“Hush!” Sholto warned, raising his eyes to the ceiling to remind his brother of the skimmers flying above. And Dirk fell silent, pressing his lips together and clenching his fists.
Like all the other citizens of Weld in skimmer season, Lisbeth and her sons went to bed early. What else was there to do, when sound was dangerous and the smallest chink of light might lead to a skimmer attack?
Rye lay in the room he shared with his brothers, listening to the rush of wings outside the shutters, the occasional scrabbling of claws on the roof.
He prayed that the wings would pass them by. He prayed that he, his mother, and his brothers would not wake, like those ill-fated families in Northwall, to find skimmers filling the house, and death only moments away.
He crossed his fingers, then crossed his wrists, in the age-old Weld gesture that was supposed to ward off evil. He closed his eyes and tried to relax, but he knew that sleep would not come easily. The closely shuttered room was stuffy and far too warm. Sholto’s words at the dinner table kept echoing in his mind.
Weld may be nothing but a giant feeding bowl, in which tender prey are conveniently trapped….
From Rye’s earliest years, he had been told that inside the Wall of Weld there was safety, as long as the laws laid down by the Warden were obeyed.
Certainly, the laws were many. Sometimes even Rye had complained that they were too many.
He had nodded vigorously when Sholto had sneered that the citizens of Weld were treated like children too young to decide for themselves what was dangerous and what was not.
He had laughed when Dirk had made fun of the Warden’s latest notices: Citizens of Weld! Dress warmly in winter to avoid colds and chills. Children of Weld! Play wisely! Rough games lead to broken bones….
But at least he had felt safe — safe within the Wall.
Lying very still, his wrists crossed rigidly on his chest, Rye thought about that. He thought about Weld, and its Wall. Thought about the history he had learned and taken for granted. Thought, for the first time, about what that history meant.
Weld had existed for almost a thousand years, ever since its founder, the great sorcerer Dann, had fled with his followers from the savage barbarians and monstrous creatures that infested the coast of Dorne.
Turning his back on the sea, Dann had taken his people to a place where the barbarians dared not follow. He had led them through the dangerous, forbidden ring of land called the Fell Zone, to the secret center of the island. And there, within a towering Wall, he had created a place of peace, safety, and magic — the city of Weld.
After Dann’s time, the magic had slowly faded, but his Wall had remained. More than half of the city’s workers labored on it every day, repairing and strengthening it. Every rock and stone in Weld, except for the stones that formed the Warden’s Keep, had vanished into the Wall’s vast bulk centuries ago. The workers used bricks of mud and straw to mend and thicken it now.
And as the Wall had thickened, little by little, it had crept ever closer to the great trench at its base — the trench from which the clay for bricks was dug.
The trench now circled Weld in the Wall’s shadow like a deep, ugly scar. In the past, houses had been pulled down to make way for it. Soon, everyone knew, more would have to go.
The people did not complain. They knew that the Wall, and the Fell Zone beyond it, kept Weld safe. They had thought it always would.
Then the first skimmers had come. And now, after five years of invasions, it was clear to everyone that the days of safety were over.
The barbarians had at last found a way to attack Weld. Not by tunneling through the base of the Wall, as had always been feared, but by breeding creatures that could do what had once seemed impossible — brave the Wall’s great height and fly over it.
And we are trapped inside, Rye thought.
Tender prey …
“This room is stifling!” he heard Dirk mutter to Sholto in the darkness. “I cannot breathe! Sholto, this cannot go on! The Warden must act!”
“Perhaps he will,” Sholto whispered back. “The riot in Northwall must have shaken him. Tomorrow may bring some surprises.”
The following day was the day of rest in Weld, but Dirk was up and dressed before the waking bell. He told Lisbeth that he was going to the square to hear the latest news, but Rye was sure that his brother planned to meet his friends to discuss the Northwall riot. Perhaps they were hoping that the people of Southwall could also be roused to protest.
Sholto must have thought as Rye did, because as Dirk was leaving, he casually said that he would walk with him.
“I will come, too,” Rye said instantly.
He could see that Dirk and Sholto did not want his company, but he knew that they could not refuse to take him with them without raising Lisbeth’s suspicions.
The brothers left through the back garden, where the bees were already humming around the honey hedge, and the bell tree, heavy with ripening fruit, basked in the early morning sun.
Keeping well to the right, as Weld citizens always did, they began walking briskly through the maze of short, straight streets that led to the square.
Every street was just wide enough to allow two goat carts to pass one another. Every street was closely lined with identical houses — small, mud-brick houses like Lisbeth’s house, and every other house in Weld.
At this early hour, most people were still busily unsealing their doors and windows, and checking the crops in their tiny back gardens for skimmer damage. Most looked tired and strained after a night of little sleep, but as was the Weld way, they looked up from their work and exchanged friendly greetings with the young men as they passed by.
They all knew and admired Dirk. They all knew that Sholto would one day be the Southwall healer. And they all bought honey and bell fruit preserves from Lisbeth in the market.
Two of Dirk’s friends, Joliffe and Crell, were just leaving Joliffe’s home when the brothers reached it. It seemed they, too, were going to the square. By the way Joliffe and Crell glanced disapprovingly at him, Rye could tell he had been right about a planned meeting.
He hung back a little, and after a while, as he had hoped, the other four half-forgot he was there, and began to talk freely. Sure enough, the talk was all about the Northwall riot.
“The Northwall people were quite right,” Joliffe muttered as they passed a skimmer poison trap and skirted the few dead skimmers lying in their path. “The Warden is a pompous fool. Why should we put up with him?”
“His family has governed Weld since ancient times,” Crell said anxiously. “Ever since —”
“Ever since the Sorcerer Dann died, leaving Weld’s care to his friend, the first Warden of Weld …” Dirk chanted in a mocking, singsong voice.
“… who was great in magic, and so on and so on,” Joliffe finished for him impatiently. “We all know the story, Crell, you ninny! We have heard it a thousand times. But what of it?”
“What of it indeed?” Dirk snorted. “The first Warden was only appointed caretaker of Weld, Crell — caretaker, not king. There was no reason at all for the title to be passed on from father to son as it has been. If a drop of magic blood runs in the present Warden’s veins, I am a — a —”
“A Weld goat?” Joliffe suggested, raising his eyebrows, and Crell and Dirk laughed.
“The present Warden has no sons,” Sholto put in quietly. “He only has a daughter.”
He shrugged as his companions stared at him.