The Myst Reader (108 page)

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Horen Ro’Jadre lay in his great bath, on his back, where death had found him, his mouth open in an “Oh” of surprise. His P’aarli stewards had fled that afternoon, when news had first come of the sickness that was sweeping the south. But they ran in vain, for they had long ago been caught by the strange bacteria that now crawled and multiplied unseen inside them all.

Yet death, for now, moved at a walking pace—or, to be more accurate, at the pace of a slowly gliding boat. Eight days was the gestation period for this sickness. Eight days before a mild disorder became fierce cramps and then, with a suddenness that often killed, something much worse.

Master and slave succumbed. And the P’aarli, first to flee, were taken in the fields, or in some well-trimmed field of exotic blooms, their groans alone distinguishing them from the silent acquiescence of those they had once beaten and killed.

Across the whole land the sickness was spreading now. News of it had come to the capital, where Ro’Eh Ro’Dan, uncertain yet how serious it was, took advice from ancients who had known no illness in their long and worthless lives.

“If slaves are dying,” the old men counseled, “then bring in more from the Ages. Replace their numbers.”

It seemed a simple and effective policy. But the new slaves were not trained. Could they be counted on to be obedient?

“No matter,” the old men said. “Slaves are slaves. They will obey.”

But some did not. And as word of the sickness spread among the relyimah, so one or two among their number took it upon themselves to exact swift vengeance on those who had afflicted them with years of misery.

One such was a slave named Ymur. As his overseer raised his whip to beat Ymur, the slave grabbed the P’aarli’s wrist and, twisting it, snapped the bone.

There was a cry of pain, silenced in an instant. And as the others stared at the fallen corpse of their tormentor, so Ymur looked about him, allowing his eyes to see what they had never properly focused on before.

“Come,” he said, gesturing to them. And, obedient as slaves, they followed.

 

 

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Many more days passed, and slowly the pattern became clearer. Many of the relyimah were dying, but only those who were too weak to survive the first full shock of the sickness. The majority survived and, within weeks, were on their feet again. Among the Terahnee and the P’aarli, however, the death rate was higher. Some, like Eedrah, survived, but a great number succumbed. Thus it was that Eedrah had buried his father, mother, and three of his sisters.

He was sitting alone in the great library, writing, when Hersha came to him.

At first Hersha had found it uncomfortable—one might even say frightening—coming into the main house. Old he was, and well read, yet he was still relyimah, and from childhood had been taught to be invisible. Now he had a new fate.

“Eedrah…”

Eedrah looked up, a slightly glazed expression in his eyes. At Atrus’s suggestion he had begun to write down his feelings, hoping thus to purge them, or at least to understand what he was undergoing.

“Yes, Hersha?”

“Forgive me for disturbing you, but important news has come. There is to be a meeting.”

“A meeting?”

“Of the relyimah. At least, of their leaders. I have been asked to attend. It is to be held at the great mound, in Gehallah district.”

Eedrah stared at the old man, then set his pen aside. There was something strange about Hersha’s manner.

“Hersha? What is it you’re not telling me?”

The old man looked down. “You see right through me, Renyaloth.”

That use of his nickname among the relyimah—“the sickly one”—told him he had been right. Whatever this was, Hersha was finding it difficult telling him. Eedrah knew he would have to coax it from him.

“So what is the purpose of this meeting?”

Hersha’s ancient head tucked itself even deeper into his chest, old reflexes taking control. “They mean to overthrow the Masters.”

“Ah…” It ought not to have been a shock. After all, what was there to overthrow now that many of them were dead or dying? But for the relyimah to think like this was unheard of, and Eedrah found himself not surprised but actually astonished by the news.

“Is this a warning, Hersha? Are you telling me that I should leave Terahnee? Go back with Atrus, possibly?”

Hersha’s eyes flicked up briefly before he averted them again. Eedrah saw how he steeled himself to speak again, and when he did it was another shock.

“I want you to come with me,” Hersha said quietly. “To speak to them, persuade them not to act too rashly.”

“
Speak
to them?”

Eedrah sat there, astonished.
And say what?
he thought.
That we treated you abominably, but not to punish us for that?

He sighed. “Let me consider it, Hersha. And let me speak with Atrus. Then I shall tell you whether I will come with you or not.”

Hersha gave a little bow. “As you wish, Renyaloth.” And, without another word, the old man turned and scuttled away, hunched into himself, his eyes glancing from side to side as if he expected at any moment to be waylaid by stewards for his impertinence.

 

 

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“Any luck?” Atrus asked, looking over Catherine’s shoulder at the page she was writing.

“None at all,” she answered, finishing the sentence she had been writing, then looking up at him. “Not that it matters now. If what Hersha has heard is true, then there is not a corner of this land that has not been ravaged by the sickness.”

Atrus nodded somberly. “It seems almost like a judgment.”

Catherine hesitated, as if about to say something, then nodded. “Eedrah certainly thinks so.” She looked past Atrus to where Uta sat in the corner chair, hunched into himself, trying not to be noticed. “I just wonder how the relyimah will cope. There’s food for now, but when that runs out, what then?”

“They grew it,” Atrus said.

“Yes, but that was when there was someone there to organize them. You’ve seen them, Atrus. Without someone to tell them what to do, they’re lost. They’re not mindless, I know that, but they sometimes act as if they are. Our problem is getting round that conditioning before they starve. We need to get them to make decisions for themselves.”

Atrus nodded, but both of them knew that it was easier said than done. How did one change not just a lifetime’s habits but long millennia of custom? Yet there must be one or two of these relyimah who could be used—molded—to shape the new society that must emerge from this disaster. But where would they be found?

Eedrah, it seemed, had the answer. “Atrus,” he said, coming into the room. “I have a problem. The slave leaders are to have a great meeting, it seems. Tonight, at sunset, at the great mound in Gehallah.”

“Is that far from here?”

“Two hours’ walk, at most.”

“And what is to be discussed at this meeting?”

“The overthrow of the Masters.” Eedrah smiled bleakly. “By which I take it they mean the wholesale slaughter of survivors.”

“You think they’d do that?” Atrus asked, surprised.

Eedrah nodded. “Some have already done so, killing P’aarli and Masters both. They did not wait, it seems, for the sickness to descend.”

“And is Hersha to attend this meeting?”

“Yes, and he has asked me to go with him and speak to them.”

“So will you go?”

“If you will come with me, Atrus. I know them, true, but I am no speaker. Not as you are.”

“And you think I can convince them to act decently?”

“If anyone can.”

Atrus considered a moment. “All right. I shall come with you. But first I must return to D’ni. There is something there I need.”

“Will you be long, Atrus?”

Atrus smiled. “No, not long. Three hours, maybe four at most.” He turned, looking to the boy. “Uta! Come, my little shadow!”

The boy jerked, then, burying his head into his neck, he stood.

“Until then,” Eedrah said.

“Until then.”

 

 

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Ro’Eh Ro’Dan stood at the edge of the high platform and looked outward. Beneath him the land of Terahnee stretched away into the distance, swathed in the late afternoon mist. From this height it seemed eternal and unchanged, but he knew better. There was not a household down there that had not been touched.

“The bricks alone will stand on that day, / And the blind shall be given eyes.”

He said the words softly, almost in a whisper. Ro’Addarren, his chief adviser, had read them to him only that morning from the ancient book, and now the old man was dead.

“So they were true, after all,” he said, and almost laughed, remembering how excited they all had been when they had heard of the tragedy that had struck D’ni, and how they had thought that
that
was what had been prophesied. Well, now they knew.

But knowing did not help them any.

From far below there came a hammering. He turned, staring down into the depths, and saw the great host at the Valley Gate and knew, without needing to be told, that this was the rabble of new slaves they had brought in from the Ages.

“So be it,” he said, no longer caring about his own personal fate. What did it matter if he died? He was king of nothing now.

But others would not let him succumb to fate. As he stood there, two of his ancient counselors ventured out onto the platform, clearly afraid of the great drop. Their eyes went from Ro’Eh Ro’Dan to the platform’s edge constantly, while they themselves stayed close to the top of the steps.

“You must come, my lord,” one of them said, beckoning to him as if to a child.

“Your boat is awaiting you,” the other added. “If we leave now…”

He sighed, then walked across to them. It was no use arguing. Besides, maybe he was wrong. Maybe once this rabble was dispersed they could rebuild. From what he’d heard many of the slaves were still alive, and they, certainly, would need organizing.

“All right,” he said, letting them usher him down the steps and through his room, out onto the narrow bridge. He was halfway across when some instinct told him to stop and turn, and as he looked back, he saw himself, in memory, greeting the stranger.

I liked him
, he realized.
I really rather liked him.

“Master!” the old men said, trying to hurry him along. “Master, we must be gone from here!”

He shook his head, trying to clear it of the memory, but still he could see them both, cloaked against the coolness of the early morning, and smiled. It made no sense to like the man after all that had happened, and yet he did.

I see you, Atrus
. Then, conscious of the old men fussing all about him, he hurried on toward the waiting boat.

 

 

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Atrus stepped from the ruins, the heavy pack on his back, and, adjusting his lenses, turned to look as Oma and Esel stepped out behind him. They, too, carried the big-framed backpacks. Behind them came the slave-child, Uta, and finally Master Tergahn.

As Atrus turned back, Tamon hurried up. “Atrus! Something’s happening! There are great plumes of smoke in the distance!”

They hurried across to the chairlift. From its upper platform a clear view of Terahnee could be had.

Atrus scanned the distance, then looked back. Tergahn was watching him. “You must listen to me, Atrus,” the old man said. “You did not before and look what happened. We must pull our people out and destroy the Books. Yes, and seal up the Temple, too, for if the relyimah find the Temple they will link through and destroy us all.”

Atrus nodded. “I hear you, Master Tergahn. But I must take this one chance to make amends.” He looked to Tamon. “Master Tamon, if you do not hear from us in two days, you will do as Master Tergahn says. You will dismantle the chairlift and return to D’ni, destroying the Linking Books. Then you will seal the GreatTemple.”

“But Atrus…”

“No arguments, Master Tamon. Tergahn is right. We do not know how the relyimah will act, and we cannot risk our own people. Two days is sufficient to do what I must do. If I fail, I shall have failed by then, and D’ni will be in danger. Indeed, it might be well to post lookouts.”

Tamon frowned, clearly dismayed by this turn of events. Even so, he bowed his head obediently. “I shall do as you say.”

“Good.” Atrus reached out, taking his old friend’s hands. “I hope it will not come to that.”

“And I,” Tamon said. “Good luck, Atrus, and hurry back.”

Atrus smiled. “I shall do my best, Master Tamon.” Then, signaling to Esel and Oma and young Uta to join him on the chair, he climbed aboard, his eyes going outward to the tall dark plumes that climbed the distant sky.

 

PART SEVEN

 

DESCENDING THE GREAT LADDER OF TIME. WE SEE

 

FOUR FACES. THE FACES OF FOUR WOMEN.

 

AGED AND DEAD THE FIRST TWO ARE.

 

THE THIRD. A DREAMER. THE LAST. A TEACHER.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CANTO 157

 

The sun was just setting as Hersha and his party made their way up the long, sloping ramp and onto the great mound of Gehallah.

There the relyimah were gathered, over twenty thousand strong, the uniformity of their dress and their shaven heads emphasized by the utter silence in which they stood.

A canopy of golden silk had been placed at the center of that massive amphitheater, and in the last rays of the sun four banners—purest black—hung limply. Beneath that canopy a smaller group was gathered. It was toward them that Hersha now headed, Eedrah and Atrus behind him, the others—Oma, Esel, Uta, and two other relyimah—several paces back.