The Myst Reader (141 page)

THE ENTRANCE TO HE’DARRA WAS A LONG
, dark slit in the earth. Broad, black steps descended into that darkness, and as you walked down them the ground seemed to swallow you up. Down and down those steps went, as if to the very center of the world.

The place stank. Its foul and fetid odor wafted up from the darkness like an unseen cloud.

Ymur wrinkled his nose. He had been six when he’d left here. Less than eight weeks, that was all the time he had spent at He’Darra, and yet those fifty days had left so deep and dark a scar on him that even now he shivered at the thought of what lay below where he stood.

He bared his teeth; then, signaling for his men to follow, began the descent.

Here, nearest the surface, spreading out to either side of the main stairway, were the quarters where the guards—P’aarli, of course—slept and ate, with spacious kitchens and good beds and huge lamps hanging from the ceilings of the rooms. Here, too, were the storerooms and weapons rooms. Ymur stopped at one, going down the line of whips that hung from one wall and selecting a particularly fierce-looking one. But there were other things here, too: scourges and chains, cleavers and surgical knives. Things that the Masters—the Terahnee scum—knew nothing of. For this was the domain of the P’aarli. Here the stewards were the lords and masters, given power by the Terahnee to turn compliant captives into true slaves. Here the long months of subjugation in the Training Age were given their final polish, their final shape.

Stepping out onto the great stairway again, he gestured to his men. “Bring lamps!”

They hurried, returning a moment later in a blaze of light, falling in to either side of Ymur as he began the descent again.

Ahead lay the great gate. Beyond it were the pens.

It was a huge circle of stone, wedged into the surrounding earth. At the center of it, twenty feet apart, were two enormous doors made of thick stone bars, like the doors of a massive cell.

And so it was. For down here they had kept more than a million relyimah at a time. Boys, none of them older than seven or eight, and most far younger.

Ymur looked to his left. “You remember this place, Uta?”

Uta hesitated, then nodded, his eyes filled with fear.

“Some shut it out,” Ymur said. “It is the only way they can deal with it. But I remember
everything
.”

“Yes,” Uta said, his voice small, afraid. “I remember, too.”

“Good,” Ymur said, then walked on.

The gates were unlocked. Ymur waited as his men pushed the massive things back on their hinges, then went through.

Here the stink became a stench. Farther up, in the P’aarli quarters, there had been ventilation shafts and fans, but here, though there was some ventilation, it was of the most basic kind, and the smell of the millions who had passed through here lingered on.

That stench, more than anything, reminded him. He had seen such cruelty here, such studied brutality, that in retrospect he had found the Training Age almost humane by comparison. Here not a single mistake was tolerated. Floggings and beatings had been the norm. And worse. Even those who complied were sometimes taken. For sport, or simple malice. And the worst of it had been his own impotence to act. What he felt now, he had felt then. That same burning anger, that same hideous sense of injustice.

Well, now he could do something about that. Now he could take an army through, to destroy the P’aarli world and erase all memory of their existence.

He went down, the torches burning in the darkness, revealing, to either side, the great cages—pens, they had called them, as if the relyimah were simple beasts—that had held ten thousand boys at a time. Endless rows of ankle chains littered the floors, deep drainage sluices crisscrossing the cold stone. Here, if a boy died, he was left until he rotted, as a “lesson”—one of many that the P’aarli taught them.

Next, running back into the earth for miles in all directions, were the tunnels where they had learned the art of moving silently; tunnels in which, should a boy forget which exit he should take, he could be lost forever.

Farther down were the chambers where they kept the training weights, the massive iron blocks still on their pulleys, a hundred ropes dangling limply down, the leather harnesses lying empty on the floor.

Once more he bared his teeth at the memory, then turned away. Down he went. Down past more pens, more chambers where they’d learned their hideous tasks. Down finally to the lowest level where, beyond one final gate, the Book Rooms lay.

YMUR WAS SITTING IN THE NIGHT, SILENT
, thoughtful, the P’aar’Ro’s throne beneath him, his army camped in the valley below, their campfires speckling the blackness.

It was there that the messenger found him. Kneeling, the man held out the scroll that had been sent. Ymur took it, then handed it to the scribe who stood there, ever-present, at his side.

The scribe unrolled the paper and quickly read it through, then, raising his voice, he read aloud.

“Good brother, we salute you! Your victory is a victory for all the relyimah! To celebrate this most happy occasion, there shall be a great feast in the capital when you return. The elders thank you and hold you in great honor!”

Ymur waited, then looked to the man. “Is that all?”

The scribe kept his eyes averted. “That is all … Master.”

Ymur grabbed the paper from him and tore it up. So that was it, eh? A feast! And then what? Was he their servant, to do
this
for them and
that?
No, it wasn’t enough. Not half enough. When he went back the old men would still be in control. And what would he do? Sit on his hands and watch them make a mess of things? No. No, that would not be!

He stood, angry now. Forget the P’aarli. He would deal with this first.

“We
thank
you … and
honor
you …” he said, a mocking sneer in his voice. Then, turning, he clapped his hands. “Scribe!” he barked. “Bring pen and paper! I have an answer for the old men!”

FALLING TO HIS KNEES, THE MESSENGER HUNG
his head before old Gat, as if he was ashamed.

“Well, man?” Gat asked. “What is it?”

Not looking up, the man held out the paper that the scribe had written. Eedrah took it and, unfolding it, began to read it aloud for Gat’s benefit. Halfway through he slowed.

“… and so, for the safety and security of all, I, Ymur, will take on the great burden of governing Terahnee …”

“He means to make us all his slaves,” Gat said.

“Then we must fight him,” Hersha said at once.

“No,” Atrus said. “I shall meet him. I shall talk with him and persuade him from this course.”

Atrus saw how the messenger flinched at that.

“You think he will not meet?”

The messenger’s head dropped lower. His voice was barely a whisper. “He might meet with you, brother, but not to talk.”

“Then why should he agree to meet?”

“Why, to kill you, brother. He has already sentenced you to death. You and all the other D’ni.”

“I see.”

There was a brief silence, then Gat spoke again. “It seems we have but two choices now, Atrus. To fight or to submit. Which is it to be?”

Atrus looked to him, a sadness in his eyes. He had hoped it would never come to this. “I have no experience of battle. Nor do I feel that violence will solve this. If we begin that way, then a pattern has been set.”

Yet even as he said it, Atrus understood that what Gat had said was true. It was not like fighting the P’aarli. Nor were there any compromise solutions to this. Ymur’s actions had changed things totally.

“If you wished to leave, we would understand,” Gat said. “This is not, after all, your fight.”

“Do you think I would leave you now, brother?”

“Then we must arm ourselves as best we can.” Gat turned to Hersha and Baddu, his blind eyes seeming to see first one and then the other of them. “So, brothers, who is it to be?”

THE SPIRAL TOWER TWISTED INTO THE SKY
, the shattered edges of its pearled interior fire-blackened, its delicate glass windows, once a Terahnee child’s delight, now dark like blinded eyes.

Within its jagged shadow, at the center of a deep, luxurious lawn, Ymur’s great tent had been pitched, its blood-red canvas like a stain. About it the burned-out ruins of the once-great house still smoldered, sending a smudge of black into the cloudless summer sky.

Beneath the mound on which it stood a valley sloped away. Once wooded, it had been cleared and the tents of a great army, half a million strong, now filled it, a vast tide of multicolored canvas stretching out of sight, surrounding the ancient watercourse that wound its way between the folding hills.

It was a warm, windless evening and the ragged golden banners above the great tent hung limp now. Slaves moved back and forth across the green, going about their tasks, while in a palanquin before the tent sat Ymur himself, his chiefs and servants in attendance.

Right now he was silent, brooding, staring past the valley at the distant city. It was no more than five days’ march away, a massive marker that drew the eye constantly to it.

Ymur belched noisily, then looked down at the pair of lenses in his hands. He had not dared to look through them himself, yet it was said that with these the D’ni could see far into the distance, yes, and even penetrate the darkness with them. They were magical, and he had stolen that magic.

He had watched Atrus at the gathering; seen that disdainful look on the liar’s face, and though the others might be fooled,
he
was not. The D’ni were masters, like the Terahnee, and given the chance they would install their mastery once more. They spoke the same language and shared the same blood. How could they not be masters?

Not that everything about the masters had been wrong. The relyimah had to be ruled, after all, but all this nonsense about absolute codes and laws could not do it. It needed a strong man to make strong laws.

Ymur looked about him. Good. All of their eyes were averted. So he had ordered. They were not to look at him, not even to cast their glance over him as their eyes traveled elsewhere. Relyimah he was, and so he would remain, even when all others could be seen.

On the far side of the mound, a path led down into the valley. Along that path a great line of wagons made their way, a dozen slaves harnessed to each wagon, straining to pull the heavy loads of food that would feed Ymur’s army, a chosen man seated at the bench of each, whipping on their fellow slaves.

Old habits could prove useful, Ymur knew, and he would not discourage them. Some men were born to be slaves—they had a menial cast of mind—but others could be raised and used. So he would order
his
society, so build
his
kingdom from the ruins of the old.

His eyes strayed to the path again, noticing something. A running man, heading up the path, against the stream of wagons. Ymur stood, drawing the big cleaver he had chosen as his preferred weapon.

As the man approached, he relaxed. It was one of his own messengers. Even so, he kept the cleaver at his side. Just in case.