The Myst Reader

by Rand; Robyn Miller; David Wingrove

  “Do you think so?”

  “I’d say it was highly likely. For one, they do not share the visual weakness of the D’ni. As far as I have seen, they wear no lenses. And the style in which they build…it is as different from the D’ni as it could possibly be. Their extensive use of wood, for instance.”

  “True,” Catherine said, “but that can be easily explained. In D’ni they had no trees. Here there are millions of them—thousands of millions. Besides, over millennia societies take different paths. We should expect such differences.”

  “Maybe so,” Atrus said, pulling on a silken jacket that had been left out on the bed for him, “but until I know for certain that there is a link, I will not assume one. The fact that they speak a version of our language proves nothing.”

  Catherine was about to pursue the subject when there was a knocking at the door.

  “Come!” Atrus said, turning to face the doorway.

  But it was only Marrim, Irras, and Carrad. They spilled into the room, all smiles and excitement.

  “Master Atrus!” Irras said. “There’s a library!”

  “It’s huge!” Carrad added, as they left the room and hurried down a long, broad corridor, the ceiling of which seemed like the bottom of a well it was so far above them.

  “And the books!” Marrim added. “You’ve never seen anything like it!”

  Atrus smiled at that last, yet when he stepped into the deeply recessed doorway, he stopped dead, astonished.

  The library was not a single room, as he’d expected. Indeed, it was not a room at all, but a great hall, with, just beyond it, a second and even a third hall, the walls of which were filled, floor to high ceiling, with books—endless leather-bound books. Enough, it seemed, to fill D’ni!

  “And these are simple landowners?” Catherine said, voicing his own thought.

  “Atrus?”

  Atrus turned, surprised, to find Hadre there behind him in the doorway.

  “Forgive us, Hadre. We did not mean to pry.”

  “There is nothing to forgive,” Hadre said, smiling and gesturing that they should go through, into the library. “Whatever you wish to see. As my father said, our home is yours while you stay with us.”

  “You are both most generous.”

  “Not at all,” Hadre said. “My people love to share the things of the mind. We are great lovers of books. As I sense you are.”

  He clapped his hands and at once a servant appeared in the doorway to their right. It was not Kaaru or Jaad this time but a much older man. Even so, he wore a similar wine-red cloth, and had the same silver hair, the same striped markings beneath his right ear.

  “Master?”

  “You will not be needed, Duura. I will see to my guests myself.”

  “As you wish, Master.” And with a bow, Duura departed.

  “So?” Hadre said, looking to Atrus, smiling once more. “Where would you like to start?”

  §

  The library was not the only wonder in the house. Catherine’s favorite was a great hall of glass partitions filled with the most astonishing plants—in effect, a massive indoor greenhouse, whose levels and separate chambers were each lit at different times of the day from a great lens of a window that was set into the ceiling of the chamber. One could climb within the mazelike chamber into rooms, the floors and walls of which were solid glass, permitting you to believe you walked within a lush, exotic jungle, the air intoxicatingly sweet, the light like that of the primal forest on an untouched world.

  Beyond that, and in total contrast, was a long gallery, the light within which seemed to have filtered down through the long centuries. There, to either side, in three long rows on walls that seemed to go on endlessly, hung what seemed like a thousand life-size portraits.

  “These,” Hadre said proudly, “were Ro’Jethhe.”

  Staring at them, at those endless variations on the same face, Atrus understood at last just how old this place really was, for all of these men had in turn been master of this house. This long, unbroken chain of fathers and sons spoke more eloquently than anything of the durability of this society.

  “You say all of these were Ro’Jethhe,” Atrus said. “Was that their name, or their title?”

  Hadre turned to him and smiled. “When they were younger they had other names—names their mothers gave them, just as my brother Eedrah and I have names. But when it was their time, each lost that name. You understand?”

  Catherine nodded. “So you, in turn, will be…”

  “Ro’Jethhe.” He smiled. “But that will be many years from now. My father is in the prime of his life.”

  “Your people live a long time, then?” Atrus asked.

  “Long enough,” Hadre answered.

  “A hundred years?” Catherine asked, knowing, because she had asked him earlier, that Terahnee’s year was not dissimilar to D’ni’s.

  Hadre laughed at that. “No. My father is almost two hundred years old.”

  “Ahh…” Catherine met Atrus’s eyes, the faintest flicker of a smile in her own, as if some point had been proven.

  A bell rang, deep and low, its tolling seeming to come from the very foundations of the great building. Hearing it, Hadre turned to them and, bowing low, made his apologies.

  “Forgive me,” he said, “but I must leave you now. Until this evening…”

  Hadre made to leave, then turned back. “Oh…and you will be pleased to learn that we shall be having a special guest at this evening’s entertainment. The district governor will be attending. He had expressed great interest in meeting you.”

  And with that he turned and hurried from the room.

  “Well…” Catherine said, then fell silent, noticing the servant standing to one side of them. She was sure he had not been there a moment before.

  “If you would follow me,” the man said, inclining his head, “I shall show you to your rooms.”

  Atrus looked to Catherine, his surprise mirroring her own, then he shrugged. “All right,” he said, glancing once more at the long line of Ro’Jethhe ancestors that filled the walls on every side. “Lead on.”

  §

  The boat moved swiftly, silently beneath the pearled moon, the land mysteriously veiled in silver light. From where he sat in its prow, Atrus turned and looked back, past Catherine and Hadre, toward the receding whiteness of the house.

  He had assumed the evening’s festivities would take place in Ro’Jethhe, but on arriving downstairs at the appointed hour, they were greeted by Hadre with the news that they were all to meet up at the amphitheater, which was to the north of the house.

  And so here they were, gliding along through countryside as beautiful as anything they’d seen, the stream, which had broadened to a river, winding gently through the folded hills.

  In the stern of the boat, Marrim sat among the young men—Carrad and Irras, Oma and Esel—the same look of wonderment on every face. It was their habit to talk as they journeyed—to discuss things endlessly—but the beauty of the evening had robbed them all of their tongues.

  Atrus looked down, smiling, knowing that he felt no less. He had been here less than a day, yet already he was half in love with this strange and wonderful land. Of all the Ages he had traveled to, none came close to comparing with this, and, not for the first time, he began to wonder who had written such a world; who had crafted the physical characteristics that had permitted such a place to develop—for if he knew anything about writing, it was that, ultimately, geography determined an Age’s social structures. He would study the Book even more—surely it was written by a master of masters.

  What then had happened here to create such idyllic circumstances? Was it merely the placidity of the weather, the richness of the soil, the unchanging sameness of the place that had allowed such a society to develop? Or were the decisions of men—men like himself—to account for this perfect orderliness, this astonishing flowering of a civilization?

  He did not know—nor, to be truthful, did he really wish
to. And that in itself was strange, for never before had he felt the edge of his curiosity blunted in this manner. Catherine, too, he knew, was happy to take things as they were, to let the flow of things carry her along.

  As now, he thought, conscious of the silent movement of the boat beneath him. As the boat turned a bend in the river, his eyes caught sight of the terraced hillside just ahead of them, the levels of that terrace hollowed out in places and filled with water, so that the whole hillside was a pattern of deep shadow and brilliant, silvered light, forming the silhouette of a face—the face of a beautiful young woman.

  There was a murmur of appreciation from the stern of the boat, and then a tiny gasp of surprise, for as the boat moved on, changing direction slightly, so the pattern of light and dark changed. And now the silhouette of a young man was revealed, staring back, as if at the young lady who had so briefly appeared and then vanished once more.

  “Ingenious,” Atrus said. “Quite ingenious.”

  “It is an old design,” Hadre said, playing down Atrus’s praise, “but popular.”

  “Are there many such designs?” Oma asked.

  Hadre turned and smiled at the younger man. “Very many. In fact, you passed some earlier in the day, but they are far less easy to discern in the glare of daylight.”

  “And the water…how do you get the water there?” Esel asked, frowning heavily.

  But Hadre had turned back to Atrus. “It is not far now, Ro’Atrus,” he said. “The amphitheater marks the boundary between our lands and that of our neighbor, Ro’Hedrath. You will meet him, and his son, Juurtyri. Juurtyri, Eedrah, and I shared a tutor when we were younger.”

  Catherine, who had been sitting quietly throughout, now said, “You mentioned your brother earlier. Will he be there tonight?”

  Hadre turned slightly, meeting her eyes. “He has been away, but tonight he will return.” Hadre paused. “He has not been well…” Then, smiling, “But come, we are almost there.”

  §

  As the musicians finished, Marrim raised her head and sighed. She had never heard anything like it. At first she had not understood or liked the strangely dissonant sounds with which the composition had begun, nor the oddly mathematical patterns in which it was arranged, yet as it developed and those wonderful harmonies had begun to overlay that basic pattern, she had found herself not merely moved but thrilled by the passionate complexity of the music.

  Clever, she thought, then corrected herself. No, not clever, remarkable.

  So remarkable that, while the music had been playing, she had completely forgotten where she was. And that really was amazing.

  When the boat had first entered the amphitheater, gliding beneath a series of low arches, she had smiled, pleased by the way the raised bowl at the center of the amphitheater resembled a giant petal. Yet even as the boat had slowed, following a spiral twist about the center, the walls surrounding the amphitheater had seemed to shimmer and dissolve into a kind of mist. Marrim had stared, not understanding, then had clapped her hands with delight, for the walls had changed in that instant into a continuous waterfall that completely surrounded the amphitheater, the crystal water tumbling into the deep moat that ran around the shell-like structure.

  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, com
ing 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 when 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.”