The Myst Reader (129 page)

“And?” He stood, then went across, taking a chair beside her.

“Kitchens. There were no kitchens. That alone should have alerted me. All that food awaiting us wherever we went, and no sign of it ever having been prepared. It was like everything. Magical, it seemed. And we accepted that.”

“We had no reason nor to.”

“No. And then there was what Hadre said to us when he first met us. Do you remember? He said, ‘Can I see you?’ And his eyes—I remember it now—they seemed to look straight through us. Until you mentioned D’ni. And then it was like a connection was made. He
saw
us.”

“And Eedrah, too …” Atrus shook his head. “I’d come to like him. But how can I trust him now? He might have told us. Indeed, he
should
have told us.”

“Maybe he thought we knew.”

There was a knock. Atrus looked to Catherine, then stood and walked over to the door.

“Who is it?” he asked quietly.

“It is I. Eedrah. I need to talk with you.”

Atrus opened the door a fraction. Eedrah was standing there in the half-dark, alone.

“All right,” Atrus said, opening the door more fully.

Eedrah hesitated, then stepped through. As the door closed behind him, he glanced about him nervously. “There’s something I must show you.”

SILENTLY THEY FOLLOWED, DOWN TO THE END
of that long, shadowed corridor and left into a narrow gallery. There, a mere two or three paces in, Eedrah stopped and, leaning into the wall, pushed.

A door opened where a door had not been.

They followed, down three narrow steps and into a dark passage that ran
within
the walls. Atrus reached out and touched the smooth, worn stone. No wonder the walls had seemed so thick.

Two steps in and the door closed silently, depriving them of light. Several seconds passed and then a glow grew in the darkness close by, illuminating first the hand that held the lamp, and then the face, the chest, the walls surrounding them.

Eedrah put a finger to his lips, then turned and walked on.

On, through branching corridors and down a long, straight flight of steps, the stone worn by four thousand years of use. And as they went, Atrus saw it in his mind. Saw the endless silent figures who had passed this way, fetching and carrying, never a word or sound betraying their presence to their masters behind the walls.

The relyimah—the Unseen.

Now and then they would pass a row of niches set into the wall, in which were all manner of things for cleaning and repairs. Elsewhere were built-in storage cupboards, and everywhere doors and tunnels branched off. Here, too, at this lower level, were well-stocked kitchens with long, marble-topped tables and huge stone shelves, and massive pantries, every surface spotlessly clean.

All was revealed in the pale white glow of the lamp, appearing from nothing and vanishing behind them in the dark.

A whole world beneath the world.

Beyond the kitchens the tunnel broadened and four long, broad rails of glistening silver were set into the floor, running parallel into the darkness ahead. They walked between those rails, beneath a high, curved ceiling. A hundred paces they went and then the tunnel opened out into a broad chamber, along both sides of which, on spurs that jutted from the central lines, rested the empty wagons that ran upon the rails. Huge wagons of some dull, rocklike material, thick ropes hanging limply from the great eyelike hooks that studded their sides.

On they went, into a smaller tunnel that turned then briefly climbed. Above them now the ceiling was breached every so often by big circular vents. Glancing up, Atrus had a glimpse of stars—a tight circle of brightly glimmering stars as at the bottom of a deep, deep well.

And on, through a strange gallery that ran away into the darkness on either side. Here, to their right as they passed, a dozen thick ropes stretched down diagonally from a long gash high up on the wall to the far side, where they were tethered to about a dozen big, studlike protuberances, that seemed to swell like mushrooms from the surface of the floor.

Like the taut strings of a huge musical instrument
, Atrus thought, not understanding what he saw.

And then, suddenly they were standing before a massive studded door, into which was set a grill. Eedrah turned to them, then lightly rapped upon the door.

No noise. No sounds of hurrying feet. Only that same dead silence. So silent, that Atrus did not at first notice that the grill had opened. A face stared out at them for an instant and then the grill snapped shut.

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.”