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.
Wondering if this document was what had made Crell discover that his ankle was injured, Rye set his lips and signed.
The Warden sighed, picked up the paper, blew on it to dry the ink, and put it carefully into the carved box, which seemed to contain many other signed papers exactly like it.
No doubt Dirk’s statement is in there, Rye thought. And Sholto’s.
“Very well, Rye,” the Warden said, closing the lid of the box. “Collect your belongings and follow me.”
He led the way to the curtain covering the padlocked door, pulled the red velvet aside, and drew out a small key.
“Is this the secret way?” Rye asked.
The Warden frowned and shook his head. He removed the padlock and opened the door to reveal a steep, narrow stone stairway that spiraled down into darkness.
As he ushered Rye through the doorway, torches fixed to the stone walls sprang into life, flooding the stairs with dancing light.
Dann’s magic, Rye thought, his skin prickling.
Clever tricks, he seemed to hear Sholto jeering in his mind. But if this was a trick, it was impossible to see how it had been done. He was sure the Warden had touched nothing.
“Hold tightly to the safety rail, Volunteer,” the Warden advised, shutting the door behind them. “These steps are old and very dangerous.”
Despite himself, Rye had to smile. Steep steps were surely the least of his problems, considering the peril he was about to face.
The Warden must have noticed the smile, because he drew himself up and looked stern.
“While you are still in Weld, you are still under my care,” he said stiffly. “Down you go, then. Right to the bottom, if you please.”
Gripping the rail, Rye began to go down the steps. The Warden followed, his soft shoes making faint brushing sounds on the stone.
Down they went, and down. The air grew heavy with the odors of damp and mold. Rye seemed to feel the whole weight of the Keep pressing down upon him.
His skin prickled more and more. He grew increasingly uneasy and his steps slowed.
“Keep moving, Volunteer,” said the Warden behind him.
“What is this place, Warden?” Rye could not help asking. “Where are we?”
“Below the ground,” the Warden said. “We are moving into the base of the Keep — the oldest place in Weld. Keep moving. There is not much farther to go.”
He sounded quite placid. The atmosphere of the stairway had not affected him at all, it seemed.
Rye forced himself to move on. With every step, it seemed harder to breathe. Then, just when he felt he was going to have to stop, he saw a flash from below.
“There,” said the Warden.
Just moments later, Rye was stumbling over the last step into a small, glittering, circular room. He blinked, trying to adjust to the sudden, brilliant light. Whatever he had been expecting, it was not this.