The Golden Door

The 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.