take me through the Wall.”
Rye made no answer.
“I apologize….” His companion cleared her throat. “I am sorry for what I said — about the volunteers who chose the golden Door. I meant … no disrespect.”
“Yes you did,” said Rye. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and got to his feet again.
The girl hesitated, as if she was about to saysomething more, then seemed to decide there was no point. She turned and moved on, making no comment as Rye followed her, a few steps behind.
“Have you any idea where you are going?” Rye asked coldly.
The girl glanced at him over her shoulder. “I am just following the path,” she said. “I could not think of a better plan.”
Rye shook his head. There was no path that he could see. The girl was mad.
But still he followed her. Anything was better than being alone in this place.
After only a few moments, however, he knew that something was wrong. The walking was far too easy. Sweat broke out on his brow as he realized it was harder to slow down than to keep moving. An invisible force was drawing him on.
“Wait!” he shouted.
The girl stopped, skidding a little on the leaves. And it was only as she looked back in alarm, as she looked up at Rye, and he looked down at her, that he saw his mistake.
Sorcery had not been speeding their progress. Walking was rapid and easy because the ground on which they trod sloped downward!
Rye seemed to hear Sholto jeering in his ear.
Ignorant people often call things magic when they do not understand them.
Rye cursed himself for being so stupid. It was noexcuse that Weld was perfectly flat, and he had never walked down a hill in his life before. He was not in Weld now — he knew that! And the girl in red had not been deceived.
“What is it?” she called softly, looking nervously from side to side, then back at Rye.
“I …” He could not bring himself to explain. “I want to know your name,” he finally burst out, snatching at the first question he could think of.
The girl folded her arms and pressed her lips together. It occurred to Rye that perhaps she clung to the old Weld belief that to know a person’s name gave you power over that person. She was strange enough to believe anything.
“You know my name,” he pointed out. “It is only fair that you should tell me yours.”
“Sonia,” she said at last. “My name is Sonia, if you must know.”
She turned and hurried on.
The slope was becoming steeper. With every step, the rocks grew less, but the trees grew larger, and the bushes and vines more luxuriant. Ferns massed on the ground, splashing the fallen leaves with bright, tender green. Rye kept thinking he caught glimpses of movement from the corners of his eyes, but whenever he turned to look, he could see nothing.
Sonia wound her way quickly through the trees, occasionally hesitating before choosing one direction or another. At first, Rye could only trail after herblindly, but after a time, he found that he was able to guess which way she would go.
There was a path. The marks of it were very faint, but they were there. Once he had seen them, Rye could not understand why he had not noticed them before.
At least , he thought, Sonia is not as mad as I thought, and we are not just wandering aimlessly. The path must lead somewhere.
But where?
Rye forced that disturbing question out of his mind. For good or ill, he and Sonia really had no choice but to follow the path if they were to have any chance of living through the night. The rustling treetops hid the sky, but he knew that by now it must be dimming. Soon the sun would go down, and the skimmers would take flight. He and Sonia had to find shelter by then.
“We had better —” he began, then found himself crowding into Sonia as she stopped abruptly.
He saw what had halted her, and his blood ran cold.
Right across their path, strung between two trees, a slimy net sagged like a vast, crude spiderweb. And hanging in the web was the
Rye made no answer.
“I apologize….” His companion cleared her throat. “I am sorry for what I said — about the volunteers who chose the golden Door. I meant … no disrespect.”
“Yes you did,” said Rye. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and got to his feet again.
The girl hesitated, as if she was about to saysomething more, then seemed to decide there was no point. She turned and moved on, making no comment as Rye followed her, a few steps behind.
“Have you any idea where you are going?” Rye asked coldly.
The girl glanced at him over her shoulder. “I am just following the path,” she said. “I could not think of a better plan.”
Rye shook his head. There was no path that he could see. The girl was mad.
But still he followed her. Anything was better than being alone in this place.
After only a few moments, however, he knew that something was wrong. The walking was far too easy. Sweat broke out on his brow as he realized it was harder to slow down than to keep moving. An invisible force was drawing him on.
“Wait!” he shouted.
The girl stopped, skidding a little on the leaves. And it was only as she looked back in alarm, as she looked up at Rye, and he looked down at her, that he saw his mistake.
Sorcery had not been speeding their progress. Walking was rapid and easy because the ground on which they trod sloped downward!
Rye seemed to hear Sholto jeering in his ear.
Ignorant people often call things magic when they do not understand them.
Rye cursed himself for being so stupid. It was noexcuse that Weld was perfectly flat, and he had never walked down a hill in his life before. He was not in Weld now — he knew that! And the girl in red had not been deceived.
“What is it?” she called softly, looking nervously from side to side, then back at Rye.
“I …” He could not bring himself to explain. “I want to know your name,” he finally burst out, snatching at the first question he could think of.
The girl folded her arms and pressed her lips together. It occurred to Rye that perhaps she clung to the old Weld belief that to know a person’s name gave you power over that person. She was strange enough to believe anything.
“You know my name,” he pointed out. “It is only fair that you should tell me yours.”
“Sonia,” she said at last. “My name is Sonia, if you must know.”
She turned and hurried on.
The slope was becoming steeper. With every step, the rocks grew less, but the trees grew larger, and the bushes and vines more luxuriant. Ferns massed on the ground, splashing the fallen leaves with bright, tender green. Rye kept thinking he caught glimpses of movement from the corners of his eyes, but whenever he turned to look, he could see nothing.
Sonia wound her way quickly through the trees, occasionally hesitating before choosing one direction or another. At first, Rye could only trail after herblindly, but after a time, he found that he was able to guess which way she would go.
There was a path. The marks of it were very faint, but they were there. Once he had seen them, Rye could not understand why he had not noticed them before.
At least , he thought, Sonia is not as mad as I thought, and we are not just wandering aimlessly. The path must lead somewhere.
But where?
Rye forced that disturbing question out of his mind. For good or ill, he and Sonia really had no choice but to follow the path if they were to have any chance of living through the night. The rustling treetops hid the sky, but he knew that by now it must be dimming. Soon the sun would go down, and the skimmers would take flight. He and Sonia had to find shelter by then.
“We had better —” he began, then found himself crowding into Sonia as she stopped abruptly.
He saw what had halted her, and his blood ran cold.
Right across their path, strung between two trees, a slimy net sagged like a vast, crude spiderweb. And hanging in the web was the
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