“Is he here?” he asked, his voice echoing in that silent space.
In answer Baddu clapped his hands, mimicking perfectly how a Terahnee master might once have commanded his servants. At once lamps were lit on all sides of the chamber, and there, at the very center, in a boat of delicate stone, lay the great king himself, Ro’Eh Ro’Dan.
Atrus went down the steps until he stood less than ten paces from the boat. Ro’Eh Ro’Dan lay on his back on a bed of golden sheets, a narrow band of gold about his ice-pale brow. Dead he was, yet still he exuded power, so that even Baddu, who had seemed so dismissive earlier, approached the boat with awe.
“The book…” Atrus began, gesturing toward the tiny, leather-bound volume that was clasped against the dead man’s chest. “What is the book?”
The relyimah looked to each other. None there dared to touch the king, dead or otherwise. Why, even to look on him was hard for many of them.
Seeing that he was going to get no answer, Atrus walked across and, grasping the stern of the boat firmly, climbed aboard. It swayed gently, rocking the corpse that lay at the center of the deck.
From this close, Atrus could smell the sickly sweet embalming fluid, could see where the embalmer’s art had worked its magic on that bloodless flesh.
He turned, looking back at Baddu. “Who prepared the body?”
“Relyimah,” Baddu answered. “His body servants. They came and found him here.”
Carefully, he stepped across and, leaning over the corpse, prised the book from its rigid grip.
It was a history. A history of the earliest days of Terahnee. He opened the cover and read the inscription there, then felt himself go cold.
It was for him! Ro’Eh Ro’Dan had dedicated the book to him!
“What is it, Atrus?” Gat asked, coming across and standing by the stern.
“A history,” he answered, his surprise becoming wonder at the thought that Ro’Eh Ro’Dan had thought of him before the end. “A history of how Terahnee came to be.”
Catherine will treasure this, he thought. Yes, and Oma and Esel, too.
Atrus looked down, studying the king’s pale yet handsome features. To what extent had Ro’Eh Ro’Dan been a prisoner of Terahnee and its customs? Or had he been the willing embodiment of its excesses, its utter lack of virtue? It was hard to say. Though he had been king of this evil land, Atrus could not shake from his mind his personal impression of the man.
I liked you, Ro’Eh Ro’Dan, and in other circumstances we might even have been friends.
Instead he had come and killed him, just as effectively as if he’d plunged a knife straight through his heart.
And so D’ni had erased Terahnee. Removed it like a footnote from a book. The page turned and it was gone.
Atrus turned away. It was time to bury Ro’Eh Ro’Dan. Time to say farewell to the past and get on with the future.
§
They carried Ro’Eh Ro’Dan on a bier of camphor wood and bronze, down through the levels of his mighty palace, where a hundred kings had ruled before him, and out into the great square at the heart of the capital. There, before the statue of the Nameless King, founder of Terahnee, the relyimah set him down, bowing before him in death as they had not been permitted to in life.
Just beyond the statue they had piled a big stack of wood. Having shown the king respect, they carried him across and placed the bier on top. There was a moment’s silence, then Gat stepped forward and, his voice heavy with emotion, began to speak.
“The chains that bound us now are broken, and we celebrate their passing, just as we honor the passing of the last king of Terahnee.” He paused, then proclaimed, “Let no man henceforth be our master.”
And with that he lowered his arm, and as he did several relyimah set torches to the huge pile. There was a moment’s panic and then the flames rushed up, catching with a roar, a sudden brightness. The eyes of the Unseen went to that, drawn to it, seeing how the flames danced about the king’s body like servants attending to it, how they stripped it of its finery, as if for sleep.
“Jidar N’ram!”
The cry startled Atrus. Turning, he saw that a small party of relyimah had come. Breathless, they hurried toward Gat, then slowed, seeing how the old man’s attention was held by the fire.
“Jidar N’ram!” one of them said, kneeling before the old man. “We have news!”
Atrus narrowed his eyes. He did not recognize the term; yet it was clearly Gat who had been addressed.
“What is it?” Gat said, wrenching his attention away from the burning pyre.
“They are coming!” the messenger said tremblingly, his eyes anxiously skipping here and there, afraid to focus on the old man’s face.
“Who?” Gat said, with untypical impatience. “Who is coming?”
“The P’aarlie! They have brought a great army from their homeworld to subdue us!”
There was a groan from the listening relyimah. Their eyes were round with fear. And then, as one, they seemed to hunch into themselves, as if trying to disappear from sight.
“The P’aarli…” Gat said, the words almost an exhalation. All color had fled from the old man’s face. Even he seemed deflated by this news.
“You must fight them,” Atrus said. “You are many…”
“Maybe so. Yet we know nothing of fighting.”
“Then summon Ymur. You talked of giving him a task. Well, harness him to this. Let him raise a force to stop the P’aarli. If he is half the man I think he is…”
Gat shuddered. For a moment he seemed completely lost. Then, as if waking to himself again, he gave a tiny nod. “All right. We shall summon Ymur and make him the leader of our forces. Yet what if he fails?’
“Then he shall have bought us time.” Atrus smiled, then laid his hand firmly on the old man’s shoulder. “Come, Gat. Call a meeting of the elders. There are more ways than one to defeat one’s enemies.”
§
The man stood on the summit of the hill, looking down the lush sweep of the valley toward the massive house that overlooked it. There, to the left of the house, at the center of the valley, a host of black-clothed relyimah were on the move across the fields, the front line cutting the stalks of the massive plants and passing them back to others, who carried them quickly to the side and deposited them in massive carts. But this was no harvest. Even from a distance he could see that the crop was unripe, the swathe they were cutting merely a means of making quick passage across the land. Besides, just beyond that wall of stooping human bodies, a huge phalanx of P’aarli, their red cloaks marking them out as distinctly as their silver hair, marched slowly in ranks, a great boatlike carriage at their rear, carried by forty slaves. There was an ornate golden canopy and, at the back of the carriage, an extraordinarily large chair. But whoever it was that sat in that chair was almost totally hidden from view. Only a pair of long, pale hands showed in the daylight, clutching the arms of a huge green throne.
The man had been a slave himself, before the sickness, and now, seeing that great army of P’aarlie descend into the valley, he felt a sickening dread. They had returned. The brief dream of better times was ended. He could hear the incessant clanking of the chains even from where he stood and knew that soon his own limbs would feel once more the cold fire of the iron.
As he watched, one of the P’aarli peeled off from the main body and walked back to the carriage, matching his pace with it as he spoke to whoever was within. There was a moment’s pause and then, with a bow, the fellow turned away, hurrying along the edge of the P’aarli ranks, speaking to this one here and that one there as he went.
Seeing that, the watching man grew still, a faint tremble passing through him. And then he gasped, as four groups of eight men separated from the main mass of P’aarli and, in running formation, made their way out from that great marching host.
He had seen this once before, back on his home Age, when, as a child of four, the P’aarli had come. He had witnessed the same that day: the marchin
g host in endless ranks, and then the smaller groups—scouting parties—sent out with nets and knives and hooks to find their prey. The nearest of the squads was already climbing the slope toward him, moving in a crouching run. With a cry one of them spotted him.
The trembling in him grew, and for a moment he could not move. Then, with an urgency he had not felt since that day twenty years before, he turned and ran, his heart hammering in his chest, his breath rasping from him, not knowing where or if he would find safety.
§
The P’aar’ro, the great steward, leader of the P’aarli, lounged in his chair, in the cool of the great canopy, lulled by the movement of the carriage beneath him. The campaign had begun well. Already a huge number of the relyimah—more than eight hundred thousand in all—had been taken and penned, and more were being taken by the hour. Those who resisted were slaughtered, but that was not many, and he was loathe to waste good slaves. The habit of obedience, deeply instilled in them, had not been shaken by events, and it was that as much as anything that reassured him. They were a rabble, after all. Disorganized. Totally without rational thought. One had only to tell them to submit and they obeyed. Even so, the task was not inconsiderable, and he had prepared his men for trouble.
He gazed about him indolently. It was some time since he had last been in Terahnee, and he had forgotten how pleasant a place it was. In recent years much of his time had been spent in the home Age, supervising the great task of training new stewards, but the sickness had changed all that. Now their priorities had changed.
He looked down, past the broad, elaborately decorated gunwales to where the slaves slowly walked, their eyes averted, the long wooden poles, cut to resemble a thickly corded rope, resting on their shoulders. Could he train himself not to see them?
The thought amused him. It was like the chair in which he sat; it was a perfect copy of the king’s great chair, only jade, not emerald. But why should he put up with copies anymore?
Yes, things had changed, and they must change with them.
They would need stewards for a start.
Well…maybe there were some among the relyimah who could be trained to that task. The scribes, perhaps.
The P’aar’Ro grinned, then sat back, letting his eyes close lazily. It was time they took things easy. Time they got someone else to do the dirty work.
§
Ymur was waiting for them in the orchard. As the P’aarli passed between the trees, his men fell on them from above, while others, who had been hiding behind the trunks, rushed at them with nets and knives, using their own tricks on them.
Most of them were killed in that first frenzied minute, but two of the P’aarli survived, pinned down beneath his men. Ymur watched them struggle to get up, listening to their incessant shouting, then stepped up to the nearest of them and slapped his face hard.
The man fell silent. There was blood on his lip and his eyes were wide with shock.
“How many of you are there?” Ymur asked, crouching over the man, meeting his eyes and letting him see he was not afraid of him.
The P’aarli just laughed.
Ymur slapped him again, harder this time, making the man cry out.
There was laughter from the watching relyimah; a cruel, satisfied laughter.
Ymur looked about him, grinning now, then straightened up. “What does it matter?” he said, turning his back on the two. “We’ll have them all before we’re finished.” Then, drawing his long knife, a great butcher’s knife used for cutting haunches, he turned back and showed it to them, enjoying the sight as the blood drained from their faces.
§
Ymur’s men placed the bodies on straw pallets, then took them out and displayed them around all the local estates, making much of the wounds, and laughing as they told how easy it had been. And then, when that tale was told, they would raise the standard and bid all there to come and join them in the great task of liberating Terahnee.
Many blanched at that and turned away, but many others responded, and so the small rabble with which Ymur had begun became a host, and then an army.
As he went about his camp, arranging things, Ymur nodded to himself. It was strange how it had happened, how the old men had come to him, for it had been in his own mind to raise a force and take on the accursed P’aarli. Better that—better death—than be a slave again. And so he threw himself into the task, cajoling and bullying, attempting to meld that docile host into some kind of fighting force.
He knew it would not be easy. That business in the orchard had been a cheat, in a way. He had known he could get away with it…with luck. But fighting a full-fledged battle against a well-disciplined army was another thing. He had seen the P’aarli at work in the Ages, and could not forget how fearsome they had looked. It did not scare him, but he knew he was exceptional in that regard. Most of his men would as willingly jump into a raging fire as face that great host. Yet there had to be a way.
Four days he had, if reports of the P’aarli’s progress could be believed. Five days at most.
He stopped, then laughed, seeing that the answer had come, unasked, in the very weave of his thoughts. Fire. That was it! He would use fire.
“Uta!” he called, summoning the slave-child who had been one of the first to flock to his banner. “Come, child, I have a message for you to run. To Atrus, back at the capital. It begins…”
§
Atrus was standing at his desk, studying the map of the capital that was spread out before him, when Uta stepped into the room.
“Uta!” he cried, pleased to see the boy. “You have news for me?”
Uta came across and, stopping before Atrus, bowed his head low, not looking up as he spoke.
“Ymur bids me hail you his friend, and asks if such a thing as liquid fire can be had. If so, he asks for a thousand barrels of it, to be delivered to him by tomorrow evening latest.”
Atrus stared at the boy, astonished. “Liquid fire?” he said quietly, more to himself than in answer. “Yes…I will supply it.”
He nodded decisively. “Tell our good friend Ymur that he will have what he asks for.”
Uta made to turn and leave the room, but Atrus called him back.
“Hold on, Uta! Wait an hour before you return. Catherine, I know, would like to see you before you go.”
§
After the boy had gone, Atrus stood there a long while, wondering to what use Ymur was thinking of putting the liquid fire. Whatever it was, he would have to give him instructions—send Irras, maybe, or Carrad to advise him in its use. Then, shrugging that off, he turned his attention back to the map.
He had already marked which avenues and canals in the eastern city should be cut off, and Hersha and Eedrah were already busy organizing the task. Now he needed to decide which of the remaining thoroughfares was best suited to his plan.
If his guess was right, the P’aarli would want to take the capital. If so, then he would lead them into a maze of sorts. I deadly maze, where things were constantly dropped on them and shot at them.
There would be no battles, not even hand-to-hand, for the relyimah would remain unseen.
Gat, particularly, had liked the plan. But Baddu had been far less convinced by it. “Why should the P’aarli come into our trap? What if they wait outside?”
“Then they wait,” Atrus said. “But we make sure they have no means of supporting themselves while they wait. We take away their food and water.”
“But how do we do that?” Baddu had asked.
“By burning every field about the east of the capital and blocking up every waterway.”
“And if that fails?”
“Then we find another way to fight them. We are many.”
“We are many,” Gat echoed, liking the phrase, nodding his blind face enthusiastically. “And the P’aarli…” He grinned broadly. “The P’aarlie are arrogant. They will come into our trap!”
§
They had drawn the big awning back, to reveal the P’aar’Ro, s
eated in his honorary chair of state. The relyimah had moved back out of sight, and the carriage seemed to rest—to float almost—between the pillars.
The three Terahnee halted, looking about them, not certain quite how to proceed. Then, gaining in confidence, they walked through into the great hall, smiling as they saw the silver hair of the old man, the wine-red cloak. This much, at least, was familiar.
“P’aar’Ro!” one of them called, hailing the Great Steward. “We welcome you to Ro’Derraj! We are the last Terahnee in the district. The governor…”
He fell silent, then waited, expecting the P’aar’Ro to stand, perhaps, and come down to greet them, but the chief of the servants merely sat there, as if no one had spoken. Indeed, now that they looked closer, the Terahnee noticed that he was eating!
They turned, looking back at the line of P’aarlie who now stood along the line of the great doorway, blocking it, then turned back.
Strange…
“When we heard you had returned, we were overjoyed!” the second of them said, then stopped, for the P’aar’Ro had sat forward, as if about to speak. Instead, gesturing to the stewards behind them, he nodded toward the three Terahnee then drew his finger across his throat.
“P’aar’Ro?” one of them queried. “Is the interview over?”
But he had barely finished the sentence when he was grabbed from behind.
The P’aar’Ro considered the half-eaten fruit in his hand, then threw it aside, feigning not to notice the slave who quickly and unobtrusively retrieved it and carried it away.
The Myst Reader Page 86
