Emily Rodda - The Golden Door

“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.”

Rye crept to the table, took the pen the Warden was holding out to him, and looked down at the paper.