The Golden Door

Rye heard a terrible cry and realized it had burst from his own throat. He saw Bern spin around, scorch in hand, eyes bulging in shock. Then the scorch was wailing as Bern fired wildly at the intruder he had heard but could not see. Blue light sprayed the wall, just missing Rye’s shoulder.

Rye turned and ran. His feet barely touching the ground, he fled up the dungeon steps and out into the courtyard.

The gate was rasping open. The Gifters on guard outside had heard the wailing of the scorches and the muffled baying of their fellows in the pit. They were spilling into the courtyard, racing for the dungeons, pushing each other out of the way in their eagerness to reach the center of the excitement.

Rye flung himself heedlessly through the press of bodies. The Gifters did not notice him. They could not see him. Every man thought it was his neighbor who had pushed him. None of them imagined for a moment that a shadow was rushing through their ranks, half mad with shock and grief.

Bursting out of the fortress into a world of salty wind and pounding waves, Rye hurtled down the track toward the city, blinded by tears and spray.

He had no idea where he was going. He just ran, ran like a wounded animal looking for a place to hide. He ran as if by running he could escape the memory of Dirk’s crumpling body, from the scalding knowledge of his own helplessness and failure.

The area before the fence, where the crowd had gathered, was deserted now. Rye saw the lights of the Flying Fish tavern and made for them merely because the tavern was a place he recognized. He stumbled to the corner of the low building, where he had hidden once before. And there, at last, his back to the wall, he slid to the ground.

He was shivering all over. The hood was cold and wet with spray, clinging to his neck and ears. The strings around his neck seemed to be strangling him. He tore the hood off and took great gulps of salty, foul-smelling air. A great wave of sickness swept over him. Moaning softly, he curled himself into a ball, screwed his eyes shut, and knew no more.

When at last Rye woke, he found himself staring into a pair of curious black eyes. He blinked. The eyes disappeared, and Rye heard the sound of small feet running away. He puzzled over this for a moment but made no sense of it.

He was thinking about allowing his eyelids to droop again when he heard more footsteps. The steps were slower and heavier this time, and they were coming closer.

“My son tells me you’re awake,” a deep, vaguely familiar voice said.

A large figure towered over Rye. It was holding something that smelled delicious. Rye’s mouth watered.

“Sit up and take some soup,” the deep voice rumbled. “It’ll help.”

Rye pulled himself up into a sitting position. His head swam, and he swayed. The next moment, a strong arm was supporting his back, and a steaming mug was being held to his lips. He sipped obediently.

Hot, savory liquid slipped down his throat. Eagerly he sipped again, and again. His head began to clear. His surroundings came into focus.

He was in a dim wooden shed that smelled of fish, the sea, and serpent repellent. Golden light showed between the boards of the shed walls, on which tools and fishing nets hung. His boots stood neatly beside the sacks that made his rough bed. The bell tree stick lay with them.

The man crouched at his side had brown skin and thick, untidy black hair.

A name floated into Rye’s mind. Hass.

And suddenly he remembered everything. The dreamy, comforting haze that had clouded his mind lifted like a veil, and the terrible happenings at the fortress glared at him in all their horror.

At the same moment, he understood what the golden lines of light between the shed boards meant.

With a cry, he struggled to get up, but the arm around his shoulders held him back. He struggled feebly, clawing at the coarse blanket that covered his legs, trying to beat off wave after wave of sickening dizziness.

“Stay where you are, boy,” Hass said impatiently. “You aren’t fit to get up yet.”

“What day is it?” Rye choked. “What day?”

There was a pause, then: “It’s Midsummer Eve,” Hass growled. “Did you think you’d slept through it? No such luck. There’s still an hour till sunset.”

Rye went cold. He must have turned pale, too, because Hass’s arm tightened around his shoulders.

“You’re safe, boy,” the deep voice said, more gently than before. “No one knows you’re here — only me and my wife, Nell, and our own boy, who was watching over you just now. Nell and I found you, on our way home last night. She told me she’d seen you earlier — told you to hide in the tavern.”

He looked at Rye inquiringly. Rye nodded, remembering Nell’s worried, sun-browned face.

“But there you were, lying under the stars for anyone to see,” Hass went on. “We couldn’t wake you. You lay there like a log. Just exhaustion and hunger, Nell thought, but we couldn’t leave you in the open.”

“You are very kind,” Rye murmured.

He felt numb. Vaguely he remembered pulling off the gray hood. Where was it now? Still lying like a discarded rag behind the tavern? Perhaps by now it had blown into the sea. Or …

Another wisp of memory came to him. He looked down and saw that one of his fists was clenched. He forced his stiff fingers open. And there was the hood, pressed into a tight little gray ball.

He felt no relief, only dull despair. An enchanted silk hood that did not just disguise but completely concealed its wearer! A hood so fine that it could be hidden within a nutshell!

It was a miraculous power. Worn by the right person, it would surely have made all sorts of wonders possible.

But what did I do with it? Rye thought bitterly. I crept, and hid, and watched, without being able to lift a finger to change anything, stop anything, save anyone.

His mind filled with pictures of Sonia fighting to wake in Olt’s chamber, of Dirk falling, of Bern laughing. Fresh misery welled up in him. He felt for the little brown bag under his shirt. Yes, there it was, quite safe. Safe — and useless.

“We didn’t dare take you home, so we brought you here, to the boathouse,” Hass said gruffly. “That way, if the Gifters found you … well, we could just say you’d got in by yourself, couldn’t we? Olt’s made cowards of us all.”

He sounded bitter and ashamed. Rye forced himself to speak.

“You are very kind,” he said again, looking up into the man’s troubled face. “Thank you for helping me.”

Hass grimaced. “We did little enough. But at least you had shelter, and now the danger’s almost past. Just stay here, out of the way, till it’s over. The Gifters won’t come looking. Olt can do without you. We heard there was another rebel attack last night, but it failed. Your fellow prisoners and the two replacements are still in the fortress.”

“You and Nell think I am one of the prisoners who were rescued the night before last!” Rye murmured, suddenly understanding.

“Of course!” Hass rumbled, his heavy brows drawing together. “Surely you aren’t going to insult me by trying to deny it? Don’t you trust me even now?”

He snorted in disgust and felt in his pocket.

“If you were not in the fortress, how do you explain this?” he demanded, holding out his hand.

Rye stared at the object balanced on the fisherman’s broad, calloused palm.

It was a paper-thin disc that gleamed silver as it caught the light.

“Where did you get that?” he gasped, his hand flying to the little bag hidden under his shirt.

“It was caught in the treads of one of your boots,” said Hass. “I saw it when I took your boots off last night. You’ve been in Olt’s fortress — in Olt’s very presence! Where else are sea serpent scales lying about underfoot?”

“Sea serpent scales …?” Rye’s voice trailed off as he stared at the shimmering thing on Hass’s palm.

He remembered scales showering from Olt’s failing serpent throne. Bern must have trodden some of the scales out of Olt’s chamber. And one had become wedged in the sole of Rye’s boot as he followed Bern down the steps.

As Hass watched him angrily, Rye lifted the cord from around his neck and felt in the little brown bag. The disc that had so puzzled him was still there, along with everything else. He drew it out and held it up to the light, feeling the familiar deep trembling begin in the pit of his stomach. The disc gleamed blue-green. Except for its color, it was the twin of the one in Hass’s hand.

Hass’s frown had deepened. Suddenly he looked suspicious as well as angry.

“Who are you, boy?” he asked in a low, menacing voice. “Who are you, a copper-head who wears a Fleet ring, yet carries around a sea serpent scale like a precious charm?”

“Fleet ring?” Rye repeated stupidly.

“A horsehair ring, from Fleet!” Hass thundered. “There on your hand for all to see! Don’t act the innocent with me! Who sent you here?”

Rye looked at the shabby little ring on his finger with new eyes. Now Hass had pointed it out to him he could see that the plaited threads were not threads at all, but hairs — hairs from the tail or mane of a horse — a Fleet horse, the fastest of all horses.

Powers to aid you in your quest …

He wet his lips, turning his eyes to the disc gleaming between his finger and thumb.

If the Fleet horsehair ring, enchanted, gave him miraculous speed, what might the scale of a sea serpent do if steeped in the same magic?

His heart began to pound.

“Well?” Hass growled. “I’m waiting!”

Rye looked up at him. He saw the furious face, the black eyes narrowed with distrust. He remembered the argument in the tavern, and the lively, curious gaze of the boy who in seven years would be fifteen. He made up his mind.

“I am not a spy, if that is what you fear, Master Hass,” he said huskily. “I have no master — in Dorne or anywhere else — who wants to seize power from Chieftain Olt. But I must try to stop the sacrifice of the seven at sunset. I beg you to help me.”

And as Hass stared at him in blank amazement, a great bell began to toll.