The Myst Reader (109 page)

“Hersha,” one of them said, as the old man stepped up onto the platform, a greeting that was quickly taken up by the others there.

“Friends,” Hersha said. “I have come at your summons.”

“And brought others with you, I see,” another of them said, stepping out from where he had been standing at the back.

Hersha looked about him for clarification, clearly not recognizing the man who had spoken.

“I am Ymur,” the man said, hesitantly yet at the same time belligerently. “I am leader of the relyimah of Ro’Tanak.”

Hersha frowned. “I thought Rafis was their leader.”

“He was,” Ymur said humorlessly. “And now I am.”

Atrus, looking on from just beneath the platform, saw how all but Hersha found it hard to meet each other’s eyes. It was as Catherine had said; it was hard for these men, even the boldest among them, to throw off their conditioning. They could not change overnight. Yet they might break altogether under the strains of the new demands on them, and if they did, then there would almost certainly be bloodshed.

“Who are these
strangers?
” Ymur asked.

Hersha turned to one of the others, an old slave, and asked, “Have I to answer to this newcomer, Baddu?”

Baddu looked uncomfortable. “It might be best, Hersha. Eedrah we know, of course, and welcome as a friend, but the others…”

“Are friends also,” Hersha said. “They are ahrotahntee.”

There were looks of surprise at that, for all there had taken Atrus and his fellows for Masters. But Ymur was not convinced.

“Are these not the ones who went to see the Terahnee king?”

“That is so,” Hersha answered.

“Then they have no place here at this gathering.” Ymur looked about him threateningly, then raised his voice. At the sound of it many of those closest to him cowered. “Hear me, brother relyimah. No friend of the Terahnee can be a friend of ours.”

“That is not so,” Hersha began, but Ymur spoke over him.

“It is said that they made a pact.”

“That is untrue,” Hersha said.

Ymur stepped forward, confronting Hersha. “Are you calling me a liar, old man?”

Hersha dropped his gaze. “You heard wrong, that is all. No pact was made. These
are
our friends.”

“So they would have you believe!” Ymur said disdainfully. He turned his back on Hersha. “Myself, I will not hear them.”

“Just as others would not
see
you, Ymur?”

The speaker stepped from the darkness at the back of the platform, his thin cloak rustling about him.

“Gat!”
The whispered name rippled through the thousands gathered in the growing darkness.
“Gat!”

The ancient stopped amid those gathered at the center. He was older even than Hersha and his hair was white and long. Hersha had mentioned his name reverently many times, but Atrus had always assumed that the man was legend, buried long ago. Yet here he was, as large as life; a strong, vigorous-looking old man.

“Well, Ymur?”

And as Gat turned to face the younger man, Atrus realized with a shock that he was blind.

Ymur had hunched into himself, his head tucked down, like a beaten dog. “But they are not relyimah,” he grumbled.

“Maybe so,” the ancient said, “yet we would do well to listen to what they have to say.”

From Ymur’s expression he clearly did not like this, but he was not going to argue with Gat. He gave a grudging nod.

“Good, then light the lamps and let’s begin. There is much to be said this night.”

 

 

§

 

 

In the glare of the flickering lamps—real lamps, burning in cressets—Gat stepped to the front of the platform and began to speak.

“I remember my father and my mother, and I can recall quite vividly the day that I was taken from them. Blind as I am, I can still see the pain in their eyes. Terahnee did that. Terahnee and the servants of Terahnee. And I vowed that day that I would never forgive them for what they did. That I would fight them to the last—here
inside
me.”

Gat tapped his chest, then paused, his blind eyes searching about him. “Like you I have pretended to be nothing. To bleed and suffer and be silent. To exist for work and yet not to exist at all. To live without love or recognition. All this I did, not choosing to do so, but because I had no choice and found that the force of life in me was stronger than the desire for death. It is that which makes a slave. That choice, when all other choices are denied, to carry on.”

Gat leaned toward them, lowering his voice slightly, as if speaking personally to each one of them. “But now the Masters are gone, it seems. Swept away. And we are free.”

He smiled blindly. “Look about you.
Dare
to look about you. See those who have suffered with you. Meet their eyes and see the pain there that all here have endured.”

Atrus, looking about him, saw how some of the relyimah risked tiny glances at their fellows; but most looked down, ashamed, still locked in the prison of habit.

Gat, blind as he was, seemed to comprehend this, and now his voice softened. “Oh, it is hard, brothers. Perhaps the hardest thing we have ever had to do; to shake off our bonds and be ourselves, not some other man’s
thing.
But we must learn to use our eyes anew. To see each other and thus
cease
to be relyimah. It will take time. Perhaps even a long time. But we must make that journey to seeing. To
being
seen. And while we do, we must be patient. Patient, because it would be unwise to act rashly and hot-bloodedly. That path can bring us only more grief, more injustice. The past is past. We must let go of the hatred and bitterness we feel. And so I counsel you, my brothers. To look and see and be calm.”

And with that Gat turned away, stepping back into the darkness.

Next to speak was Ymur. He came to the front of the platform, self-conscious and ill at ease now that he must address the multitude.

“Brothers,” he began. “Gat speaks wisely. Like us, he has suffered. Like us, he has known what it is to be nothing. I say that no man who has not suffered that can speak of it.”

As he said the words, Ymur turned, looking pointedly at Atrus and Eedrah and their party.

“And so we listen to Gat. As now you listen to Ymur, who suffered and was nothing. Who, like you, is relyimah. And I say that I, too, remember the day I was taken from my home. I remember how my father fought the P’aarli and was killed for his pains. And I, too, took a vow that day.”

Ymur paused. As he spoke, his voice had grown louder and more confident. Now he seemed to swell with every word, a burning anger behind his every utterance—an anger, Atrus saw, that touched many in that great crowd.

“Gat says the past is past. But is that really so? Are all the Masters dead? No. Some live. And while they live, will they not be tempted to return to how things were? Will they not bring men from other Ages to subdue us once again? Who here would dare to say no?”

He paused, a snarl on his features now. “The truth is this. We
know
what the Terahnee are. The scars on our bodies tell us. So, too, the chains in our heads. Gat speaks of learning to use our eyes. He is right. But first we must see the threat the Terahnee still pose. Gat says we are free, but we are not free. Not until the last Terahnee child is dead.”

There was a murmur from the gathering at that—both shocked surprise and vehement agreement. And Atrus, hearing it and looking about him, understood at once. Whatever Gat had said about learning to be themselves,
this
was the single issue that divided the relyimah.

Ymur spoke on, a cold vehemence in his words now; their former anger transformed into a chilling certainty.

“If any of you still doubt, look back. Remember what was done to you. Not once or twice, but every day for all your lives. Unseen we were. Well, I for one will pluck their eyes from their heads!”

And with that he turned and strode into the darkness, leaving behind him a crowd that now seethed and murmured, like a great soup that had been brought almost to the boil.

“May I speak?”

Baddu had stepped forward, meaning to address the gathering. Now he turned, looking to the speaker. It was Eedrah.

“Eedrah?” Baddu said, surprised and perhaps embarrassed after what had just been said.

“Let him speak,” Gat said from the darkness. “Unless Ymur wishes to pluck out the eyes of one who is our friend.”

There was fierce murmuring at that. Baddu looked down, then nodded.

“Thank you,” Eedrah said, stepping to the front of the platform. He looked about him, clearly nervous, then began, his eyes pleading for the relyimah to listen.

“Ymur is right. My people do not deserve to live. They were cruel and self-obsessed. No words of mine can wash away the shame I feel.” He turned, looking to Gat. “Indeed, I would give my own eyes were it to help.”

He turned back. “And Ymur is right about one other thing. Were enough Terahnee to survive, they would surely try to make things as they were. For they know no different, and even this great tragedy, this
judgment
as it seems, will not make them see. Which is to say, I understand you, Ymur. I cannot feel precisely what you feel, for I have not suffered as you have suffered, yet I can
imagine
how it feels. And, imagining it, I can understand the desire for vengeance that burns in you.”

Eedrah paused. “I understand it, yet part of me holds out against that path. We have had enough of violence. Enough of kill or be killed. Our way must lie in another direction. Besides, there are more important issues to be debated. How, for instance, are we to feed the relyimah? And how should we direct their energies now that Terahnee has fallen?”

This was too much for Ymur. Stepping out into the center of the platform, he began to harangue Eedrah.

“What has that to do with you, Terahnee? We shall feed ourselves, yes, and choose our own leaders. You think to control us with clever words, no doubt, but I for one am not fooled.”

“A fool is never fooled,” Gat said, walking across to Eedrah’s side. “Or so he claims. But you, Ymur, speak ill of one who has often proved his worth. Eedrah is right. We must think of more than killing. We must consider how our freedom should be used, not just now but in the future also.”

Ymur bristled. “I say once more. Destroy the Terahnee. Then we can go home.”

“
Home?”
Gat shook his head sadly. “Do you not understand, Ymur? This
is
our home. The question is, what are we to make of it?”

“You have a plan?” Ymur sneered.

“Not I,” Gat answered him, “but I understand there is one here who might offer us a way to follow.” Gat turned, looking in Atrus’s direction. “Atrus of D’ni. Would you step forward now and speak to the relyimah?”

Atrus stepped up, conscious of the watchful yet unwatching crowd surrounding him. Silent they were, like a great army of the dead.

“What has happened here is a great tragedy,” he began. “Many of your people have died, and many more will die before this scourge has passed. So it was in my own Age of D’ni. Yet no two things are ever quite alike, and D’ni was not Terahnee. This world, which so bewitched me at first sight, I see now was corrupt and wicked. Corrupted to the core by those given the responsibility to lead. As Eedrah said, its makers deserved their fate. But that was not so for D’ni. My world—or I should rightly say, my
grandfather’s
world—was a world of order and fairness, as unlike to this as the rock is to the air. It was a world of fixed and certain laws, where every man was treated with the respect and dignity he deserved. We had no slaves, no stewards. There were no beatings in our world, no deaths—unless by accident or natural cause. Each man was seen for what he was, and given recognition for his talents.”

“So you say,” Ymur said, interrupting him. “But I say you made a pact with the Terahnee. I say you meant to bring your people here and settle in Terahnee.”

Atrus shrugged. “That is true, but…”

“There!” Ymur said. “What did I say!” Turning away, he went to the edge of the platform. “Well, brothers? Are we to swap one set of masters for another?”

“This is not mastery!” Atrus exclaimed. “Unless you call it mastery of oneself. I do not wish to rule you, Ymur, just give you guidance.”

“So you say. But I say that we relyimah will find our own way now. For too long have we listened to others and done what they have told us to do. Now it is
our
time, and we shall not be bound by masters’ ways.”

“It is not so!”

Ymur turned back, his face scornful. “Why should we listen to you, Atrus of D’ni?”

“Because I have your interests at heart!”

“Our
interests, or
yours?
”

Atrus stared at Ymur, understanding suddenly that whatever he said he would not convince this one. Ymur was set against him, set against reason itself. And sadly, Ymur was not the only one, for his fiery words had once more ignited the dark mass of humanity gathered there before them.

He was about to turn and walk away, to take the books of law he had brought with him from D’ni and go home, when a figure moved past him to stand between himself and Ymur.

Ymur half-turned, sensing the presence of someone close beside him, then frowned. “Boy?”

Atrus took a step toward the child then stopped. Uta was trembling, yet there was something about his stance that warned Atrus not to interfere. The child had steeled himself to do t
h
is. He was hunched into himself, his head tucked tightly against his chest, yet his voice sounded clearly in the sudden silence.

“Y-you are…wr-wrong.”

“Wrong?”
Ymur twitched his head back, as if someone had flicked him in the face. And then, unexpectedly, he laughed. “Go away, child. Let the elders speak.”