Emily Rodda: The Silver Door

‘Oh, yes,’ Dirk answered stiffly, tightening his grip on Faene’s hand. ‘When the time comes.’

Sonia drew breath to reply. Rye slowed, pushed back the hood, and braced himself for an argument. And at that moment, a green cart drawn by an old brown horse rattled across the bridge and began trundling towards them.

‘FitzFee!’ Faene cried.

A stocky, child-sized figure stood up, waved wildly, and pulled on the horse’s reins.

In moments the four companions were gathered around FitzFee, who had jumped from the cart and was laughing and hugging each of them in turn.

‘Bless my heart, how good it is to see you!’ the small man bellowed. ‘I can’t believe it! You saw the message, then, Faene? “Just in case,” Nanion said to me. “In case by some miracle she is safe.” And by all that’s wonderful, here you are! Now! What’s the meaning of all that smoke beyond the hills?’

So they told him. And it was pure joy to see light spread over his face as he realised Olt was gone for good.

‘Alda always said it would happen one day!’ he chortled. ‘Well—you hurry on to the farm and tell her how right she was. Ah, if only I could come with you! But I’ve got these dratted deliveries to make.’

He waved his hand at his load, which was covered with wet sacking to keep it cool. ‘It’s a pity, but butter, milk and cheese won’t keep in this heat, and that’s all there is to it. I’ll join you as soon as I can, and then we’ll have a real celebration.’

‘FitzFee, I am not sure—’ Rye began.

‘Wait till you see what Nanion left in our care for you, Faene!’ FitzFee chattered on, climbing nimbly back into the cart. ‘Four fine Fleet horses!’

Faene gasped and clasped her hands.

‘Yes!’ FitzFee beamed. ‘And you have a home with us, dear girl, for as long as you like—though I daresay you’ll be wanting a place of your own soon enough.’ He chuckled and looked meaningfully at Dirk.

Faene hesitated, warm colour rising in her cheeks. ‘Dirk has to go away again, very soon,’ she murmured. ‘He and Rye—and Sonia, too—have something they have to do.’

‘Oh, I daresay, I daresay,’ said FitzFee, winking and tapping the side of his nose. ‘They want to carry the great news to El—ah, pardon—to the east, let’s say, themselves. Well, you have horses to lend now, Faene, my dear! That will make their journey much faster. Safer, too.’

His face grew serious. ‘And no more short cuts through places no one in their senses would go, eh?’ he muttered to Rye and Sonia, crossing his fingers and his wrists and jerking his head towards the Fell Zone.

Pretending not to notice the awkward silence that followed his warning, he picked up the horse’s reins again.

‘We’ll be off then,’ he said. ‘See you back at the farm!’

He clicked his tongue to the old mare and the wagon rattled away, leaving the four travellers alone.

Rye and Sonia looked at one another. Dirk looked at Faene. Her head was bowed. She seemed to be lost in her own thoughts.

‘Perhaps this makes a difference, Faene,’ Dirk murmured. ‘You would have a safe home with FitzFee. And there are the horses. Perhaps you would rather stay …’

‘And if I did, Dirk, would you come back for me?’ Faene asked, without raising her head.

‘I would try,’ Dirk said in a level voice. ‘But there is a chance I may be … prevented.’

Indeed, Rye thought grimly. If the Warden has anything to say about it, you will.

Faene dipped into a pocket of her skirt and drew out a pencil and a water-stained notebook. She wrote for a moment then tore out the page and handed it to Dirk.

Rye could see the note from where he stood. He read it, and a lump rose in his throat.

‘Are you sure, Faene?’ Dirk said huskily.

‘I am sure.’ Faene smiled at him, though tears were standing in her eyes. ‘I cannot risk losing you a second time, Dirk. And it is best this way—best not to go to the farm, I mean. They would ask too many questions we cannot answer.’

She and Dirk went to place the note, weighed down by a stone, in the middle of the bridge where FitzFee would be sure to see it on his return journey.

While their backs were turned, Rye felt in the bag of powers and drew out the little red feather. There would never be a better time to test his idea.

Up! he thought. And to his delighted relief, he felt his feet rise from the dusty road.

‘Rye!’ gasped Sonia, gaping up at him.

‘I thought—if the horsehair ring helps me run, and the serpent scale helps me swim, why should the feather not help me fly?’ Rye laughed uncertainly. He still could not quite believe it.

And later, when he, Sonia, Dirk and Faene were all linked together and floating over the forbidden forest like leaves blown in the wind, he still had his doubts.

The feather made them lighter than air, certainly, but being weightless was not the same as flying like a bird. It was very hard to move in any particular direction.

Rye quickly found that the only way was to trail awkwardly through the treetops, catching hold of each tree as he reached it and using it to propel him on to the next.

Twigs kept brushing the concealing hood from his head, and after a while he stopped trying to keep it on. He had to keep his mind focused on what he was doing. He had discovered that the moment his thoughts wandered, he would start to drift off course.

Clumsy as it was, their progress was swift. At first Rye used the stream, glinting below him, as a guide. Then Sonia called out, pointing down, and through a gap in the leaves he made out the narrow, winding path that he knew led up to the place where their journey had begun.

Yet still he could see no sign of the Wall of Weld looming ahead. He told himself the Wall must be concealed by ancient magic. He forced himself not to think about what would happen if they could not find the golden Door by sunset.

Instead, he concentrated on following the path. Now and again he caught sight of a thick, slimy web sagging between two tree trunks, and knew a fell dragon must be lurking nearby, waiting for prey. He saw the shadowy shapes of other creatures, too, scuttling or sliding in the undergrowth. He had no idea what they were, but was heartily glad to be floating above them, however awkwardly, instead of hurrying fearfully past their hiding places.

There were no Fellan to be seen, but he knew they were below, and aware of him. Their voices were whispering at the edges of his mind. He refused to let the whispers trouble him—refused to try to make out the words. He gripped the feather more tightly and kept his eyes on the path.

‘Rye, take us down!’ Sonia said suddenly. ‘The scarf I left as a marker is below!’

‘It is not time to land yet!’ Dirk protested. ‘The Wall is not in sight.’

But Rye had learned that Sonia’s instincts were to be trusted in matters such as this. He forced himself to think of settling to earth and at last managed to half clamber, half drift down to the forest floor, with his companions trailing behind him.

He dropped knee-deep into the thick carpet of dead leaves he so well remembered. Pushing the feather back into the bag, he looked around warily. There were the countless trunks of giant trees. There were the great rocks, the dense undergrowth.

And there was Sonia’s red scarf, still knotted to a straggly bush.

The back of Rye’s neck prickled with the feeling that he was being watched. He pulled the bell tree stick from his belt. It was not much of a weapon, and he wished fervently that Dirk still carried the skimmer hook. He could see no fell dragons, but his mind was full of whispering voices.