The Myst Reader

by Robyn Miller

  He stood, angry now. Forget the P’aarli. He would deal with this first.

  “We thank you … and honor you …” he said, a mocking sneer in his voice. Then, turning, he clapped his hands. “Scribe!” he barked. “Bring pen and paper! I have an answer for the old men!”

  FALLING TO HIS KNEES, THE MESSENGER HUNG his head before old Gat, as if he was ashamed.

  “Well, man?” Gat asked. “What is it?”

  Not looking up, the man held out the paper that the scribe had written. Eedrah took it and, unfolding it, began to read it aloud for Gat’s benefit. Halfway through he slowed.

  “… and so, for the safety and security of all, I, Ymur, will take on the great burden of governing Terahnee …”

  “He means to make us all his slaves,” Gat said.

  “Then we must fight him,” Hersha said at once.

  “No,” Atrus said. “I shall meet him. I shall talk with him and persuade him from this course.”

  Atrus saw how the messenger flinched at that.

  “You think he will not meet?”

  The messenger’s head dropped lower. His voice was barely a whisper. “He might meet with you, brother, but not to talk.”

  “Then why should he agree to meet?”

  “Why, to kill you, brother. He has already sentenced you to death. You and all the other D’ni.”

  “I see.”

  There was a brief silence, then Gat spoke again. “It seems we have but two choices now, Atrus. To fight or to submit. Which is it to be?”

  Atrus looked to him, a sadness in his eyes. He had hoped it would never come to this. “I have no experience of battle. Nor do I feel that violence will solve this. If we begin that way, then a pattern has been set.”

  Yet even as he said it, Atrus understood that what Gat had said was true. It was not like fighting the P’aarli. Nor were there any compromise solutions to this. Ymur’s actions had changed things totally.

  “If you wished to leave, we would understand,” Gat said. “This is not, after all, your fight.”

  “Do you think I would leave you now, brother?”

  “Then we must arm ourselves as best we can.” Gat turned to Hersha and Baddu, his blind eyes seeming to see first one and then the other of them. “So, brothers, who is it to be?”

  THE SPIRAL TOWER TWISTED INTO THE SKY, the shattered edges of its pearled interior fire-blackened, its delicate glass windows, once a Terahnee child’s delight, now dark like blinded eyes.

  Within its jagged shadow, at the center of a deep, luxurious lawn, Ymur’s great tent had been pitched, its blood-red canvas like a stain. About it the burned-out ruins of the once-great house still smoldered, sending a smudge of black into the cloudless summer sky.

  Beneath the mound on which it stood a valley sloped away. Once wooded, it had been cleared and the tents of a great army, half a million strong, now filled it, a vast tide of multicolored canvas stretching out of sight, surrounding the ancient watercourse that wound its way between the folding hills.

  It was a warm, windless evening and the ragged golden banners above the great tent hung limp now. Slaves moved back and forth across the green, going about their tasks, while in a palanquin before the tent sat Ymur himself, his chiefs and servants in attendance.

  Right now he was silent, brooding, staring past the valley at the distant city. It was no more than five days’ march away, a massive marker that drew the eye constantly to it.

  Ymur belched noisily, then looked down at the pair of lenses in his hands. He had not dared to look through them himself, yet it was said that with these the D’ni could see far into the distance, yes, and even penetrate the darkness with them. They were magical, and he had stolen that magic.

  He had watched Atrus at the gathering; seen that disdainful look on the liar’s face, and though the others might be fooled, he was not. The D’ni were masters, like the Terahnee, and given the chance they would install their mastery once more. They spoke the same language and shared the same blood. How could they not be masters?

  Not that everything about the masters had been wrong. The relyimah had to be ruled, after all, but all this nonsense about absolute codes and laws could not do it. It needed a strong man to make strong laws.

  Ymur looked about him. Good. All of their eyes were averted. So he had ordered. They were not to look at him, not even to cast their glance over him as their eyes traveled elsewhere. Relyimah he was, and so he would remain, even when all others could be seen.

  On the far side of the mound, a path led down into the valley. Along that path a great line of wagons made their way, a dozen slaves harnessed to each wagon, straining to pull the heavy loads of food that would feed Ymur’s army, a chosen man seated at the bench of each, whipping on their fellow slaves.

  Old habits could prove useful, Ymur knew, and he would not discourage them. Some men were born to be slaves—they had a menial cast of mind—but others could be raised and used. So he would order his society, so build his kingdom from the ruins of the old.

  His eyes strayed to the path again, noticing something. A running man, heading up the path, against the stream of wagons. Ymur stood, drawing the big cleaver he had chosen as his preferred weapon.

  As the man approached, he relaxed. It was one of his own messengers. Even so, he kept the cleaver at his side. Just in case.

  Ten paces from Ymur, the man dropped to his knees and bent double.

  “Speak,” Ymur said.

  “We have had word,” the man said. “A rival army has been formed. Old Baddu is leading it.”

  Ymur laughed. “And how big is this … army?”

  “Fifty thousand men. Some say eighty.”

  Ymur grinned and looked about him. Others were smiling now, though none dared to look, each one of them flinching from his gaze. Even if the higher figure were true, his own army was at least six times that size. And better armed, no doubt.

  “How far are they from here?”

  “Two days’ march.”

  Ymur grinned. “Good.” He raised his hands and clapped them together. At once two slaves came scuttling and fell to the earth beneath his feet.

  “Bring me food!” he ordered, clipping one of them hard about the ear, just as he had so often been struck, back in those days when he had been a slave. “And wine! The best in the cellars!”

  Ymur looked about him arrogantly. “Come, brothers, let us celebrate our victory!”

  YMUR HAD BURNED ALL OF THE LAND FOR miles around, then had waited at the center of that great circle of darkness, the best part of three hundred thousand men at his back, as Baddu’s “army” timidly crossed that black, featureless terrain.

  Poor Baddu, Ymur thought, resting his foot on the old man’s corpse. He hadn’t stood a chance. Not that he’d had more than a hundred of his men with him by the time he’d reached Ymur. The rest had run. Not far, for Ymur’s own men were waiting for them, with whips and chains. Now they crouched nearby, chained to each other hand and foot, waiting to see what Ymur would do with them.

  “Uta …” Ymur said, calling the boy to him, “I have a task for you. I want you to go to the elders and tell them this. If they want to avoid my wrath in battle they must send the D’ni, Atrus, to meet me. If not, I shall kill them all.”

  Uta, who had averted his eyes, nodded.

  “Then hurry, boy. I am impatient for their answer.”

  THE WIND WAS BLOWING GENTLY AS UTA walked up between the trees at the foot of the valley, and passed the guard post. On he went, up that much-trampled path and out onto the hump, from where he could see the great house, nestled into the hills at the far end of the valley.

  The house was ruined now, and as he looked he saw the blood-red smudge that was Ymur’s tent. Between was a large swathe of makeshift canopies, of silk and sack and canvas, and of as many colors as the eye could imagine.

  Two days he’d been away. Only two days, and yet it all had changed. Atrus had begged him to stay, had said he’d send another messeng
er to give the man his answer, but Uta had refused. He had chosen. He was Ymur’s messenger now, and he must live with that.

  Uta scratched at the stubble on his head, then scrambled down the well-worn path. A dozen paces and he was among their tents, conscious suddenly of what a ragtag assortment of ill-fed and undisciplined souls they were. Some lay within their tents, drunk or asleep, others sat outside and nervously picked at their unwashed limbs. Most were silent, however, and subdued, their natural docility unchanged. Dark-eyed like cattle they were, though some were palpably afraid.

  Walking among them, he seemed to see their faces for the first time, his gaze, like his presence, unchallenged. Makeshift weapons hung from the poles of their lean-tos, kitchen and farming implements mainly, but occasionally some clever adaptation of a Terahnee toy.

  But what struck him most was the silence of an encampment so large. What once had seemed as natural as breath now seemed the most unnatural thing of all. His time among the D’ni—with their incessant talk, their curiosity, their laughter—had changed him. Catherine particularly had encouraged him to talk, and Marrim, too, so that now he found this silence not just sorrowful but obscene—the most palpable sign of mastery. And they were done with mastery.

  Or so he’d thought.

  Uta raised his eyes, looking between the tents, and saw again the house and the palatial tent that stood before it, its golden banners idle in the still, warm air. And walked on, knowing that he had at last begun to see.

  IN THE FIRST LIGHT OF DAWN, ATRUS STOOD to one side of the big arch, watching the relyimah come through, marching in ranks as he had taught them, some of them risking a glance at him as they passed. They were in good spirits, considering, for in an hour or two at most many of them would almost certainly be dead. But that was nothing new, and at least this once those deaths would have a meaning—to maintain the freedom fate had given them.

  Eedrah, standing beside him, nudged Atrus. “Look at them,” he whispered. “They glow simply to see you, Atrus.”

  It was true. They were like candles, happy to have this one brief moment of life, this single burst of intensity. But for Atrus, there was a sadness mixed in with the pride he felt. This should not have been necessary, and he cursed Ymur for being no better than he was, and for dragging them all down to his savage level.

  “How far is it?” he asked, looking past Eedrah to where Gat stood next to Hersha.

  “Not far,” Hersha answered him. “Our scouts inform us that their main encampment is less than an hour’s march from here.”

  “And they are there?”

  Hersha nodded. “Half a million strong.”

  Which meant the odds were heavily against them. But Atrus was not dismayed by that. He had organized his lesser force as well as he could given the brief time they had to prepare for this, emphasizing to them that it was strategy more than sheer numbers that would win this fight.

  Or so he hoped, for neither D’ni nor Terahnee had much experience in warfare. Not in their homeworlds, nor in any of the Ages they had written. All this was new, and he could only pray that intelligence and discipline would triumph over size and brute force.

  This day would tell.

  As the others walked on, he joined them, silent now, brooding on the battle to come, and wondering, at the last, whether he would ever see Catherine again.

  At least in that respect the relyimah were fortunate, for it was easy when there was no one to regret your passing. Easier to bear your own death when there were no ties to life.

  They went on, expecting at any moment to find their enemy ahead of them, to come to the crest of a hill and find Ymur’s mighty army there below them, armed and waiting. And as the minutes passed, a heavy silence fell over their ranks.

  The day grew. Slowly the sun rose, the shadows shortened, and suddenly there ahead of them was the enemy.

  Atrus called a halt, then stood there, just ahead of them, one hand up shielding his brow as he peered through his lenses at the distant camp.

  “Well?” Eedrah asked, but Atrus put up a hand, begging for his silence. Another long moment passed, then Atrus gestured that they should move on.

  Eedrah hurried to catch up with him. “Well?” he asked again. “Have they seen us yet?”

  Atrus walked on in silence, striding now, so that Eedrah had almost to run to catch up with him.

  “What is it?”

  “They’ve gone.”

  “Gone?” Eedrah put his hand on Atrus’s arm and pulled him round. “What do you mean, gone? How can an army of half a million go?”

  Atrus stopped. Behind him the great host of relyimah came to a sudden halt.

  “I do not know. But the camp has been abandoned. Their tents are all still there, and there are hundreds of huge wagons piled with food, but there is no sign of Ymur’s army.”

  Eedrah turned, looking about him anxiously. “Then maybe it’s a trap.”

  “I do not think so.”

  “But how can you be sure?”

  “Because it is Ymur, and Ymur would not hesitate to try to crush us on the battlefield. He would think it shameful to set traps.”

  “Then what has happened?”

  Stepping up to join them, Gat answered Eedrah. “I’d say our friend is dead. No other obstacle would keep him from the battlefield.”

  “I’d say that’s so,” Atrus agreed, “yet I dare not hope it true.”

  “Nor I,” Gat said. “But let us go and see.”

  THEY FOUND YMUR ON THE LAWN BEFORE HIS tent, on his back, his blank eyes staring sightlessly at the unblemished sky, the knife that had taken his breath still lodged within his ribs. Close by, his own wounds all too evident, lay Uta, also dead.

  Seeing the child, Atrus felt a pain so sharp it took away his breath. He groaned and wrapped his arms about himself, and Gat, not knowing what it was, called upon Hersha to tell him.

  “It is the slave-child,” Hersha answered, his own face creased with pain. “The boy he saved. The one who spoke out for him at the gathering.”

  The old man groaned, then straightened up. “Then let us honor him this day, for by his death he has saved a great many more.”

  Eedrah stood there, watching Atrus awhile, seeing how he went across and, lifting the boy, cradled him, as if he were his own.

  Atrus turned to face them, tears on his cheeks. “Send messengers out to spread the news, and to tell the relyimah elders to come to a gathering in the capital.” He looked down at the child again, then shook his head. “This is the end. There must be no more of this.”

  PART EIGHT

  HE WHO NUMBERS BUT DOES NOT NAME:

  IT IS HE WHO HERALDS THE COMING TRAGEDY.

  HIS FOOTPRINTS LAY ABOUT THE MUDDIED POOL.

  —FROM THE EJEMAH’TERAK,

  BOOK FOUR, VV. 3111–14

  AT THE CENTER OF THE RAFTERED CEILING, hanging down between the six supporting poles, was a massive inverted funnel, cunningly fashioned of wood. Beneath it a circle of earth had been excavated and filled with close-fitting stones, that pit surrounded by a built-up bank of rock, in which a huge pile of firewood had been carefully stacked.

  Outside, the great plains of this new Age ran dark to the horizon, the distant mountains touched by the pale light of a tiny moon. It was late now, and the lodge house, finished hours past, was deep in shadow, its wooden walls and pillars, its sleeping stalls and meeting rooms lit only by a handful of flickering lamps, set high up on the inner walls, ancient oil lamps in iron cressets. Several hundred were gathered there in the space surrounding the pit as Eedrah struck the tinder and, raising the long pole, carried the flaming lamp across.

  There was a pause as the kindling caught and then a sudden blaze of light. Sparks flew up into the darkness overhead.

  There was a great cheer. In the burgeoning light, dozens of smiling faces looked to Eedrah.

  “Say something!” Marrim called. She was swollen of belly now; the firelight danced in her smiling face.

  Eedrah
looked about him; then, casting the pole onto the blazing fire, he raised both arms for silence. “Friends,” he began, “this has been a memorable day, a day of new beginnings, and I am glad to be among such company. But lest we forget, I would like to thank one person who, above all others, is responsible for our happiness …”

  He turned, looking to where Atrus sat beside Catherine, and extending an arm, beckoned Atrus to join him.

  Reluctantly, Atrus stood and came across. There was another huge cheer that went on and on until Eedrah raised a hand for silence.

  “My words are brief and simple,” Eedrah said, and, turning to Atrus, he bowed deeply. “On behalf of all here, we thank you, Atrus.”

  There were more cheers and whoops from Irras and Carrad.

  Atrus looked about him, his expression for that moment stern, determined—the face they knew so well—and then he smiled. “Friends”—he turned, looking to Gat—“brothers … I am fortunate to be here with you tonight. Fortunate to have known you all. But now you must set out on this new venture without me.”

  There were cries of “No!” and “Stay!” but Atrus waved them aside.

  “This is your world, your experiment in living, not mine. Yet I would offer you some words of advice before we part.”

  Total silence had fallen among the watching gathering. Only the crackle of the flames broke that silence as Atrus looked about him.

  “When I wrote this Age, I tried to put all my experience, everything I knew about writing, into it. To make it the best I could. Yet even as I labored to do so, I was conscious that for all my skill, I could but do half the job.”