by Robyn Miller
A’GAERIS CLIMBED THE STEPS OF THE HARBOR at K’veer, Anna and the boy just in front of him, goaded on by the point of his knife.
At the top he paused and, grasping the loose ends of the ropes by which their hands were bound, wrapped them tightly about his left hand. Then, leading the two behind him like a pair of hounds, he went inside the mansion.
K’veer had not been untouched by the tremors, and parts of its impressive architecture had cracked and fallen away into the surrounding lake, yet enough of it remained for it to be recognizable. Anna, who had wondered where they were going, now felt a sense of resignation descend on her.
If Veovis was here then there was nothing Aitrus could do.
Anna glanced at her son. Gehn’s face was closed, his eyes sullen, as if this latest twist were no more than could be expected. Yet he was bearing up, for all his trials, and she felt a strange twinge of pride in him for that.
She was about to speak, when she caught the scent of burning. A’Gaeris, too, must have noticed it at the same moment, for he stopped suddenly and frowned.
For a moment he sniffed the air, as if he had been mistaken, then, with a bellow, he began to hurriedly climb the stairs, dragging them along after him.
As they approached the Book Room the smell of burning grew and grew until, at a turn in the stairs, they could see the flickering glow of a fire up ahead of them.
A’Gaeris roared. “My Books!”
For a moment, as he tugged at the rope, Anna almost fell, but she kept her footing. Gehn did, however. She heard his cry and saw that A’Gaeris had let go of the rope that held him. But there was no time to see if he was all right. The next instant she found herself behind A’Gaeris in the doorway to the Book Room. Beyond him the room was brilliantly lit. Smoke bellowed from a stack of burning Books. And just to one side of the flaming pile—a Book in one hand, a flaming torch in the other—stood Aitrus.
A’Gaeris slammed the great door shut behind him, then took a step toward Aitrus, yet even as he did, Aitrus raised the torch and called to him:
“Come any closer and I’ll burn the rest of your Books, A’Gaeris! I know where they are. I’ve seen them. In the cabin on the south island. I linked there. I can link there now, unless …”
Anna felt A’Gaeris’s hand reach out and grasp her roughly, and then his arm was about her neck, the dagger raised, its point beneath her neck.
“I have your wife, Aitrus. Go near those Books and I shall kill her.”
“Kill her and I shall destroy your Books. I’ll link through and put them to the torch. And what will you have then, Master Philosopher? Nothing. Not now that you’ve killed Veovis.”
Anna could feel A’Gaeris trembling with anger. Any false move and she would be dead.
“Give me that Book,” he said once more in a low growl. “Give it to me, or Ti’ana dies.”
Aitrus was smiling now. He lifted the Book slightly. “This is a masterful work. I know Veovis was proud of it.”
A’Gaeris stared at Aitrus. “It was called Ederat.”
“No,” Aitrus said, his eyes meeting Anna’s. “Veovis had another name for it. He called it Be-el-ze-bub.”
Anna caught her breath. She stared at him, loving him more in that instant than she had ever loved him.
I love you, she mouthed.
Aitrus answered her with his eyes.
“Well?” he asked, returning his attention to A’Gaeris. “Do we have a deal? The Book—and all those Books within—for my wife?”
But A’Gaeris simply laughed.
Aitrus lowered the torch. His eyes went to the cover of the Book, then, with a final loving look at Anna, he placed the hand that held the burning torch upon the glowing panel.
A’Gaeris howled. Thrusting Anna away from him he ran across the room.
“Aitrus!” she yelled as his figure shimmered and vanished. “Aitrus!”
But he was gone. The great Book fell with a thud to the floor beside the burning stack.
A’Gaeris threw himself at it in unseemly haste and almost wrenched the cover from the spine forcing it open.
Anna watched, her heart in her throat as, his chest heaving, A’Gaeris looked across at her and, with a smile that was half snarl, placed his hand against the descriptive panel and linked.
EVEN AS HE LINKED INTO THE CAVE, A’GAERIS stumbled, doubling up in pain. The air was burning, the reek of sulphur choking. The first breath seared his lungs. Putting out an arm, A’Gaeris staggered forward, howling, looking about him desperately for the Linking Book back to D’ni. Yet even as he did, a great crack appeared in the floor of the cavern. The heat intensified. There was a glimpse of brilliant orange-redness, one stark moment of realization, and then the rock slab on which he stood tilted forward, A’Gaeris’s shrill cry of surprise cut off as he tumbled into the molten flow.
And then silence. The primal, unheard silence of the great cauldron of creation.
ANNA CRIED QUIETLY, CROUCHING OVER THE green-covered Book and studying the glowing image there.
For a moment or two there was the temptation to follow him: to end it all, just as Aitrus had. Then someone hammered on the Book Room door.
It brought her back to herself. Gehn.
Anna turned to face the smoldering pile of ashes that had once been D’ni Books, then dropped the green-covered Book upon the rest. Sparks scattered. A cloud of smoke wafted up toward the high ceiling of the room. A moment later, flames began to lick the burnished leather of the cover.
For a moment she simply stared, feeling the gap there now where the other book of her life had been, just as Tasera had described it. Then, getting to her feet again, she turned, even as the knocking came again, more urgently this time, and began to walk across.
EPILOGUE
THE SUN WAS EDGING ABOVE THE MOUNTAINS far to the east as the figure of a woman emerged from the lip of the volcano, cradling a sleeping child. The desert floor was still in deep shadow. It lay like a dark sea about the bright, black-mouthed circle of the caldera. The woman paused, lifting her chin, slowly scanning the surrounding desert, then began to descend the rock-littered slope, her shadow stretched out long and thin behind her, black against the dawn’s red.
As she came closer to the cleft, a light wind began to blow, lifting the dark strands of her hair behind her. Sand danced across the rock then settled. The woman seemed gaunt and wraithlike, and the child in her arms was but skin and bone, yet there was a light in her eyes, a vitality, that was like the fire from the deep earth.
Seeing the cleft, she slowed, looking about her once more, then went across and knelt, laying the child down gently on a narrow ledge of rock. Taking the two packs from her shoulders, she set them down. Then, using her hands and feet to find her way, she ducked down into the dark gash of the cleft.
There was a pool down there at the foot of the cleft. In the predawn darkness it was filled with stars, reflected from the sky far overhead. Like a shadow, she knelt beside it, scooping up a handful of the pure, cool water, and drank. Refreshed, she turned, still kneeling, and looked about her. It was cool down here, and there was water. With a little work it could be more.
Anna nodded, then stood, wiping her hands against her shirt. “Here,” she said. “We’ll begin again here.”
MYST: THE BOOK OF D’NI
TO THE DEDICATED TEAM AT CYAN
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
EVEN AS WE BRING YOU THIS THIRD BOOK, which further uncovers the D’ni and their history, we realize that we have merely scratched the surface of this fascinatingly rich civilization, but have added a crucial piece to this ever enlarging puzzle. And this latest effort that we now present to you could have only been possible with the continuing effort of a core group of dedicated individuals.
It is again our pleasure to have uncovered more of these historic and stunning past events of a civilization that continues to live and to teach. Yet this work would not have been possible if not for the assistance of Chris Brandkamp, Richard Watson, and Ryan Mi
ller along with the long hours spent by our friend, David Wingrove. This particular task of discovery was especially rewarding to each of us.
So it is again to these four friends that I extend my sincerest thanks.
PROLOGUE
A SEABIRD CALLS.
THE UNKNOWING ONE STANDS AT THE RAIL.
PEACE. THE CIRCLE CLOSED.
THE LAST WORD WRITTEN.
—FROM THE KOROKH JIMAH:
VV. 13245–46
THE CAVERN WAS SILENT. A FAINT MIST drifted on the surface of the water, underlit by the dull orange glow that seemed to emanate from deep within the lake. Vast walls of granite climbed on every side while overhead, unseen, unsensed, a solid shelf of rock a mile thick shut off all view of stars and moon.
Islands littered the lake, twisted spikes of darkness jutting from the level surface of the water, and there, on the far side of the cavern, one single, massive rock, split yet still standing, like the splintered trunk of a tree, its peak hidden in the darkness.
Beyond it lay the city, wreathed in stillness, its ancient buildings clinging to the walls of the cavern.
D’ni slept, dreamless and in ruins. And yet the air was fresh. It moved, circulating between the caverns, the distant noise of the vast rotating blades little more than the suggestion of a sound, a faint, whumping pulse beneath the silence.
The mist parted briefly as a boat slid across the waters, the faintest ripple marking its passage, and then it, too, was gone, vanished into the blackness.
It was night in D’ni. A night that had lasted now for almost seventy years.
In the streets of the city the mist coiled on the cold stone of ancient cobbles like something living. Yet nothing lived there now; only the mosses and fungi that grew from every niche and cranny.
Empty it was, as though it had stood thus for a thousand years. Level after level lay open to the eye, abandoned and neglected. A thousand empty lanes, ten thousand empty rooms, a desolate landscape of crumbling walls and fallen masonry everywhere one looked.
In the great curve between the city’s marbled flanks lay the harbor, the shadows of sunken boats in its glowing depths, and across the harbor’s mouth a great arch of stone, Kerath’s Arch, as it was known, its pitted surface webbed with cracks.
Silence. A preternatural silence. And then a sound. Faint at first and distant, and yet clear. The tap, tap, tap of metal against stone.
High above, in the narrow lanes of the upper city, a shadow stopped beneath a partly fallen gate and turned to look. The sound had come from the far end of the cavern; from one of the islands scattered on the lake out there.
Mist swirled, then silence fell again.
And then new sounds: a whirring, high-pitched mechanical screech, followed by the low burr of a power drill. And then the tapping once again, the sound of it echoing out across the water.
K’veer. The noises were coming from K’veer.
Two miles across the lake and there it is, the island rising like a huge black corkscrew from the glowing lake, its once crisp outline softened by a recent rockfall.
Coming closer, the noise grows in volume, the sound of drilling constant now, as is the clang, clang, clang of massive hammers pounding the stone. The island shakes beneath the onslaught, the carved stone trembling like a sounding bell.
But no one is woken by that dreadful din. The ancient rooms are dark and empty. All, that is, but one, at the very foot of the island, down beneath the surface of the lake. There, deep in the rock, lies the oldest room of all, a chamber of marbled pillars and cold stone, sealed off by an angry father to teach his son a lesson.
Now, forty years on, that same chamber is filled with busy men in dark, protective suits. Their brows beaded with sweat, they toil beneath the arc lights, a dozen of them standing between the two big hydraulic props, working at the face of the wall with hammer and drill, while others scamper back and forth, lifting and carrying the fallen stone, stacking it in a great heap on the far side of the chamber.
A figure stands beside the left-hand prop, looking on. Atrus, son of Gehn, once-prisoner in this chamber. After a while, he glances at the open notebook in his hand, then looks up again, calling out something to those closest to him.
A face looks up and nods, then turns back. The message is passed along the line.
There is a moment’s pause. A welcome silence.
Walking across, Atrus crouches between two of the men and leans forward, examining the wall, prising his fingers deep into the crack, then turns and shakes his head.
He stands back, letting them continue, watching them go to it with a vengeance, the noise deafening now, as if all of them know that one more push will see the job through.
Slowly the chamber fills with dust and grit. And then one of them withdraws and, straightening up, cuts the power to his drill. Turning, he lifts his protective visor and grins.
All about him the others stand back, looking on.
Atrus returns to the wall and, crouching, pushes his hand deep into the crack, edging this way and that, feeling high and low. Satisfied, he eases back and, taking a marker from his pocket, stands, drawing an outline on the stone. The outline of a door.
At his signal, one of the drill men steps forward and begins to cut along the mark.
Swiftly it’s done. A dozen hammer blows and the stone falls away.
The stone is quickly cleared, and as the rest look on, Atrus steps forward one last time. He holds a cutting tool with a chunky barrel the thickness of his arm. Placing the circle of its teeth about the circle of the lock—a circle that overlaps the thick frame of the door—he braces himself, then gently squeezes the trigger, letting it bite slowly into the surface. Only then, when the cutter has a definite grip on the metal, does he begin to push, placing his whole weight behind it.
There is a growling whine, a sharp, burning smell, different in kind from the earlier smells of stone and dust and lubricant. And then, abruptly, it’s over. There is the clatter of the lock as it falls into the corridor beyond, the descending whine of the drill as it stutters into silence.
Setting the drill down, he raises his visor, then pulls the protective helmet off and lets it fall.
ATRUS STRAIGHTENED AND, WITH A SINGLE meaningful glance at the watching men, turned back to face the doorway. Forty years he had waited for this. Forty long years.
Placing his booted foot against the surface, he pushed hard, feeling the metal resist at first, then give.
Slowly, silently, it swung back.
A good D’ni door, he thought, with good stone hinges that never rust. A door built to last.
And as the door swung back he saw for the first time in a long while the empty corridor and, at its end, the twist of steps that led up into the house, where, long ago, his father, Gehn, had taught him how to write. Where he had first learned the truth about D’ni. Yes, and other things, too.
Irras came and stood by his shoulder. “Will you not go through, Master Atrus?”
Atrus turned, meeting the young man’s eyes. “One should not hurry moments like this, Irras. I have waited forty years. Another forty seconds will not harm.”
Irras lowered his eyes, abashed.
“Besides,” Atrus went on, “we do not know yet whether D’ni is occupied or not.”
“You think it might be?” The look of shock on Irras’s face was almost comical.
“If it is,” Atrus said, “then they will know we are here. We’ve made enough noise to wake the dead.”
“Then maybe we should arm ourselves.”
“Against other D’ni?” Atrus smiled. “No, Irras. If anyone’s here, they will be friends, not foes. Like us, they will have returned for a reason.”
Atrus turned back, looking toward the steps, then, brushing the dust from his leather gloves and boots, he stepped through, into the dimly lit corridor.
PART ONE
RIVERS OF FIRE. EVEN THE ROCKS BURN.
AN ISLAND RISES FROM THE SEA.
DARK MA
GIC IN AN ERRANT PHRASE.
THE PEOPLE BOW TO THE LORD OF ERROR.
—FROM THE EJEMAH’TERAK:
BOOK SEVEN, VV. 328–31
SEABIRDS WHEELED AND CALLED IN THE air above the bay, a flutter of white above the blue. It was hot, and, looking at the village, Marrim drew her hair back from her face, then gathered the braided strands together, fastening them at the nape of her neck. But for her father she would have had it cut like a man’s long ago. After all, she did a man’s job, why should she not wear her hair like a man’s? But she was loathe to upset her father. It was hard enough for him to understand all the changes that had come to Averone, let alone comprehend the urge to explore and understand that had been woken in his youngest daughter.
From where she stood, on the promontory, the whole of her small world was open to her gaze. For all her childhood it had been enough. The six great circular lodge houses, the river, the broad fields where they had planted the crops, and, beyond them, the woods where they had hunted and played. World enough, until Atrus and Catherine appeared.
Now she could barely imagine how it had been before they’d come. How she had ever survived without this urge in her, this need to know.
And now, almost as suddenly as it had begun, it was to end. Only that morning they had dismantled the last of the workshops and cleared the ground where it had been. So Atrus had promised the elders of the village when he had first come here, yet Marrim could not understand why it had to be. They had come so far so quickly. Why did it have to end? For certain, she herself could not easily return to being what she was. No. She had changed. And this world, while it still drew her emotionally, was no longer big enough for her. She wanted more. Atrus’s Books had opened her mind to the infinite possibilities that existed, and she wanted to see, if not all, then at least some of those possibilities.