The Golden Door

A few days later, Rye and Lisbeth left the little house in Southwall, taking with them only what they could carry on their backs. Their neighbors watched them go. Some wept a little. Others stared listlessly, too numbed by trials and tiredness to feel very much at all.

Lisbeth had used the last of their coins to pay for seats on the cart that carried passengers to the Keep.

“We could save the money and walk,” she told Rye. “But I have heard that the best jobs are given to those who look tidy and clean when they arrive. Besides, if we have no money at all in our pockets, it will be clearly seen that we are in real need.”

She spoke briskly — even cheerfully. But there was a new hardness in her eyes that made her seem almost like someone Rye did not know.

The cart, smartly painted with yellow and gray stripes, was drawn by six plump Weld goats and driven by a woman in a yellow uniform and peaked cap. Rye had always thought that to ride in it would be a great adventure. He had always envied its passengers when he saw it setting off from the town square.

But after half a day of smooth traveling along the broad, straight road, squeezed between his silent mother and an old Eastwall man who quickly went to sleep, he grew bored and restless.

There was nothing to see but square fields, clipped hedges, skimmer traps, trees rigidly pruned to the legal height, and signs — many, many signs giving information, warnings, and advice to travelers.

The signs reminded Rye of Dirk. The memory of Dirk reminded him of where this journey was going to end.

The Keep.

One step closer, he caught himself thinking. He glanced quickly at his mother, as if somehow she might have sensed his thoughts. But Lisbeth was staring into space, rocking slightly with the movement of the cart.

Rye looked down at the bundle of clothes pressed against his knees. A smooth, sturdy stick was threaded under one of the bundle’s fastening straps. It was a stick from the ravaged bell tree. He had picked it up and carried it away with him out of his need to keep some remembrance, some small part of home.

Only now did it occur to him that it could be a weapon.

He slid the stick from beneath the strap and felt its weight. He felt how well it fit into his hand. A nervous fluttering began in his stomach.

Do not think of it, he told himself. They will not let you go. You are too young.

He thought the same that night as he lay trying to get to sleep in the small, hot room of the roadside inn at which the cart had stopped just before sunset. And waking at dawn, hearing his mother turn restlessly in her narrow bed on the other side of the room, he berated himself for even thinking of leaving her alone, for any reason.

You are all she has left, he thought. The Warden would never allow you to be separated.

But about this, at least, he was to find that he was quite wrong.

They arrived at the Keep when the sun was high in the milky sky. The ancient fortress bulged from the Wall like a blister of stone. Towering over the little houses of Westwall, it looked exactly like the pictures Rye had seen of it, right down to the two huge brown animals standing on either side of the gateway with Keep soldiers perched on their backs.

“Mother, look!” Rye whispered in awe. “Look at the horses!”

But Lisbeth had seen the famous Keep horses as a girl and could not spare a glance for them now. She was carefully reading the sign that stood before the gateway.

The great paved courtyard was a confusion of people. Some were rushing about importantly with folders under their arms. Most seemed to be standing in line or just milling around aimlessly. Children clad in shabby red — the “Keep orphans,” no doubt — ran in and out, looking very much at home.

In the center of the courtyard was a bell tree, very old and gnarled and bearing only a few dry, speckled fruit. A fence of metal railings surrounded it. The label on the railings read:

Lisbeth and Rye turned away from the tree, their hearts aching with sad memories of home. In silence, they joined the other needy citizens standing in line before the door marked “Information.” The line was long and moved slowly.

When at last they reached the pleasant-faced woman at the desk beyond the door, Lisbeth told their story and showed the two gold badges.

The woman filled in a form while they waited in silence. Then she filled in another. When she had finished, she looked up brightly and told Lisbeth that she could have work in the Keep kitchens and a bed in the women’s dormitory. Rye would be sent to Welds Center to work in the fields.

“The Center!” Lisbeth gasped, drawing Rye closer to her. “But surely … surely we can stay together?”

“Sadly, that is impossible,” the woman said briskly, smiling and shaking her head. “There is no suitable work for your son in the Keep. But do not fear. He will have all the care and discipline he needs in the boys’ camp in the Center. It will be the making of him!”

“If Rye goes to the Center, I must go there, too,” Lisbeth said.

The woman behind the desk suppressed a sigh. Her smile stayed in place, but Rye could feel her irritation.

“There is no work for you in the Center, Citizen,” she said patiently. “You must understand that we do our best to help all those in need, but they cannot be a burden to others. They must work for their keep.”

“I know that!” Lisbeth cried, color mounting on her cheeks. “We are very willing to work, but —”

The woman’s voice hardened, very slightly. “Did you not say you had no means to support yourself and your son, Citizen?” she asked, tapping her fingers on the forms she had just completed.

“Yes,” Lisbeth breathed. “But —”

“Then there is no more to be said.”

And it seemed there was not. The woman gave them a few moments for a tearful farewell. Then a Keep orphan was summoned to guide Lisbeth to the kitchens, and Rye was given his own form to deliver to the duty guard in the courtyard. A group marching to the Center was to set off that very afternoon, it seemed.

But Rye went nowhere near the duty guard. Instead, he lined up for the public lavatories. When he was safely inside a cubicle, he tore the form into tiny pieces and disposed of it.

Then he washed his face and hands, shouldered his bundle, and crossed the courtyard to the door marked “Volunteers.”

Rye had expected that it would be difficult to get what he wanted, but he found the task was strangely easy. All he had to do was lie.

Normally, this would have been hard for him. Like most Weld citizens, he was usually very truthful. But the helpless anger roused in him by the smiling woman at the Information desk seemed to have burned away his finer feelings. He did not even change color as he told the man at the Volunteers desk that he had just turned eighteen.

The man, who had very little hair on his head and had tried to make up for it by growing an enormous gray mustache, had clearly been very bored before Rye came in. He was delighted to have someone to talk to.

He insisted that Rye take a glass of barley water with him while he filled in the application form, saying that Rye was the first volunteer he had seen for months. On hearing Rye’s lie, he looked him up and down and merely commented that he was a little small for his age. But then, he said, he had often heard that people with red hair tended to be puny.

Rye merely smiled and nodded.

In no time at all, he was being led through a maze of corridors and into a dim waiting room. Comfortable armchairs lined the room’s walls. In the center, there was a polished table on which stood a large carved chest, a pen, and a crystal inkwell.

Rye’s guide presented him with a small, flat box which he said contained volunteers’ supplies, wished him luck, and regretfully left him, telling him that the Warden would be along presently.

Having stowed his supplies in his bundle, Rye began to prowl the room nervously.

The Warden! He had not expected that he would have to face the Warden in person.

He paced past the yawning fireplace, which was dusty with ash. He circled the table, peering at the carved chest. He twitched aside a red velvet curtain to reveal not a window, but a small padlocked door. Then he had the strong feeling that he was being watched.

He dropped the curtain as if it had stung him, and went to stand beside the table.

He thought of what Dirk had always said about the Warden being just an ordinary man, and a timid, stupid one at that. This calmed him a little, but not enough to allow him to stand still. When a door snapped open on the far side of the room, he nearly jumped out of his skin.

A very handsome, dark-haired young woman looked around the door, quickly surveyed the room, and frowned.

“Lyon is not here!” she snapped to someone behind her.

“He must have gone to his meal, then, ma’am,” a deep male voice answered meekly. “He was there, I am sure!”

“Filling the inkwell, he was,” another man put in.

The young woman clicked her tongue. She pulled back her head, not bothering to shut the door.

“It is not good enough!” Rye heard her exclaim.

“I ordered a new sketchbook two days ago! Lyon promised faithfully to bring it this morning. It is outrageous that the Warden’s daughter should have to beg for her needs. See to it at once!”

Rye made a face. If this was the Warden’s daughter, it was no wonder the Warden kept her out of public view. She would make a very uncomfortable wife.

“Yes, ma’am,” the deep voice muttered. “Sorry, ma’am.”

“Sorry, ma’am,” the other man echoed.

There was an impatient snort and the sound of rustling silk. A door slammed.

“Why should I run her messages?” grumbled the man with the deep voice. “Do I look like a lady’s maid? It is time someone told her that Keep soldiers work for the Warden of Weld, not his useless daughter!”

“Shh!” his companion hissed.

A door creaked. Two pairs of heels snapped smartly together.

“At ease, men,” a rather hesitant, mumbling voice said. “And how are you both today?”

“Very well, Warden, sir,” the two men replied together.

“Good, very good,” the newcomer said. “Now, I understand we have a new volunteer — the first for quite a while. Quite a surprise! Dear me, yes! I will just go and …”

Rye heard shuffling footsteps. He stepped back a little.

A plump man wearing the Warden’s traditional long red robe came into the room. He had a mild, slightly vacant-looking face with sagging cheeks and watery blue eyes. He was clutching a large sheet of paper in his stubby fingers.

He stopped abruptly when he caught sight of Rye. His mouth fell open a little, and his eyes bulged. Rye stood up very straight, making himself look as tall as possible, and held his breath.

But the Warden’s hesitation, whatever its cause, did not last. He recovered himself almost immediately and bustled forward again.

“Ah!” he said. “Greetings, Volunteer!”

And now it was Rye’s turn to stare. The Warden looked only vaguely like the official portrait that hung on the schoolhouse wall. In the portrait, he was younger and slimmer, his chin looked firmer, his hair was browner and thicker, and his eyes were bluer. Also, in the painting, the Warden was mounted on a Keep horse, which made him look far more important.

In some confusion, Rye realized that the Warden was waiting expectantly, his sparse eyebrows slightly raised.

Hurriedly, Rye bowed. The bow felt clumsy, but it seemed to satisfy the Warden, for he nodded, shuffled forward, and put the paper down on the polished table.

“This is your Volunteer Statement,” he said, taking up the pen and dipping it fussily into the ink. “Read it very carefully before you sign. You can still change your mind at this point, and no harm done. But once you have signed, there is no turning back.”