The Myst Reader (121 page)

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, coming 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 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.”

“And so he shall,” Ro’Jethhe quickly said. “It is only a momentary indisposition. Eedrah will be honored to accompany them.”

Horen Ro’Jadre smiled. “Good.” He looked about him briefly, then walked across to take the vacant couch at the very center of the amphitheater. As he did, all returned to their couches.

There was a low chime in the air. As it faded, the light in the amphitheater changed as lamps behind the surrounding falls switched on, making the crystalline curtain of water shimmer magically. At the same time a large section of the amphitheater’s floor slid aside and a platform rose from beneath.

Six young men stood on the platform, naked to the waist; perfect physical specimens who bowed, then began a routine of gymnastics that left Marrim mesmerized by their dexterity.

All was going well, when suddenly one of the young men seemed to catch the ankle of another and went tumbling over, falling heavily. He made no sound—indeed, the whole performance had been carried out in silence; a silence broken only by the thud of feet or hands on the platform, the hiss of escaping breath—and even now, as he lay there, grimacing, clearly in pain, he made no sound.

From his couch to the right of Marrim, Ro’Jethhe clapped his hands. At once the performance ended, the platform returned into the floor.