Clearly the Gifters, whoever they were, were dangerous. They must be clever and determined hunters, too, if Faene D’Or had to hide in a false grave to save herself from them.
It was tempting to run. With the magic ring to speed him, Rye was sure he could outrun the Gifters as he had outrun the bloodhog. But if he tried to escape, they were sure to catch sight of him. And if they had weapons like FitzFee’s crossbow, they would be able to cut him down even from a distance.
Better to hide, then, at least until he knew what sort of weapons they carried.
He swung himself up into the bell tree, climbing as high as he could and crouching among the thick leaves.
It was not a clever hiding place. But games with Sholto and Dirk in the old days had taught Rye that expert hunters often failed to check the obvious places. They expected their quarry to try to outwit them.
He heard heavy feet approaching the courtyard. He clung to his branch, flattening himself against it, as still as if he were made of wood himself.
Six huge young men strode into the courtyard. They wore black helmets that concealed all but their eyes and mouths. Each carried what looked like a slim black club. Each wore black boots, black leggings, and a scarlet tunic with a gold crest embroidered on the center of the chest. Peering cautiously down, Rye saw that the crest was a large letter O formed by a sea serpent swallowing its own tail.
“Why have you come here again?”
The voice was Nanion’s. He had followed the Gifters into the courtyard and was facing them alone, refusing to be cowed by their size or their weapons.
“Two of the prisoners have escaped the fortress — freed by rebel scum,” the leading Gifter said coldly.
Nanion’s steady eyes did not flicker. “I am glad to hear it. But what has that to do with Fleet?”
“The blood of seven is required. The lost prisoners must be replaced.”
“Then perhaps you and one of your fellow Gifters could volunteer to make up the difference, Bern,” Nanion suggested pleasantly. “I am sure there is nothing you would not do for your master.”
The Gifter’s top lip twitched. “Gifters serve the Chieftain, may he live forever, in another way,” he snapped.
“Ah yes, so you do,” Nanion agreed with barely veiled contempt. “You buy your lives with the lives of others. Yet it may not be wise to trust your beloved master too far, Bern. If Olt becomes desperate, who knows what he might ask of your loyalty?”
“Be silent!” thundered Bern as his two tallest companions glanced nervously at each other, and the third, a hefty, round-shouldered brute with a sulky mouth, shifted his feet uneasily. “We have been promised safety. The two replacements will be found in the usual way.”
“Then you had better waste no more time in Fleet,” said Nanion. “You already know that there is no one here to suit your vile purpose.”
The Gifter had recovered himself. He smiled thinly. “We are now not so sure of that,” he said. “Perhaps you would care to see why?”
He drew a folded note from beneath his tunic and handed it to Nanion.
Peering down from the tree, Rye caught his breath. Had he and Sonia been betrayed? Had someone who had seen them arrive …?
Nanion hesitated, then unfolded the note. As he glanced at it, he grew very still, but when he looked up, his face was quite controlled.
“How did you come by this piece of nonsense?” he asked, casting the paper carelessly away.
The note fluttered through the air and fell faceup on the moss, not far below Rye’s perch. Rye strained his eyes to read it, and fear laid an icy hand on his heart as he slowly made it out.
Numb with horror, Rye looked back at Nanion and Bern.
The Gifter’s smile had broadened. He was enjoying his triumph.
“The treachery at the fortress was discovered while the second prisoner was being released. One of the rebels — a savage wielding a giant hook — stayed to fight while the others escaped. Unfortunately he, too, escaped in the end, but his coat was torn off in the struggle. That piece of nonsense, as you call it, was in one of the pockets.”
“It must be years old,” said Nanion. “You know —”
“It is not old,” Bern cut in. “Not nearly old enough.” He turned to his companions and jerked his head at the bell tree.
Slightly raising their clubs, the two tallest men marched forward. Rye heard them move beneath the branches of the tree. He held his breath and did not stir.
“Surely the Gifters have not sunk so low that they will do violence to a grave!” Nanion exclaimed.
Cautiously, very cautiously, Rye turned his head a little and looked down.
Through a screen of leaves, he could see the two red-and-black figures standing directly below him, on either side of the grave. They were pointing the slim black clubs at the grave slab.
“Traitor scum deserve no reverence from us,” Bern snarled. “But we are not interested in them, as you well know. We are interested in a newer burial. We wish to know how a girl supposedly dead of fever half a year ago was able to give a note to her rebel lover so recently that the paper is still crisp and white.”
He raised his voice. “Open it!”
Humming beams of red light sprang from the tips of the black clubs, striking the head of the grave slab and turning it the color of blood. Keeping the beams steady, the two Gifters sidled toward the grave foot. And as they moved, there was a groaning, grating sound, and the slab itself began to move.
Slowly it slid back from the headstone. And little by little, two terrified faces pressed closely together were revealed, blue eyes and green blinking in the sudden light.
The Gifters at the graveside gaped down at their find. “It’s not empty, Bern!” one bawled. “There are two of them alive in here! Two! Both perfect! And one’s a —”
“Subdue them, you fools!” barked Bern, his voice cracking in excitement.
And in that instant, as Rye tensed himself to leap from his perch, there was a high whining sound, and the Gifters blasted Sonia and Faene full in the faces with bright yellow light.
Nanion’s iron control broke. He roared and lunged forward. But Bern was ready. Like lightning, he snatched the club from his own belt and pushed it into Nanion’s back. There was a whining flare of yellow, and the big man crumpled to the ground.
Rye froze, seeing all at once that any attempt to attack the Gifters, or even divert them, was doomed. What hope would he have against weapons such as these? No hope. None at all.
Stay where you are, the voice of reason told him. Stay hidden. Stay free. You will be no use to anyone as a prisoner.
So, though it was one of the hardest things he had ever done, he tightened his grip on the tree and forced himself to be still.
“You should have used the blue beam on him, Bern,” the Gifter with the sulky mouth muttered, eyeing Nanion’s sprawled body with disgust. “You had no cause to be gentle with him. He is a traitor to Dorne and deserves to die.”
“There will be time enough for that,” snarled Bern, pulling off his helmet to reveal close-cropped brown hair and a shrewd, narrow face. “After Midsummer Eve, when Dorne is safe once more, Nanion will die a thousand deaths. But only after he has seen his town burned to the ground, his people reduced to beggars, and his precious horses taken into the Chieftain’s keeping.”
He kicked Nanion viciously.
“Bring the prisoners!” he ordered the men beneath the tree. “Take care as you lift them! They must not be bruised or marked in any way.”
“We know, we know,” grumbled the Gifters at the graveside, bending to their task.
They changed the settings on the handles of their clubs once more and turned red beams back onto the slab to finish opening it. Only when the whole length of the tomb was exposed did they lift first Faene, and then Sonia.