The Myst Reader (105 page)

Slowly the door swung back. Eedrah looked to them again, his eyes imploring them to understand, then he turned back, leading them through, into a dimly lit chamber.

The ceiling of the chamber was high above them and the walls were crudely cut. Long, twisting flights of steps led up those walls to doors set deep into the stone. Twenty, maybe thirty doors, giving access to six separate levels that all led off this chamber.

Atrus turned back, to see that the man who had admitted them was still standing there, his head bowed, his eyes averted, his every aspect menial and subservient. By his shaven head and his jet-black tight-fitting clothes Atrus knew at once that he was relyimah.

“Come,” Eedrah said quietly, speaking for the first time since they had entered that great warren. “There is someone you must meet.”

 

 

§

 

 

As Eedrah and Atrus stepped into the room, the old man glanced up from his book, then quickly stood, his head lowered, his eyes averted. The room was small and cramped, the old man’s desk filling a good half of it, but the surface of the desk was piled high with Books. That in itself was wholly unexpected.

“Welcome Atrus,” the old man said, keeping his head lowered. “I am Hersha.”

Atrus looked to Eedrah queryingly, then gave a tiny bow. “I am pleased to meet you, Hersha.”

“He is leader here,” Eedrah said.

“Leader?”

“Of the relyimah. Hersha is their great secret. Not even the stewards know he is here.”

“I am astonished,” Atrus said.

Eedrah looked to him, a sudden seriousness in his eyes. “I thought you knew. D’ni…”

“…is not like this. We have no slaves. No relyimah. Nor did we ever permit them in our worlds.”

“Yes…I see that now.” Eedrah looked down. “There have been misunderstandings. I thought you other than you are. And you, Atrus…you doubtlessly think me other than I am.”

“You are their friend?”

Hersha answered for him. “Eedrah does what he can to help. But he is a rarity. Not one in ten thousand is like him.”

Atrus looked back at Eedrah, seeing him in a new light. “You
see
them, whereas your father does not, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“And you, Hersha, what do you see?”

“The waste of it,” Hersha answered, daring to meet Atrus’s eyes once again. “The ruinous waste.”

 

 

 

§

 

 

While the three men talked, Catherine toured the silent maze of rooms at the heart of the slave quarters, horrified by what she saw. After the casual luxuries of the world above, the primitive conditions down here were quite appalling. Young men slept forty to a tiny space, five to each of the narrow alcoves that had been cut from the rock—more catacombs than beds; the coldness of the stone covered only by the thinnest layer of sackcloth. Their washrooms were basic, more cattle troughs than bathrooms, and their kitchens were tiny and inadequate.

As she walked among them, those few that were awake turned from her, afraid to meet her eyes, shying from her inquisitive gaze as though from a blowtorch. Yet she could not help but see how badly they had been treated. Their pale limbs were covered with ugly, purple weals, while a few sported scars, fresh and long-healed, their severity clear evidence of far harsher brutalities.

“Who did this?” she asked, turning to face Atrus as he joined her.

“The P’aarli,” Atrus answered. “The stewards. It seems they regularly beat the relyimah, to make sure they are obedient…and silent.”

Catherine made to speak, then saw the old man who stood just behind Atrus, next to Eedrah.

“This is Hersha,” Eedrah said. “He is the leader of the slaves.”

“They have a leader?”

“Yes, and a religion, too.” Atrus took a slender volume from his pocket and handed it to her.

Catherine studied it a moment, then looked up at him wide-eyed. “These are the ancient prophecies.” She frowned. “But why is it
their
book?”

Eedrah answered her. “Because of four lines in one of the oldest prophecies—four lines that speak of the freeing of the slaves.”

“I see.”

“With respect, I am not sure you do,” Hersha said, almost hunching into himself as he spoke.

“What do you mean?” Eedrah asked.

“I mean that those lines are not in isolation. And with things being as they are…”

This was all too cryptic for Atrus. He interrupted. “What
do
you mean, things being as they are?”

Eedrah looked down. “Things are happening, Atrus. There is a sickness…”

“A sickness?” Catherine stepped closer.

Eedrah nodded. “It is a recent thing. Over the last few days a number of the relyimah took to their beds with stomach cramps. It was thought at first that they had eaten something bad, but their condition has worsened and many of them are now running a fever.”

“Can I see them?”

Hersha led them down a corridor and through another of the hidden doors into a long, low chamber, at the far end of which, on makeshift pallets, a dozen or more relyimah lay, several of their fellows in attendance.

Going over to them, Catherine knelt and began to examine one of the sick. She was silent a moment as she felt the glands at the man’s neck, peered into his pale, unconscious eyes, and felt his pulse. She looked up at Atrus, concerned. “We need to help these men—we need equipment and medical supplies.”

“Whatever you need,” Eedrah said. “I shall have it brought at once.”

 

 

§

 

 

Back in their room in the great house, Catherine and Atrus sat across from Eedrah as he talked.

“It was my fifteenth season when I first saw one of the Slave Ages. As a child, of course, you have to be taught not to see the slaves. Trained not to speak to them or even notice them. Not that you would see them all that often, for the stewards keep them out of sight as much as possible. But by fifteen your eyes have learned not to see, your brain not to make the connection. It isn’t difficult. But I guess my illness made me different.”

“Your illness?” Atrus asked.

“A simple fever. But I almost died. A harvesting slave found me in the orchards outside and carried me into the house.”

“And was rewarded, I hope,” Catherine said.

Eedrah swallowed and looked down. “He was killed. Executed by the stewards for the impertinence of touching a master.”

Atrus and Catherine both stared at him, shocked.

“So it is here. Remember the entertainer? The gymnast who fell?”

“Ah, yes,” Catherine said. “I wondered how he was.”

“He was severely punished for his mistake.”

Catherine shook her head. “No…”

“It
is
our way. Mistakes are not tolerated. You saw how he did not even make a noise though he was in pain. Had he done so, the stewards would have killed him without hesitation.”

Atrus sighed. “I did not know.”

“Nor I,” Eedrah said. “Not until that first visit. Then I saw how the young boys were recruited. Not orphans, as I’d speculated, but ordinary children like myself, only boys of four and five, taken from their parents and relocated in Training Ages where, in circumstances of the most extreme cruelty, they were prepared for service in Terahnee. Those Training Ages are the bleakest places I have ever seen, and the children are taught in the crudest manner to obey or die.”

“Does Ro’Eh Ro’Dan know of this?”

For a moment Eedrah stared at Atrus in disbelief. “Do you not see it yet, Atrus? Ro’Eh Ro’Dan
authorizes
it. He is in charge of this terrible system. He and his ministers set the quotas. They say how many boys are to be taken from their families and trained.”

Atrus stared and stared.

“I know,” Eedrah said quietly. “It is hard to believe.”

“But he was so kind to us. You were all so kind, so hospitable.”

“It is a kindness that is confined to our own kind. While my people believed you to be exactly as themselves, they accorded you the same rights and benefits. But now…”

Catherine had been looking down into her lap, now she looked up again. “Why did you say nothing of this before now?”

“Because I did not know whether I could trust you.”

“And when did you know?”

“Last evening. When you were puzzled by the riddle. And I saw your faces when those slaves were led away.”

“Were they beaten?” Atrus asked, a hollowness in his voice.

“No, Atrus. They were killed. You see, it could not be allowed for them to repeat what you said in that room.”

“Then we must do something.”

Eedrah grimaced. “There is nothing you
can
do, can’t you see that? You heard Hersha. There is not one in ten thousand of my people think as I think. And you saw how my father treated you the moment he heard that you were not pure D’ni. And so will the king treat you when he hears. You would be best to flee while you can!”

Atrus shook his head. “No. I will
not
run away. Besides, the king
will
keep his word. Terahnee he might be, but he is also a man.”

Eedrah stood, exasperated now. “Don’t you understand, Atrus? They will kill you. As surely as they killed those slaves. Indeed, you would all be dead right now but for the fact that you are still under the king’s protection.”

Seeing that Atrus would not be budged, Eedrah said, “All right. I’ll do what I can to help you, but I must return now and help Hersha with the sickness, before the P’aarli come back on duty.”

“Are you not afraid for yourself, Eedrah?” Catherine asked.

Eedrah turned back. “For myself, no. But there are times when I fear for my own people. There is something missing in them. A depth. I don’t know what you’d call it. A void, perhaps. And they fill it with cleverness and all manner of distractions. Like the rooms.”

“I did not know,” Atrus said once more, anguish in his face.

“You are not to blame,” Eedrah said.

“Yes, but…” He looked to Eedrah suddenly, frowning, “You thought we knew. You thought we condoned it.”

Eedrah nodded. “Yes. But now I
see
you.”

 

PART SIX

 

THE CREAK OF CART WHEELS

 

IN THE SILENT DARK.

 

DEAD MEN FALL BETWEEN THE WORLDS.

 

A TIME OF GREAT SORROWING.

 

 

 

 

 

 

--FROM THE
URAKH’NIKAR

 

 

VV. 87-89

 

Atrus woke, strangely refreshed, the sunlit peacefulness of the room making the events of the previous evening seem strangely dreamlike. Beside him, Catherine slept on.

Slowly it all came back, and as it did the sunlight seemed to fade until there was a darkness underneath all things.

Even the birdsong seemed transformed.

Careful not to wake her, Atrus rose and pulled on his robe. He did not know what time it was, but from the way the shadows fell in the room, the sun was high, the day well advanced. That, too, was strange.

He began to cross the room, then stopped. There, on the desk where Catherine had been writing, was her equipment box. It had not been there when they had gone to sleep, but now it was. And beside it was a note.

Atrus went across. The note was addressed to him. He slit it open and unfolded the single sheet:

 

 

Atrus,

Eedrah has told me everything. It is hard to believe but I do not think he lies. He warns us to prepare for a hurried departure and that I have done. At a word from you the Books will be destroyed and the link between the Ages closed for good, but I shall not do this unless I must. I send both Irras and Carrad back to you with this, as well as medical supplies and equipment. Our thoughts are with you all.

Master Tamon

 

 

So Eedrah had gone himself to the plateau. Folding the note, Atrus slipped it into his pocket, then stepped outside, conscious now of the secret the massively thick walls held.

The corridor was empty, silent. No steward waited to do his bidding or anticipate his need.

Strange.

He walked from room to room, but it was as if the great house had been abandoned. There was no sound or sign of anyone. And then there came a shout, from the gardens outside. Going to a window, he threw it open and looked out. Marrim was down there. She seemed distressed. Seeing him, she waved furiously, then beckoned him to come.

“Wait there!” he called.

Marrim met him at the gate.

“What is it?” he asked, trying to calm her.

“It’s one of them. One of the slaves we saw. He’s just lying there. He won’t move. And his eyes…”

“Where, Marrim?”

She led him across an ornamental bridge and into a formal garden. There, on the other side of a small wall, not ten paces from what looked like a well, lay the slave.

Atrus crouched down beside him, feeling at the neck for a pulse. “He’s alive,” he said, looking up at Marrim. “Go ahead and warn Catherine. I’ll bring him up to our room.”

Marrim nodded then hurried off.

Atrus turned back. This one was but a boy—seven or eight years old at most—yet like the others he was scarred and bruised, and his anonymity was emphasized by the tight-fitting black clothes he wore and his closely shaven head.

Swallowing back the sudden anger he felt, Atrus put his arms beneath the child and lifted him up. It was not difficult, for the boy barely weighed a thing.

Cradling the child against his chest, Atrus walked back to the house, determined not to be stopped by any steward. But no one stopped him. The corridors and stairs of the house were empty, and when he reached his rooms, only Catherine and Marrim were there to greet him.