“Leave me!” Faene screamed. “Whoever you are — leave me! Go to Dirk! Save Dirk!”
At that moment, Rye felt the chain give way.
“Jump down, Faene!” he gasped. “Behind the rock! Jump!”
When she hesitated, he pushed her, pushed her roughly. “For Dirk!” he shouted. “Do it for him! He would want it. You know he would! I beg you, go!”
With a sobbing cry, she obeyed him, crawling to the fortress side of the rock and disappearing over the edge.
And then, Olt’s frenzied commands and the crowd’s roars ringing in his ears, Rye turned to his brother. He hooked the blunted cutter blades around the chain that held Dirk captive. He hurled his whole weight onto the handles and pushed with all his might.
And again, the chain dented but did not break. Rye freed the cutters and tried for the second time.
“No, Faene!” Dirk mumbled, shaking his head and trying to push Rye away. “Save yourself!”
“Dirk, be still!” Rye shouted.
“Leave me, Faene!” Making a supreme effort, so heroic that it wrung Rye’s heart even as he yelled in frustration, Dirk knocked the cutters out of his brother’s grip.
Rye pushed back the hood of concealment. What did it matter if he was seen now? He seized Dirk’s bowed head between his hands and tilted it so that Dirk could see his face. The glazed eyes stared at him without understanding.
“Faene is not here!” Rye shouted. “Faene is safe! Dirk, look at me! It is Rye! Rye!”
Dirk’s brow wrinkled in bewilderment.
“Rye,” he said slowly. “Rye? But how —?”
Water thundered down upon the rock, beating on Rye’s back, sending him sprawling. In terror, he heard the clatter of the cutters as they were swept away.
And as the water began pouring back toward the sea, he found himself sliding with it.
His fingers scrabbled uselessly on the surface of the rock. The serpent scale could not help him now. The rushing water was not deep enough to swim in. It was nothing but a force too strong for him to resist. His feet, and then his legs, slithered over the rock’s edge.
Frantically he kicked the empty air. His ears were filled with the sound of rushing water, Olt’s squeals of fury, the roar of the crowd, and the hoots and hisses of serpents following the wave, eager to be the first to seize him.
Then, with a jerk, the terrible backward slide stopped. Someone had caught hold of one of his wrists. Someone was holding him fast as the water rushed past him. And as the torrent eased to a trickle, someone was pulling his arm, helping him to scramble back onto the rock’s surface.
His mind was full of Dirk. But it was not Dirk he saw when he shook the water from his eyes.
It was Sonia.
One foot thrust through the iron ring that had once secured Faene, chained hands still gripping Rye’s wrist, Sonia lay facedown and gasping on the rock. As Rye stared, trying to take in the fact that she had not jumped and run with the others, but had stayed to help him, Sonia raised her head.
Her nose was running. Water streamed from her hair, clothes, and face.
“Come away,” she shouted to Rye, scrambling up and pulling him up with her. “The Gifters are refusing to come near. The crowd is storming the fence. We have a chance!”
She saw him glance at Dirk, who was again slumped over, his head almost touching the rock.
“There is no more you can do!” she shrieked. “The cutters are gone! Rye, you must leave him!”
“I cannot leave him!” Rye cried in agony. “Sonia — he is Dirk! He is my brother! My brother!”
Sonia’s eyes widened. She glanced at the bowed figure of Dirk, her face twisted in dismay. Then, as she turned back to Rye, she screamed piercingly.
She was staring over Rye’s shoulder. He spun around.
The silver serpent loomed above them. Its jaws were gaping. Drops of pale gold venom dripped from its fangs and fell sizzling into the churning water. Its eyes were glittering like cold stars and fixed on Rye.
It was poised to strike, yet it did not strike.
The repellent is holding it back, Rye thought. It does not quite know what to make of me.
He knew this would not last, could not last. The serpent could see him plainly. The strong scent of kobb was making it wary, but the moment it decided Rye was merely prey, there would be no more hesitation. He had seconds to decide what to do.
It was not difficult. At that moment, it seemed to him that there was only one decision he could make.
Slowly, he pushed his foot through the iron ring that Sonia had just kicked off, bracing himself against the waves. At the same time, he slid the bell tree stick from his belt and raised it high. He lifted his other hand, too, fingers spread, making himself as large as he could.
The silver beast recoiled, very slightly. Yes, Rye thought with grim satisfaction. This is not how prey behaves, is it, serpent? Prey tries to escape you. It does not stand and stare. Be careful. Take your time….
“Sonia,” he said in a low voice. “Go now! Slowly — very slowly. While it is watching me.”
“But you —” Sonia gasped.
“I cannot escape,” Rye said, his lips barely moving. “It will strike at once if I try. But if I can just hold it like this till the sun has set — keep it from taking Dirk or that boy on the walkway just till then, the Gifting will fail. Olt will not be renewed, and Dorne will be free of him. That is something I can do, at least.”
And you will be safe, Sonia, he thought. You, and Faene. If you live and Olt dies, then Dirk’s death, and mine, will not have been in vain.
Briefly he thought of his mother, alone and grieving. He thought of his father, killed protecting Weld. He thought of Sholto, questing somewhere unknown, and Tallus the healer, solitary in his workroom. He sent them all a blessing. Then he straightened his shoulders and gripped the bell tree stick more firmly in his hand.
There was a rush in the water before the rock, and a blue-black serpent rose beside the silver one. The silver hissed warningly but did not take its eyes from Rye. Towering above him, it swayed slightly. The blue-black serpent drew back its head and seemed to freeze, its terrible jaws agape.
Behind them, other serpents were coming to the surface. The sea heaved with writhing bodies. Water showered from a dozen spiked heads of green, yellow, blue, and black as they rose against the scarlet sky and hung there, motionless as masks in some nightmarish puppet show.
It was as if they were in a trance. It was more — far more — than Rye had expected.
Is the repellent so very powerful? he thought hazily. Is it because I am refusing to run?
And as he stood there wondering, the sun, like a ball of liquid fire, began to melt into the blazing horizon.
There was a howl from the viewing platform. Rye barely heard it. He barely heard the sound of feet stumbling down the walkway, or the tumult as a section of the metal net fence fell at last, its flags crushed into the sand.
He felt no fear, no curiosity. He stood like part of the rock, braced against the waves, facing the serpents and the setting sun.
And so he did not see what Sonia saw as she turned in terror toward the walkway. He did not see Olt staggering alone down to the rock, frantic with desperate rage.
Olt’s purple cloak, speckled with silver serpent scales, was flying in the wind. His furred hood had been blown back to reveal his bare, mottled skull. Red and black bodies lay twisted and burned on the viewing platform behind him. The seven Gifters had paid dearly for their cowardice.
Bern alone had survived. Crouched behind the serpent throne, scorch in hand, he was peering down at the ghastly, stumbling skeleton on the walkway.