Emily Rodda - The Golden Door

Then the water began to ripple. It was as if a pebble had been thrown into the pool or a leaf had fallen. But no stone had been thrown. No leaf marred the dark surface.

The ripples were making a pattern. Rye felt his throat close as he saw a single word appear.

Rye swallowed, staring in fear and disbelief at the word rippling in the water. Sonia was behind him. He could hear her rapid breathing and smell the slime that still clung to her clothes.

But the command was for him. He knew it.

All his life, Rye had been taught never to drink wild water. Wild water carried dirt and disease. Only well water and rainwater were safe, and even they were best boiled before drinking.

He remembered the rule and dismissed it. Without hesitation, he slid the bell tree stick into his belt and dropped to his knees beside the pool.

He felt Sonia plucking at his sleeve, heard her whispering to him urgently, warning him of poison, of enchantment, of danger.

He dipped his cupped hands into the pool, bent his head, and drank.

Never had he tasted such water. It was as different from the water of Weld as bread fresh from the oven is different from stale crusts. Cool, sweet, and clear, it slipped down his dry throat like sparkling nectar, bringing with it instant refreshment and a feeling that he was twice as alive as he had been before.

Eagerly he dipped his hands back into the pool and drank again. And again.

It is enough.

Rye looked up, startled, water dribbling down his chin and soaking into his shirt. Behind him, Sonia gave a small, choking cry.

Hooded figures were peeling from the trunks of the giant ferns that surrounded the clearing. They were brown, like the fern stems, and their long robes were dark brown, too, but as they glided toward the pond, their color began to change to green.

Rye could not move. He could not breathe. Sonia was gripping his arm so tightly that it hurt.

Then the figures were all around them. Rye stared wordlessly up at the ring of smooth green faces — ageless faces, with pointed chins, high cheekbones, and brows that slanted over the dark pools of their eyes. They were male and female, both. He could see that, despite the hoods. Some of the faces were slightly smiling. Others were alive with what looked like curiosity. A few were very grave.

These beings could not be barbarians — surely they could not! They looked nothing like the hulking brutes in pictures Rye had seen. They carried no weapons. And they could change color, to hide themselves, like the monstrous lizards. He had never heard that barbarians could do that.

Who were they, then? And why were they standing here, in the open air, unafraid of sunset and the skimmers?

Rye was suddenly seized by the terrible fear that Dirk, and all the other volunteers who had chosen the golden Door, had made a fatal error. What if the Door had delivered them not into the wilds of Dorne but into another land entirely?

Slowly he felt for the stick in his belt. He had tried to move without being seen, but the instant his fingers touched the smooth wood, the figures around the pool murmured and looked down at his hand.

Rye knew he had to face these beings on his feet, or he and Sonia would have no chance at all. Slowly, trying not to make any sudden moves that might seem like a threat, he stood up, drawing Sonia up with him.

One of the females pulled back her hood. Her skin changed again, fading to pale gold, as gleaming red braids of hair tumbled over her shoulders and down her back. Her companions followed her lead. All of them had the same long braids, and all of the braids flamed in the orange light of the sky.

Rye heard Sonia draw a shuddering breath. He gripped his stick. It was not much of a weapon, but it was all he had.

“What place is this, if you please?” he asked, trying with all his might to keep his voice from trembling.

The strange beings looked at one another, then back at him.

“He seeks to deceive us,” the tallest of the men muttered. “He knows where he is. His companion said the words ‘Fell Zone’ more than once.”

Rye’s stomach fluttered. “I am not trying to deceive you!” he exclaimed. “But I do not understand. If this is the Fell Zone of Dorne, then who are you?”

“Knowledge of us has been lost in the city of Dann, it seems, Kirwan,” the woman who had first removed her hood said softly to the tall man.

As he scowled, she turned to Rye. He felt himself caught and held by her amazing eyes, which now looked more green than brown.

“We are the Fellan,” she said. “We are the tenants of this place your people call the Fell Zone. We have been expecting you.”

Rye gaped at her. Then suddenly his heart leaped, and he felt the blood rush into his face.

“ Expecting me?” he gasped. “You mean you met my brother Dirk? He told you I might come? Did he leave a message for me?”

He felt a crushing wave of disappointment as the woman looked surprised, and shook her head.

“We know nothing of those who came before you,” she murmured.

“They came thundering into our territory like storm clouds and vanished just as quickly,” the man called Kirwan said stiffly. “A few reached this place, fell foul of Dann’s Mirror, and fled downstream. The bones of the rest lie under the leaves or in the nets of the fell-dragons.”

Rye’s mind was spinning with disappointment, confusion, and fear. “Then why — how — have you been expecting me?” he stammered.

“We were given three signs by which we would know the one we awaited,” the woman answered calmly. “We did not guess that you would be so young or that you would be one among many, but the signs have all been fulfilled.”

“What does she mean?” Sonia hissed in Rye’s ear. “What signs? Rye — what game have you been playing?”

As the woman’s eyes moved from his face to Sonia’s, Rye felt a little jolt, as if a thread that had been holding him tightly had suddenly snapped.

Desperately he tried to collect his thoughts. He knew full well that he could not be the person the Fellan had been waiting for. Except for Dirk and the other volunteers from Southwall, no one on this side of the Wall of Weld knew of his existence.

Should he tell the Fellan they were wrong, or say nothing? Which would be safer?

“The first two signs were not perfect, Edelle,” Kirwan said.

“Indeed,” another man agreed. “And he took up the barbarian weapon to pursue the fell-dragon.”

“He used it only to cut a dragon net and save his companion,” the woman called Edelle argued. “The iron left him when he needed it no longer. Besides, the test of Dann’s Mirror has made the other signs of no importance. The Mirror knew him. He drank not just once but three times. He is the one.”

There was a murmur of agreement around the pool. Kirwan hesitated, but at last even he reluctantly nodded.

Edelle stepped out of the circle and moved to Rye’s side.

“Say your name, if you please,” she murmured.

“R-Rye,” Rye stammered, startled into speech. “Rye, third son of Lisbeth and Kaz, brother to Dirk and Sholto.”

“Third son,” someone in the circle repeated.

Edelle made no sign that she had heard. She opened her hand and showed Rye the object that had been concealed within it.

It was a small brown bag, its neck drawn tightly closed by a long loop of braided red cord. It looked like one of the charms that some old-fashioned citizens of Weld hung over their doors to ward off evil.