The Myst Reader

by Rand; Robyn Miller; David Wingrove

  In the blue light of the lantern each object in that quiet chamber seemed glazed in ice—each chair and cupboard, the massive wooden bed, the desk. In contrast, the shadows in the room were black, but not just any black, these were intensely black—the empty blackness of nonexistence.

  To a casual eye it might have seemed that nothing there was real; that every object trapped within that cold, unfeeling glare was insubstantial—the projection of some dark, malicious deity who, on a moment’s whim, might tear the pages from the book in which all this was written and, with a god’s indifference, banish this all into the shadow.

  All that is, but for the young man seated on a chair at the center of it all, the light reflected in his sad, pale eyes.

  Slowly Atrus returned to himself, then looked about him. The last few hours were a blank; where he’d been and what he’d done were a complete mystery. All he knew was that he was sitting in his room once more, the lantern lit, his journal open on the desk beside him. He looked, then read what he had written on the left-hand page.

  My father is mad.

  Remembering, he shuddered, unable to believe what his father had done. And yet the memory was burned into the whiteness of his mind. If he closed his eyes, he could see the pages slowly charring, each one lifted delicately by the flame, as if the fire had read each phrase before consuming it.

  Unless, of course, that memory is false, and I, too, am one of my father’s “creations”…

  But he knew beyond question that that wasn’t so. The experience on the Thirty-seventh Age had proved that to him beyond all doubt. Gehn was no god. No. He was simply a man—a weak and foolish man, irresponsible and vain. Yes, and for all his bluster about making D’ni great again, he had forgotten precisely what it was that had made the D’ni extraordinary. The reason why their empire had lasted for so long. It was not their power, nor the fact that they had once ruled a million worlds, it was their restraint, their astonishing humility.

  Gehn claimed that he, Atrus, knew nothing, but it wasn’t so. He had read the histories of D’ni, and had seen, in those pages, the long struggle of the D’ni elders to suppress the baser side of their nature; to instill in their people the virtues of patience, service, and humility. Yes, and for the best part of sixty thousand years they had succeeded. Until Veovis.

  So where did he go from here? What were his options? Should he try to get back to Anna and the cleft? Or should he, perhaps, find a hiding place in the city?

  Whatever, he had to go and see Gehn one last time, to say goodbuy. And to tell him, face-to-face, just why he had to leave.

  The thought of it disturbed him. He had grown a great deal this last year and was almost the physical equal of his father, yet Gehn still intimidated him.

  Even so, it had to be done. He could not simply run away, with his tail between his legs. For if he did, he would be forever in his father’s shadow.

  He went out, climbing the levels of that dark and twisting house, until he stood there in the library, at the foot of the steps that led up to his father’s study. Up there, on the landing, the lantern was still lit, the door still open, as he’d left them.

  He went up, steeling himself against his father’s anger, against that mocking laugh that made him feel a little boy again.

  But he was no “boy” anymore. He had grown beyond mere boyishness. And now Gehn must be made to recognize that fact—must be forced to acknowledge it once at least before he left his house.

  Atrus paused in the doorway, surprised to find the room so dimly lit. The fire had gone out, the lantern on the table faded to the faintest glimmer. As for Gehn, there was no sign.

  He turned, taking the landing lantern from its hook, then stepped inside.

  Books had been scattered here, there, and everywhere, as if in some fearful rage. And the desk…

  Atrus hurried across, setting the lantern down beside the other, then searched among the books stacked on the desk, but there was no sign of his own book. He turned, looking to the fire anxiously, fearing the worst, and almost tripped over his father.

  Gehn lay on the floor just behind the desk, sprawled out before the guttered fire.

  For a moment Atrus thought his father dead, he was so still. Then he noted a slight movement of Gehn’s right hand and knew that this wasn’t death, only its counterfeit—a kind of stupor brought on by overindulgence with his pipe.

  The pipe itself lay to one side, the fire-marble glowing dimly in its chamber. Atrus crouched and picked it up, sniffing the spout then wrinkling up his nose in disgust.

  He was about to leave, to turn away and go, when he noticed, just beyond his father’s outstretched hand, the notebook with the tanned leather cover he was always consulting.

  For a second or two, he held back, the feeling of wrongness strong in him; but then the compulsion to know what was inside the book overcame him and, reaching out, he grasped the notebook then moved back into the lantern’s light.

  Taking a long, calming breath, he opened it to the first page, reading what was written there:

  The Book of Atrus…

  He frowned. Surely that was wrong? Surely it meant…? And then he understood. It didn’t mean him. The handwriting wasn’t his, nor was it Gehn’s. No, this was his grandfather’s book. Not Atrus, son of Gehn, but Atrus, father of Gehn.

  He read on, then stopped, the last thread that had connected him to his father broken in that instant. Slowly he sat down in Gehn’s chair, nodding to himself, a bitter laughter escaping him.

  There he’d been, admiring his father, exalting him almost, for his courage, his patience in finding a path through the darkness of the tunnels back to D’ni. And all the while the path had been clearly marked, here in his grandfather’s notebook. It wasn’t Gehn who had taken the risks, but Gehn’s father.

  Atrus closed the book and pushed it away from him, then turned, staring at the shadowy figure stretched out on the floor beside his feet.

  “Why weren’t you what I wanted you to be?” he asked quietly, pained by the great weight of disillusion he was feeling at the moment. “Why did you have to be so…so small a man?”

  Gehn groaned and stirred slightly, but did not wake.

  Atrus sat back, a long, shivering breath escaping him. For a moment longer he stared at Gehn’s prone figure, then, his eyes drawn to the lantern, he reached across and picked the notebook up again.

  16

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  Gehn woke with a pounding head and so many aches that he wondered briefly if he had not perhaps blacked out and fallen. It would not be the first time. Yet it was the first time he had allowed himself such license while Atrus was on K’veer, and he cursed himself for not locking the door before succumbing to that second pipe.

  He got up, groaning softly. Aches, yes, but nothing broken.

  “No damage done,” he said, walking slowly to the door. Then, steadying himself against the landing wall, he looked down the steps, squinting now, his pupils tight, painful.

  “Atrus? Atrus, where are you?”

  But the library was empty. He went down, then out through the empty chamber, feeling a vague misgiving.

  Something had happened. Something…

  He stopped, remembering. The boy. He had argued with he boy.

  Crossing the open space between the library and the upper cabin, he threw open the door and hurried across the unlit chamber, until he stood in the shadowy opening on the far side.

  “Atrus?” He waited a moment, then called again. “A-trus!”

  Nothing. The great mansion was empty.

  Unless the boy’s asleep…

  He hurried down, bursting into Atrus’s room without knocking.

  “Atrus?”

  The bed was empty. He turned, looking to the great carved wardrobe in the corner, then strode across and pulled it open. No. Atrus was not there, and none of his things were there either.

  The thought made Gehn blink.

  He hurried back to his study and searched the clu
ttered desk, but the notebook was not there. Reaching down to his right, he pulled out the second drawer and took out the metal box he kept there, placing it on the desk. Then, taking the key from the tiny bunch about his neck, he unlocked it.

  He took the single page from he box and, folding it in half, slipped it into his pocket.

  Leaving the box where it was, he went over to the door and shouted down the unlit steps. “Rijus! Rijus! Where are you, man?”

  Not waiting for the mute, Gehn hurried down through the house. On the final twist of steps, he slowed, then stopped, his suspicions confirmed. He jetty was empty, the boat gone from its mooring.

  Gehn slumped down onto the bare stone wall, letting his head fall forward.

  “Curse the boy! Curse his ingratitude!”

  Gehn lifted his head, the pounding at his temples momentarily making his vision swim. As it cleared, he saw that Rijus was standing on the turn of the steps just above him.

  “The boy has gone,” Gehn said. “He took the boat. We need to follow him.”

  The big mute hesitated a moment, taking in what his master had said, then came down the steps and, moving past Gehn, went over to the far side of the cavern. There, in the shadows, a number of boxes were stacked against a wall. Removing them, Rijus exposed an old, unpainted doorway. He looked about him, then stepped over and took down an old boat hook from the wall. Placing the tip of the hook under the bottom edge of the door, he heaved. The door splintered and fell away.

  Gehn stood, then went across.

  Inside, in the musty darkness, Rijus was removing an old canvas cover from over something. Gehn blinked, then discerned what it was. It was a boat. An old D’ni craft.

  How did you know? He wondered, looking to the mute.

  Ignoring the stabbing pains in his head, Gehn stepped inside and helped Rijus haul the ancient boat out onto the jetty.

  It was a strangely long and elegant craft, more a canoe than a raft, and, handling it, he realized that it was made of a durable but curiously lightweight stone.

  Gehn shook his head, marveling that he had never suspected its existence. It made him wonder what else there was about the mansion that he did not know about.

  He looked to Rijus, watching as he attached the ropes, then winched the ancient boat out over the water.

  §

  Atrus held the lantern up, studying the page a moment longer, then closed the notebook and slipped it back into his tunic pocket.

  Left. He had to turn left at the next fork. From there a narrow tunnel led through to a small diamond-shaped cavern with a low shelf of rock to the right, at the far side of which was a series of limestone ledges, leading to a flight of steps.

  He walked on, the lantern raised, following the slightly curving tunnel, conscious of the sound of his own footsteps in that confined space.

  How many times now had he stopped and listened, thinking he was being followed? And how many times had he heard nothing but the silence of the rock surrounding him?

  Ahead now, the tunnel widened, then spilled out into a kind of groin in the rock. There the tunnel split in two. That much, at least, accorded with the diagram in the notebook. Atrus took the left-hand fork, walking on quickly now, his heart pounding again.

  If it was the diamond-shaped cavern he would rest there a while and get his breath.

  And if it wasn’t?

  Twice already he had had to retrace his steps, but this time it would mean a long trek back through the tunnels, and he did not relish that at all.

  The trouble was that you had too much time down here to think. If he could have walked on thoughtlessly, like a machine, it might have been okay, but as it was he could not help himself imagining all kinds of things.

  And the worst of his imaginings was a vivid picture of the cleft, abandoned, choked with sand.

  It had been almost four years since he had last seen it. Four years since he had last heard Anna’s voice.

  He heard her now.

  What do you see, Atrus?

  I see rock, grandmother. And tunnels. And darkness. Everywhere I look, darkness.

  But her voice did not return. There was only the sound of his own footsteps, going on ahead of him and behind, filling the darkness beyond the lantern’s reach.

  §

  Atrus looked at the notebook again, turning the page, then turned it back again and frowned. Then, with a tiny start, he felt between the pages, locating the torn edge of the missing page, and groaned.

  He looked about him, trying to remember—to retrieve from memory the path he’d taken all those years ago. Had he descended into the cavern or had he come up into it?

  If he chose wrongly he would be lost.

  And if he chose correctly?

  Then, judging by the other pages, he would face the same kind of choice another five, maybe six times before he could be sure he was back on course. Before he reached the safety of the next page.

  He swallowed bitterly, wondering just when his father had torn the page from the book, then looked up.

  “So you thought you would make a journey, did you?”

  Atrus froze, then slowly turned, facing his father, noting at once the cloth wrapped about his boots.

  “I thought it time I kept my promise to my grandmother.”

  “Your promise?” Gehn laughed humorlessly. “What of your promise to me? Besides, I think you have something that belongs to me and I mean to have it back.”

  “Then you’ll have to take it from me.”

  “I see.” Gehn half turned, gesturing to Rijus, who stepped from the shadows just behind him.

  At the sight of the mute, Atrus realized that he stood no chance. If it had just been his father, he might—just might—have got the better of him, but he knew the mute’s strength of old. Why, he’d seen the man lift heavy rocks—rocks he himself could barely budge—and throw them out of the way.

  Atrus moved quickly. Taking the notebook from his pocket, he threw it high into the air, then, casting his lantern away, turned and ran, climbing the rock face like an ape before vanishing into the tunnel.

  He heard his father’s cry—of anger and frustration—and knew that Gehn had not expected that. Gehn had thought he would come quietly, just as he’d always done in the past. But the past was the past. He knew now that he could not stay with the man, even if it meant losing himself here in the depths of the earth.

  He went quickly, his right hand keeping contact with the tunnel wall. Then, unexpectedly, the tunnel dipped and, with a cry, he found himself tumbling head over heels, coming to a jolting halt against a wall.

  He lay there a moment, stunned, listening to his father’s shouts.

  “Atrus! Atrus! Come back here, boy!”

  Atrus groaned and sat up. For a moment he blinked at he darkness, wondering which way he was facing now, then saw, distant yet unmistakable, the glow of a lantern above him and to his right, at the head of the tunnel.

  He had to go on. On into the darkness.

  Pulling himself up, he stumbled on, making his way down as quickly as he dared, away from the approaching light.

  And now, strangely, it came to him. He remembered where he was. If he closed his eyes he could see it vividly. Just ahead the path branched to the right, then climbed. Where it opened out there was a broad ledge of rock and, beyond that, a gap—a narrow chasm—straddled by a tiny rope bridge. If he could get to that, then maybe he had a chance. Maybe he could hold them off somehow, or find a way of destroying the bridge so that they could not pursue him.

  Feeling a faint breeze coming from his right, Atrus stopped and turned, searching with both hands until he found the entrance. As he’d thought, the tunnel went sharply upward, forcing him to scramble up on his hands and knees, his head bent forward. There was a faint light up ahead, and as he came out of the narrow tunnel, he saw that he was precisely where he’d thought he’d be.

  Only the ledge was brightly lit, a lantern standing off to one side, while ahead…

 
Atrus groaned. Once more his father had anticipated him. Once more, Gehn had had the final laugh.

  The rope bridge was gone, the four metal pins jutting up nakedly from the rock.

  He went across and stood there, looking down into the chasm. It was too deep, the jump too great. Or was it?

  Atrus turned, hearing noises in the tunnel behind him. There was a flicker of light, growing stronger by the second. In a moment they would be upon him.

  He turned back, staring at the chasm. It was now or never. Stepping back, he took a deep breath, then ran at it, hurling himself across the gap.

  “Atrus!”

  His chest slammed against the edge of the rock, winding him. Yet even as he began to slide, his right hand reached out and grasped one of the metal pins.

  He spun about, his shoulder thudding against the rock, his right arm almost pulled from its socket as he held on for dear life. Yet he could feel the strength draining from his fingers; could feel them slowly slipping, the sweat from his palms sliding on the metal.

  And then a shadow passed over the top of him. There was a deep grunt and then something gripped his upper arm and began to lift him slowly up.

  Surprised by the strength of that grip, Atrus turned his head, expecting to see Rijus, but it was Gehn who stared back at him, a sullen anger in those pale eyes.

  “Acch, boy!” he said, his fingers pinching mercilessly into Atrus’s flesh as they hauled him inch by inch to safety. “Did you really think you could outjump me?”

  17

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  Atrus stood there a long time after his father had gone, staring at the shadowed door in shock.

  He turned, looking across that huge, high-ceilinged space toward the desk. There lay the Age five book.

  A trap, he thought. Another door he’ll hope I’ll walk through. And when I do…

  Atrus heard again the slam of the door as his father closed it on him.

  He stepped out from beneath the great curved arch, the pinkish light of the lamp above giving his features a false glow of health. Beneath his feet alternating black and white tiles—circles on squares—stretched away to every corner of that great space, while a large mosaic at the center portrayed Ri’Neref, the most famous of all the Grand Masters of the Build, his graybearded features somber, almost melancholic as he stared back across the ages.