by Robyn Miller
Earlier, discussing things with Oma and Esel, Carrad and Irras, they had agreed among themselves that the wonders that they had witnessed on their travels must have been developed over many, many years. They had imagined a process where someone—some bright, creative sort—had originally had an idea, and how others throughout the land had then copied and developed it, refining it over long centuries until it had reached its present state. Even so, the whole thing was quite incredible. It was not simply that these people put so much thought into everything they did, it was the scale on which they worked. Nothing was too much trouble for them, it seemed.
Now, lounging among the several dozen guests—neighboring landowners and their wives and sons—the idea that some kind of magic lay behind all this was strong in her mind.
“Master Atrus?”
Atrus turned on his couch, looking to her. “Yes, Marrim?”
“Did they have music in D’ni?”
“Yes, but in truth I have never heard it. Besides, it would not compare with what we have just heard.”
“You liked our music, Atrus?”
The speaker, on the couch immediately to Atrus’s right, was Ro’Jethhe’s second son, Eedrah. He was slighter in build than his brother and paler of complexion, yet the resemblance was striking.
Atrus turned and addressed the young man, inclining his head. “To be honest, I have never heard the like.”
“Ah, yes,” Eedrah pressed, “but did you like it?”
To Marrim’s surprise, Atrus hesitated, then shook his head. “It was astonishing. So complex and so elegant, but, to be frank, I found it … uncomfortable.”
Marrim, hearing this, could not help herself. “But it was wonderful, Master Atrus! Those harmonies! The underlying patterns of the music! It was … beautiful!”
She looked about her after she had said it and saw how everyone was suddenly looking at her; how all the landowners, all the wives and children of the landowners, were suddenly staring at her, the same concentrated frown on every face. Eedrah, particularly, seemed to be watching her closely. Seeing that, she blushed.
“I agree,” Catherine said, interceding. “For a moment I totally forgot where I was.”
Eedrah smiled. “Why, you are in Terahnee!”
And there was laughter. The young man bowed his head and grinned at Marrim, who blushed deeper. But the moment had passed, and the conversation, which had stopped for the music, began to flow once more.
It was quickly obvious that the people of this Age loved to talk—and not merely to talk, but to debate each subject at great length and in great depth; a natural wit keeping the conversation light and buoyant even when the subject matter was profound.
Marrim, watching Atrus, saw how he suddenly blossomed in this new environment. Admiring him as she did, she had nonetheless thought him somewhat dour, a deep and taciturn man, but suddenly he was transformed, and in the cut and thrust of conversation gave as good as he got from his hosts.
And then, suddenly, the subject turned to D’ni.
“Forgive me, Atrus,” Ro’Jethhe said, “but my son mentioned something about your home. About a place called Ro’D’ni. I must confess, I have never personally heard of such a place.”
Atrus looked about him. “We are, indeed, from D’ni. At least, from a place known as such.”
“I see,” the neighbor, Ro’Hedrath, interjected, “but how did you get here? By boat?”
Again there was laughter but now everyone, it seemed, leaned in, awaiting Atrus’s reply.
“The ruins …” Atrus began.
“Ruins?” Ro’Hedrath looked about him. “I know of no ruins in Terahnee!”
“But surely you must,” Atrus said. “They are but half a day from here.”
At this Ro’Jethhe looked to his second son. “Eedrah, have you read of any such ruins?”
The young man had been looking down. At his father’s query he looked up, startled. “No, Father.”
“There are ruins,” Atrus went on. “Up on the plateau. They are screened by trees—huge, ancient trees—but they are there. High up. We came through there.”
“Came through?” Ro’Jethhe looked puzzled.
Eedrah stood abruptly. “Forgive me, Father, but I feel … unwell.”
“Of course,” Ro’Jethhe said, waving his son away. Then, turning, he gestured to one of the stewards to go aid the young man.
Turning back, he smiled. “You must forgive him, Atrus, but he has always been a little … frail.”
Atrus opened his mouth, about to answer—to explain just how and why they were there—but at that very moment another boat appeared from beneath the great arch on the far side of the amphitheater, breaching the flow of the falls, water spraying up in a misted arc, and entered the spiral channel, coming to rest at the edge of that central space.
Four men were seated in the body of the boat. One of them—a big, gray-haired man wrapped in jet-black furs—now stood and, stepping from the boat, called a greeting to Ro’Jethhe, who, like all the others, had risen to their feet immediately the boat appeared.
“Governor!” Ro’Jethhe said, grinning with pride as he stepped across to greet him. “Welcome to our humble entertainment.”
The governor was indeed an imposing figure. He stood head and shoulders above Ro’Jethhe, who was not by any means a small man. Granting Ro’Jethhe a brief smile of acknowledgment, he stepped past him, approaching Atrus’s couch.
Atrus had stood, and now, confronted by the man, inclined his head. “Governor,” he said.
“So you are Atrus, of Ro’D’ni.”
There was a moment’s strangeness—a kind of pause in which anything, it seemed, might happen—and then the governor reached out and took Atrus’s hands in a firm grip. “Welcome to Terahnee, Atrus of D’ni.”
Relinquishing Atrus’s hands, the governor stepped back. “It is rare indeed that we have visitors in this land of ours, so you are truly welcome. I am Horen Ro’Jadre, governor of Ni’Ediren, and I bear a message from the king.”
As he spoke the words, the governor drew a sealed scroll from within his cloak and offered it to Atrus. It was a long, impressive cylinder, covered in gold leaf, the great seal of office—an oval lozenge of bright blue wax—appended to it.
Atrus took it, then bowed his head. “I am grateful for your kindness, Horen Ro’Jadre.”
“Think nothing of it,” the governor said; then, turning to address all of them, he announced, “The king has invited Atrus and his party to attend him in the capital. They are to leave tomorrow.” He looked about him. “Where is Eedrah?”
Ro’Jethhe smiled politely. “I am afraid he is unwell.”
“Again? Hmmm … I wanted him to accompany our guests on their journey to the capital.”
“And so he shall,” Ro’Jethhe quickly said. “It is only a momentary indisposition. Eedrah will be honored to accompany them.”
Horen Ro’Jadre smiled. “Good.” He looked about him briefly, then walked across to take the vacant couch at the very center of the amphitheater. As he did, all returned to their couches.
There was a low chime in the air. As it faded, the light in the amphitheater changed as lamps behind the surrounding falls switched on, making the crystalline curtain of water shimmer magically. At the same time a large section of the amphitheater’s floor slid aside and a platform rose from beneath.
Six young men stood on the platform, naked to the waist; perfect physical specimens who bowed, then began a routine of gymnastics that left Marrim mesmerized by their dexterity.
All was going well, when suddenly one of the young men seemed to catch the ankle of another and went tumbling over, falling heavily. He made no sound—indeed, the whole performance had been carried out in silence; a silence broken only by the thud of feet or hands on the platform, the hiss of escaping breath—and even now, as he lay there, grimacing, clearly in pain, he made no sound.
From his couch to the right of Marrim, Ro’Jethhe clapped his hands. At onc
e the performance ended, the platform returned into the floor.
Almost at once the conversation started up again, Ro’Jethhe himself taking the lead, returning to a subject they had been discussing earlier. No mention was made of the performer’s error, nor of D’ni.
They ate, and drank, and later, in a momentary pause in their talk, the governor spoke directly to Atrus once again.
“I am told by friend Ro’Jethhe that some of you wear special glasses in the daylight. May I ask why this is?”
“Of course,” Atrus said. “It is a hereditary aspect of our race. Our eyes are sensitive. The daylight hurts them. And so we wear these lenses.” And with that Atrus took his own lenses from his jacket pocket and, walking across to the governor’s couch, handed them to Horen Ro’Jadre.
The governor studied them a while, fiddling with the silver catch at the side of the lenses, then peered through them, fascinated, it seemed, by the details of their manufacture. Then, smiling pleasantly, he handed them back.
“You will come stay with me, I hope, Atrus. On your way to the capital. It is on your route and I should welcome the chance to talk with you some more.”
“That is …”
“… most kind, I know.” Ro’Jadre laughed. “Oh, kindness has nothing to do with it, my friend. I am curious to know more about you and your fellows.”
“Then we shall be glad to stay. Oh, and governor?”
“Yes, Atrus?”
“Might I send back a messenger, to my own people, to let them know what has transpired.”
“Your people …” The governor blinked. “Of course … yes, of course. You must do so at once. To let them know you are well.”
Atrus bowed. “That is …”
“… most kind.”
And this time both men laughed; their laughter joined by all, guests and locals alike.
“Well,” Ro’Jadre said, looking about him, his face filled with pleasure, “let us continue with the rest of our entertainment. Jethhe Ro’Jethhe, will you begin?”
Their host bowed his head slightly, acknowledging the invitation, then, after a moment’s thought, spoke softly but clearly into the sudden, expectant silence:
“Old, but newly found. Hidden, yet in full sight. A newly hatched egg with an old cracked shell …”
And Marrim, looking about her, found herself amazed once more. Riddles, she thought. They’re playing riddles!
THE JOURNEY BACK WAS MERRY. THEY HAD drunk far too much—even the normally sober Atrus—and enjoyed themselves far more than any of them had anticipated.
“That was just so clever,” Oma said, leaning heavily against his friend Esel. “That one about the bird and the lock with the silver pick. How they think them up I’ll never know!”
He grinned and looked about him, then, seeing Hadre at the prow, put his hand to his mouth, acknowledging his gaffe, but the young man seemed not to mind.
“We play riddles from our earliest days,” Hadre said. “As I said before, we love the things of the mind. Mental games and memory tests—we delight in all such challenges. They keep one sharp and alert.”
“Then you are to be applauded for it,” Oma said, making a pretend toast in the air. “For myself, I would surely die of indolence, living as you do.”
“I am sure that is not so,” Hadre said, sounding more sober than any of them. “I saw you at the library, Oma. I saw how you drank in the sight of all those books. If you want, you can take one or two of them to read on the journey to the capital.”
Oma, overwhelmed by the offer, stood and bowed at the waist, bringing ripples of laughter from the others, but Hadre merely returned the bow.
“You are …”
“… most welcome!” the five youngsters answered as one, then laughed; a laughter that Hadre joined in with after a moment. A laughter that filled the warm night air as the boat glided slowly, silently beneath the waning moon, toward the distant, shimmering whiteness of Ro’Jethhe.
THEY MET AGAIN THE NEXT MORNING, IN THE great book-lined study belonging to Ro’Jethhe. The governor was to leave within the hour and had asked to see Atrus again before he departed.
“Forgive me for summoning you so early,” Horen Ro’Jadre said, coming across to take Atrus’s hands as he entered the room, “but I wished to speak with you informally before this evening.”
Atrus smiled. “Then speak. I am listening.”
Ro’Jadre nodded, then, releasing Atrus’s hands, said, “I enjoyed your company greatly last night, Atrus, and I know you will make a great impression at court, but I felt I should warn you of one thing.”
“Warn me? Of what?”
“Of saying too much of who and what you are. Of D’ni and the like.”
Atrus narrowed his eyes. “Why so?”
“Because it is not our place to ask such things of you. You understand?”
“I’m afraid I do not. You are governor here, are you not?”
“Governor, yes, but not king.”
“And it is for the king alone to ask such questions?”
Horen Ro’Jadre beamed. “There. I told Ro’Jethhe you would understand.”
“But …” Atrus fell silent, then. “It is your way, I take it?”
“Exactly. The moment the king agreed to see you, it was decided. It would be wrong for any one of us to know more than he.”
“I see.”
“Then we shall meet again this evening. Until then …”
He stepped forward, embracing Atrus briefly, then was gone.
Atrus stared after him a moment, then turned back, looking to Ro’Jethhe, as if for explanation, but all the elder said was, “The king has agreed to see you, Atrus. It is an immense honor.”
“Yes,” Atrus said. Then, understanding that Ro’Jethhe wished him nothing but good, he smiled. “I shall not forget your kindness, Jethhe Ro’Jethhe.”
The old man beamed. “Look after my son, Atrus. And return here when you can. And remember, my door is always open to you, so long as you are in Terahnee.”
“INTERESTING,” CATHERINE SAID LATER, WHEN he told her about the meeting with the governor.
“All peoples have their customs,” Atrus said, buckling the strap on his knapsack. “Now … where has young Irras got to?”
“I’m here, Master Atrus,” Irras said, coming into the room.
“You know what you have to say to Master Tamon?”
Irras nodded. “I have it by heart.”
“Then go at once. And return here once the message has been delivered. Jethhe Ro’Jethhe will not mind if you stay until we return from the capital.”
Irras bowed his head, then, with a curt, “Take care,” he turned on his heel and vanished.
Atrus looked to Catherine, a query in his eyes.
“I think, perhaps, he’s disappointed about not coming to the capital with us,” she said.
“But that decision was not in my hands.”
“It makes it no easier for him, Atrus. Irras was excited at the thought of seeing the great city, and now he must be content to be a runner between here and the plateau. It must have been a great blow to him.”
“And yet he says nothing.”
Catherine smiled. “So you have taught them Atrus.”
Atrus frowned. “Yes, but we ought to make it up to him. I could ask the king if Irras could come on after us.”
“You’ll ask the king?”
“Of course,” Atrus said, unaware of the smile on Catherine’s lips. But she did not pursue the matter.
“Are you ready?” Atrus asked, looking about him, checking for the last time that he had everything he wished to take with him.
“Ready,” she said.
“Good. Then let us go down and meet with Eedrah. It is time we got under way.”
THE YOUNGSTERS HAD PACKED ALREADY AND, while Atrus and Catherine went to see Ro’Jethhe and the governor, they decided to explore the grounds.
A narrow, elegant footbridge led over the stream by which they had enter
ed the house, opening out onto a path of colored stone that meandered across a neatly swept lawn to disappear among the rocks of a grotto.
They followed the path, through the rocks and up, emerging on the far side on a ledge overlooking a series of long, barnlike buildings with low, red-tiled roofs.
Several of the cloaked servants were down there, talking among themselves, but noticing the young people up on the ledge, they fell silent and dispersed, one of them heading directly toward them.
He stopped at the foot of the steps that led down from the ledge. “Can I help you, Masters?”
“Thank you, but no,” Carrad said. “We shall be leaving soon, and we merely wished to look around before we left.”
The man bowed. “Then let me be your guide. I am Tyluu.”
“And what do you do, Tyluu?” Esel asked, beginning to descend the steps.
The man kept his head bowed the slightest fraction as he answered. “I coordinate the harvest.” He paused. “Would you like to see the grain stores?”
They went down and, with Tyluu as their guide, walked through the great storehouses, impressed by what they saw—especially the two young Averonese, who, coming from a farming world themselves, appreciated just how much work must have gone into this. The great barns themselves were deceptive, for they went down into the earth some way. They had glimpses of great stone stairways that snaked down into the depths, and Tyluu explained that much, apart from grain, was stored in the lower levels.
They walked on, out into great pens where herds of strangely docile beasts milled quietly, their moist dark eyes following the four young guests as they passed by.
All was neat and orderly. Not a fence was broken, not a farming implement out of place. Oma commented on this, and Tyluu bowed, as if some great compliment had been made, and answered, “It is our way.”
Here and there, Marrim noticed, there were what looked like wells. Deep, square holes in the ground with borders of finished stone. She glanced down one as she passed and thought she saw some small animal scuttle by beneath.