The Myst Reader (138 page)

Already it looked unkempt, abandoned, the evidence of many fires—accidental or deliberately set, it was hard to say—blackening its once-pristine whiteness.

Baddu and several of the other relyimah leaders met them at the foot of the great pile that was the royal palace, greeting them warmly in that place without warmth.

“Are they all dead?” Atrus asked, for it was like being in a giant mausoleum.

“Those that are not mad or long fled,” Baddu answered him with a hint of dry humor. “We saw one earlier, wandering the streets and mumbling to himself.”

“And he saw you?”

“Mad or otherwise, he was Terahnee.”

Atrus nodded, yet he was pained by the thought that even after all they had suffered, the Terahnee still could not
see.
“So,” he said finally, “where is Ro’Eh Ro’Dan?”

“Come,” Baddu said, turning toward an arch on the far side of that marbled jetty. “It is some climb, but worth it just to see.”

BADDU HAD NOT BEEN JOKING. A THOUSAND
steps or more they climbed, and still the stairway twisted through the rock. Up and up they went, until, suddenly, they came out into a dimly lit chamber, the size of which was difficult to gauge, for it seemed like a great cavern in the rock.

For a moment Atrus thought he was back in D’ni, so reminiscent was it. But then he recognized where he was. This was the king’s audience chamber, where thousands upon thousands of Terahnee notables had sat to witness his arrival. And there, somewhere in the darkness on the far side of the great chamber, was the king’s emerald throne.

“Is he here?” he asked, his voice echoing in that silent space.

In answer Baddu clapped his hands, mimicking perfectly how a Terahnee master might once have commanded his servants. At once lamps were lit on all sides of the chamber, and there, at the very center, in a boat of delicate stone, lay the great king himself, Ro’Eh Ro’Dan.

Atrus went down the steps until he stood less than ten paces from the boat. Ro’Eh Ro’Dan lay on his back on a bed of golden sheets, a narrow band of gold about his ice-pale brow. Dead he was, yet still he exuded power, so that even Baddu, who had seemed so dismissive earlier, approached the boat with awe.

“The book …” Atrus began, gesturing toward the tiny, leather-bound volume that was clasped against the dead man’s chest. “What is the book?”

The relyimah looked to each other. None there dared to touch the king, dead or otherwise. Why, even to look on him was hard for many of them.

Seeing that he was going to get no answer, Atrus walked across and, grasping the stern of the boat firmly, climbed aboard. It swayed gently, rocking the corpse that lay at the center of the deck.

From this close, Atrus could smell the sickly sweet embalming fluid, could see where the embalmer’s art had worked its magic on that bloodless flesh.

He turned, looking back at Baddu. “Who prepared the body?”

“Relyimah,” Baddu answered. “His body servants. They came and found him here.”

Carefully, he stepped across and, leaning over the corpse, prised the book from its rigid grip.

It was a history. A history of the earliest days of Terahnee. He opened the cover and read the inscription there, then felt himself go cold.

It was for him! Ro’Eh Ro’Dan had dedicated the book to him!

“What is it, Atrus?” Gat asked, coming across and standing by the stern.

“A history,” he answered, his surprise becoming wonder at the thought that Ro’Eh Ro’Dan had thought of him before the end. “A history of how Terahnee came to be.”

Catherine will treasure this
, he thought.
Yes, and Oma and Esel, too.

Atrus looked down, studying the king’s pale yet handsome features. To what extent had Ro’Eh Ro’Dan been a prisoner of Terahnee and its customs? Or had he been the willing embodiment of its excesses, its utter lack of virtue? It was hard to say. Though he had been king of this evil land, Atrus could not shake from his mind his personal impression of the man.

I liked you, Ro’Eh Ro’Dan, and in other circumstances we might even have been friends.

Instead he had come and killed him, just as effectively as if he’d plunged a knife straight through his heart.

And so D’ni had erased Terahnee. Removed it like a footnote from a book. The page turned and it was gone.

Atrus turned away. It was time to bury Ro’Eh Ro’Dan. Time to say farewell to the past and get on with the future.

THEY CARRIED RO’EH RO’DAN ON A BIER OF
camphor wood and bronze, down through the levels of his mighty palace, where a hundred kings had ruled before him, and out into the great square at the heart of the capital. There, before the statue of the Nameless King, founder of Terahnee, the relyimah set him down, bowing before him in death as they had not been permitted to in life.

Just beyond the statue they had piled a big stack of wood. Having shown the king respect, they carried him across and placed the bier on top. There was a moment’s silence, then Gat stepped forward and, his voice heavy with emotion, began to speak

“The chains that bound us now are broken, and we celebrate their passing, just as we honor the passing of the last king of Terahnee.” He paused, then proclaimed, “Let no man henceforth be our master.”

And with that he lowered his arm, and as he did several relyimah set torches to the huge pile. There was a moment’s panic and then the flames rushed up, catching with a roar, a sudden brightness. The eyes of the Unseen went to that, drawn to it, seeing how the flames danced about the king’s body like servants attending to it, how they stripped it of its finery, as if for sleep.

“Jidar N’ram!”

The cry startled Atrus. Turning, he saw that a small party of relyimah had come. Breathless, they hurried toward Gat, then slowed, seeing how the old man’s attention was held by the fire.

“Jidar N’ram!” one of them said, kneeling before the old man. “We have news!”

Atrus narrowed his eyes. He did not recognize the term; yet it was clearly Gat who had been addressed.

“What is it?” Gat said, wrenching his attention away from the burning pyre.

“They are coming!” the messenger said tremblingly, his eyes anxiously skipping here and there, afraid to focus on the old man’s face.

“Who?” Gat said, with untypical impatience. “
Who
is coming?”

“The P’aarli! They have brought a great army from their homeworld to subdue us!”

There was a groan from the listening relyimah. Their eyes were round with fear. And then, as one, they seemed to hunch into themselves, as if trying to disappear from sight.

“The P’aarli …” Gat said, the words almost an exhalation. All color had fled from the old man’s face. Even he seemed deflated by this news.

“You must fight them,” Atrus said. “You are many …”

“Maybe so. Yet we know nothing of fighting.”

“Then summon Ymur. You talked of giving him a task. Well, harness him to this. Let him raise a force to stop the P’aarli. If he is half the man I think he is …”

Gat shuddered. For a moment he seemed completely lost. Then, as if waking to himself again, he gave a tiny nod. “All right. We shall summon Ymur and make him the leader of our forces. Yet what if he fails?”

“Then he shall have bought us time.” Atrus smiled, then laid his hand firmly on the old man’s shoulder. “Come, Gat. Call a meeting of the elders. There are more ways than one to defeat one’s enemies.”

THE MAN STOOD ON THE SUMMIT OF THE HILL
, looking down the lush sweep of the valley toward the massive house that overlooked it. There, to the left of the house, at the center of the valley, a host of black-clothed relyimah were on the move across the fields, the front line cutting the stalks of the massive plants and passing them back to others, who carried them quickly to the side and deposited them in massive carts. But this was no harvest. Even from a distance he could see that the crop was unripe, the swathe they were cutting merely a means of making quick passage across the land. Besides, just beyond that wall of stooping human bodies, a huge phalanx of P’aarli, their red cloaks marking them out as distinctly as their silver hair, marched slowly in ranks, a great boatlike carriage at their rear, carried by forty slaves. There was an ornate golden canopy and, at the back of the carriage, an extraordinarily large chair. But whoever it was that sat in that chair was almost totally hidden from view. Only a pair of long, pale hands showed in the daylight, clutching the arms of a huge green throne.

The man had been a slave himself, before the sickness, and now, seeing that great army of P’aarli descend into the valley, he felt a sickening dread. They had returned. The brief dream of better times was ended. He could hear the incessant clanking of the chains even from where he stood and knew that soon his own limbs would feel once more the cold fire of the iron.

As he watched, one of the P’aarli peeled off from the main body and walked back to the carriage, matching his pace with it as he spoke to whoever was within. There was a moment’s pause and then, with a bow, the fellow turned away, hurrying along the edge of the P’aarli ranks, speaking to this one here and that one there as he went.

Seeing that, the watching man grew still, a faint tremble passing through him. And then he gasped, as four groups of eight men separated from the main mass of P’aarli and, in running formation, made their way out from that great marching host.

He had seen this once before, back on his home Age, when, as a child of four, the P’aarli had come. He had witnessed the same that day: the marching host in endless ranks, and then the smaller groups—scouting parties—sent out with nets and knives and hooks to find their prey. The nearest of the squads was already climbing the slope toward him, moving in a crouching run. With a cry one of them spotted him.

The trembling in him grew, and for a moment he could not move. Then, with an urgency he had not felt since that day twenty years before, he turned and ran, his heart hammering in his chest, his breath rasping from him, not knowing where or if he would find safety.