcerer Olt, might live.

“The sacrifice of seven young ones at sunset on Midsummer Eve will grant Olt another seven years of life,” FitzFee finished dully. “The first Gifting was seven years ago. This is the second.”

“By the Wall, how is it possible?” breathed Rye.

FitzFee looked baffled. “By what wall? What do you mean?”

When Rye said nothing, he shrugged and went on.

“I can’t explain the magic — there is no Fellan in me, I’m glad to say. But Olt’s mother was a Fellan, and magic runs strongly in his veins. He created the spell and made the Gifting law. Once he was loved and respected — the greatest Chieftain Dorne had ever seen, they say. Now he’s a monster. And while he’s got Dorne’s young to prey on, he’ll never die.”

“But — but why do the people stand for it?” Rye stammered.

“Why?” FitzFee looked at Rye quizzically. “Fear, my friend. Fear of Olt’s guards. Fear of Olt’s power. Not to mention fear of what might happen if Olt dies and the magic circle he weaves around Dorne dies with him.”

Still he stared at Rye, his face puzzled. And Rye stood staring back, trying to grasp what he had heard, to make this horror seem real.

“You really didn’t know this before, did you?” FitzFee said slowly after a moment. “When you and the girl insisted on going to Oltan, you weren’t planning to join the rebels who fight the Gifting, like I thought. You just didn’t understand the danger.”

“No,” said Rye, his voice very low. “We did not understand.”

FitzFee shook his head in wonder. “Your parents must have guarded your ears and your eyes very fiercely, friend, if you didn’t even know the evil you were escaping!”

“We did not understand,” Rye repeated, turning his head away.

He had realized by now that FitzFee had no idea where he and Sonia had really come from. FitzFee thought merely that they were the lost members of a group who had gone into the wilds to try to save their young from the Gifters.

How wrong we were, Rye thought bitterly. We believed Weld was the center of everything, jealously desired by all. In fact, Weld is only a small, forgotten corner of Dorne, locked away so long that the suffering people beyond the Fell Zone neither remember nor care about it.

Only Olt remembered Weld — Olt, the tyrant who would sacrifice anyone and anything to clutch at a little more life, a little more power.

A touch on his arm roused him. He saw that FitzFee was looking up at him with pity etched in every line of his face.

“My good lady and I can give you a bed for tonight,” the small man said gently. “In fact, you’d be more than welcome to stay with us a while, and help me with the goats. I could do with a hand just now.”

“You are kindness itself, Master FitzFee,” Rye murmured, his heart very full. He glanced one last time at the bell tree, then led the way back into the guesthouse.

FitzFee followed him in silence to the big room where the two armchairs had been hurriedly pushed back from the central chimney, and the clink no longer chattered in the cold, empty grate.

Rye looked at the food on the table. His stomach heaved at the very sight of it. He pulled the knitted cap from his pocket. He now understood why FitzFee had made him wear it. Like Tallus the healer, Olt clearly thought red hair was a sign of special power.

Because Fellan have red hair, no doubt, Rye thought grimly.

He remembered the Fellan’s smooth, serene faces with dislike. The Fellan did not have to fear the Gifting. They were safe in their protected territory — safe thanks to their treaty with the tyrant, who was half Fellan himself.

And that was all they cared about. Edelle was the only one of them to have a grain of sympathy for the people who lived in terror beyond the Fell Zone.

Rye pulled the cap on, tugging it down till every coppery hair on his head was hidden.

“What are you doing?” FitzFee asked, eyeing him anxiously. “We won’t be leaving yet awhile.”

“I cannot thank you enough for your offer, Master FitzFee,” said Rye. “But I must go on to Oltan.”

In vain did FitzFee argue that nothing — no power in Dorne — could save Sonia and Faene. In vain did he tell Rye that no one in Fleet would dream of going after them, because the only ending to such a quest would be disaster. In vain did he rage that on foot Rye would reach Oltan too late in any case, and warn him not to imagine for a moment that he would be given the use of a Fleet horse to make the journey.

“I do not want a horse, Master FitzFee,” Rye said, twisting the shabby plaited ring on his finger. “I cannot ride. But I can run.”