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“She is a prize indeed,” said Olt. “You did well to find her. And yet …”

He paused, and his hand beat softly on the preserved serpent coils, causing more scales to fall. When he spoke again, his voice was fretful and slightly slurred as if he were exhausted.

“And yet, why was she there to find? How could such a one have been left behind? It is a mystery. I do not like mysteries. Yet she is here, ripe for Gifting, and I cannot resist…. Bern, look outside again! I feel a presence, I tell you!”

Bern appeared in the doorway, looking uneasy. He gave the landing only the briefest of glances before turning back to his master.

“There’s no one, my Chieftain. My Chieftain, forgive me, but I should leave you to yourself. Controlling the prisoners, while at the same time holding the disguise spell over the decoys in the pit, is draining your strength. I’ll come back when —”

“Yes,” Olt said. “When you have the rebels. When you have them all!”

Rye gripped the wall, weak with horror. Why had he not seen this before? Sonia and the other captives were here because Olt was setting a trap for the rebels! Olt knew very well that Dirk and his band were inside the fortress. He expected them to make another attack on the holding pit. He was determined to capture them, once and for all.

I must warn them, Rye thought frantically. Somehow I must find them, and tell them….

But he did not dare move. Olt was already suspicious. The slightest sound would alert him to the fact that whatever Bern said, someone was indeed on the landing, watching and listening.

Someone with access to magic. Someone who could not be seen.

Rye knew that this must not happen. The light crystal, the hood, and the ring were the only weapons he had. If he were to have the smallest chance of helping Dirk and rescuing Sonia, those weapons must be kept hidden from Olt.

“The secret must be kept safe,” he heard Olt mumbling in a strange echo of his own thoughts.

“It is safe, my Chieftain,” Bern replied. “Except for ourselves, no one knows it but the seven Gifters who carried the prisoners to this chamber, then took their places in the pit.”

“And the Gifters guarding the pit?”

“They believe their prisoners are what they seem,” said Bern. “And if they die fighting the rebels, we can well do without them. The decoys in the pit are my finest men and fully armed. They know what to do.”

“Good. Then all is in place. You may go. And you had better pray the traitors attack as early as we hope they will. As you have so kindly pointed out, my strength is ebbing.”

The pale lips drew back even farther from the yellow teeth. More scales fell from the decaying serpent throne.

“The attack will come at any moment, my Chieftain,” Bern promised recklessly. “By now, the rebels will have heard of your Special Orders. Their spies are everywhere. They’ll make their swoop as soon as they can, hoping to take the Gifters by surprise.”

“Then why do you wait here?” Olt muttered. “It may be happening at this moment! Go and see! But take care not to be seen. We do not want to rouse their suspicions.”

Bowing, Bern backed quickly out of the chamber. He kept his head low until the iron door clanged shut behind him. Then he straightened, and Rye caught a single glimpse of his strained, sweating face as he turned and hurried down the steps, quickly disappearing into the dimness.

Rye followed as fast as he could, his footfalls like dim echoes of Bern’s heavier tread. In moments, it seemed, he had reached the bottom of the steps. He glanced through the archway into the dark, deserted courtyard, then plunged after Bern into the foul-smelling stairwell that led down to the dungeons.

Cold sweat was beading his forehead. His mind was filled with pictures of Dirk — Dirk, dirty and unshaven, crawling through a tunnel barely wide enough to clear his broad shoulders, Dirk whispering to others crawling behind him.

No, Dirk! Rye thought frantically. Dirk, turn back! It is a trap!

But as he reached a gallery that overlooked a stone pit ringed with blazing torches and saw Bern smiling in the shadows, he knew he was too late.

Gifter guards sprawled unconscious on the floor of the gallery and around the pit. Ropes secured by iron spikes dangled over the pit edge, and the dark-clad figures clinging to the ropes had already almost reached the bottom.

Most of the rebels were making the descent clumsily, like the newest apprentice Wall workers. One was not. One was bounding down the side of the pit with the ease of long practice.

Dirk.

At the base of the pit, seven pale figures stood looking up. Four young women, three young men — exact copies of the prisoners in Olt’s chamber. The figures seemed to waver, as if seen through a mist, but Rye knew the rebels would not see that.

They would only see what they expected to see — seven helpless victims they were determined to save.

And so it was that, before he could utter a sound, Rye saw with his own eyes the seven prisoners transform into Gifters the moment the rebels’ feet hit the bottom of the pit. He saw the Gifters draw their weapons. He saw the rebels’ shocked faces, Dirk’s face among them. He heard whining sounds, high and low. He saw the yellow and blue flashes of the scorch beams flying.

And he saw the rebels fall. He saw Dirk, his brother, fall. And he saw Bern leaning back against the dank wall of the gallery, weak with relief, and laughing, laughing, laughing.

Rye heard a terrible cry and realized it had burst from his own throat. He saw Bern spin around, scorch in hand, eyes bulging in shock. Then the scorch was wailing as Bern fired wildly at the intruder he had heard but could not see. Blue light sprayed the wall, just missing Rye’s shoulder.

Rye turned and ran. His feet barely touching the ground, he fled up the dungeon steps and out into the courtyard.

The gate was rasping open. The Gifters on guard outside had heard the wailing of the scorches and the muffled baying of their fellows in the pit. They were spilling into the courtyard, racing for the dungeons, pushing each other out of the way in their eagerness to reach the center of the excitement.

Rye flung himself heedlessly through the press of bodies. The Gifters did not notice him. They could not see him. Every man thought it was his neighbor who had pushed him. None of them imagined for a moment that a shadow was rushing through their ranks, half mad with shock and grief.

Bursting out of the fortress into a world of salty wind and pounding waves, Rye hurtled down the track toward the city, blinded by tears and spray.

He had no idea where he was going. He just ran, ran like a wounded animal looking for a place to hide. He ran as if by running he could escape the memory of Dirk’s crumpling body, from the scalding knowledge of his own helplessness and failure.

The area before the fence, where the crowd had gathered, was deserted now. Rye saw the lights of the Flying Fish tavern and made for them merely because the tavern was a place he recognized. He stumbled to the corner of the low building, where he had hidden once before. And there, at last, his back to the wall, he slid to the ground.

He was shivering all over. The hood was cold and wet with spray, clinging to his neck and ears. The strings around his neck seemed to be strangling him. He tore the hood off and took great gulps of salty, foul-smelling air. A great wave of sickness swept over him. Moaning softly, he curled himself into a ball, screwed his eyes shut, and knew no more.

When at last Rye woke, he found himself staring into a pair of curious black eyes. He blinked. The eyes disappeared, and Rye heard the sound of small feet running away. He puzzled over this for a moment but made no sense of it.