The Myst Reader (31 page)

Gehn shook his head, marveling that he had never suspected its existence. It made him wonder what else there was about the mansion that he did not know about.

He looked to Rijus, watching as he attached the ropes, then winched the ancient boat out over the water.

ATRUS HELD THE LANTERN UP, STUDYING THE
page a moment longer, then closed the notebook and slipped it back into his tunic pocket.

Left. He had to turn left at the next fork. From there a narrow tunnel led through to a small diamond-shaped cavern with a low shelf of rock to the right, at the far side of which was a series of limestone ledges, leading to a flight of steps.

He walked on, the lantern raised, following the slightly curving tunnel, conscious of the sound of his own footsteps in that confined space.

How many times now had he stopped and listened, thinking he was being followed? And how many times had he heard nothing but the silence of the rock surrounding him?

Ahead now, the tunnel widened, then spilled out into a kind of groin in the rock. There the tunnel split in two. That much, at least, accorded with the diagram in the notebook. Atrus took the left-hand fork, walking on quickly now, his heart pounding again.

If it
was
the diamond-shaped cavern he would rest there a while and get his breath.

And if it wasn’t?

Twice already he had had to retrace his steps, but this time it would mean a long trek back through the tunnels, and he did not relish that at all.

The trouble was that you had too much time down here to think. If he could have walked on thoughtlessly, like a machine, it might have been okay, but as it was he could not help himself imagining all kinds of things.

And the worst of his imaginings was a vivid picture of the cleft, abandoned, choked with sand.

It had been almost four years since he had last seen it. Four years since he had last heard Anna’s voice.

He heard her now.

What do you see, Atrus?

I see rock, grandmother. And tunnels. And darkness. Everywhere I look, darkness.

But her voice did not return. There was only the sound of his own footsteps, going on ahead of him and behind, filling the darkness beyond the lantern’s reach.

ATRUS LOOKED AT THE NOTEBOOK AGAIN
, turning the page, then turned it back again and frowned. Then, with a tiny start, he felt
between
the pages, locating the torn edge of the missing page, and groaned.

He looked about him, trying to remember—to retrieve from memory the path he’d taken all those years ago. Had he descended into the cavern or had he come up into it?

If he chose wrongly he would be lost.

And if he chose correctly?

Then, judging by the other pages, he would face the same kind of choice another five, maybe six times before he could be sure he was back on course. Before he reached the safety of the next page.

He swallowed bitterly, wondering just when his father had torn the page from the book, then looked up.

“So you thought you would make a journey, did you?”

Atrus froze, then slowly turned, facing his father, noting at once the cloth wrapped about his boots.

“I thought it time I kept my promise to my grandmother.”

“Your promise?” Gehn laughed humorlessly. “What of your promise to me? Besides, I think you have something that belongs to me and I mean to have it back.”

“Then you’ll have to take it from me.”

“I see.” Gehn half turned, gesturing to Rijus, who stepped from the shadows just behind him.

At the sight of the mute, Atrus realized that he stood no chance. If it had just been his father, he might—just might—have got the better of him, but he knew the mute’s strength of old. Why, he’d seen the man lift heavy rocks—rocks he himself could barely budge—and throw them out of the way.

Atrus moved quickly. Taking the notebook from his pocket, he threw it high into the air, then, casting his lantern away, turned and ran, climbing the rock face like an ape before vanishing into the tunnel.

He heard his father’s cry—of anger and frustration—and knew that Gehn had not expected that. Gehn had thought he would come quietly, just as he’d always done in the past. But the past was the past. He knew now that he could not stay with the man, even if it meant losing himself here in the depths of the earth.

He went quickly, his right hand keeping contact with the tunnel wall. Then, unexpectedly, the tunnel dipped and, with a cry, he found himself tumbling head over heels, coming to a jolting halt against a wall.

He lay there a moment, stunned, listening to his father’s shouts.

“Atrus!
Atrus!
Come back here, boy!”

Atrus groaned and sat up. For a moment he blinked at the darkness, wondering which way he was facing now, then saw, distant yet unmistakable, the glow of a lantern above him and to his right, at the head of the tunnel.

He had to go on. On into the darkness.

Pulling himself up, he stumbled on, making his way down as quickly as he dared, away from the approaching light.

And now, strangely, it came to him. He remembered where he was. If he closed his eyes he could see it vividly. Just ahead the path branched to the right, then climbed. Where it opened out there was a broad ledge of rock and, beyond that, a gap—a narrow chasm—straddled by a tiny rope bridge. If he could get to that, then maybe he had a chance. Maybe he could hold them off somehow, or find a way of destroying the bridge so that they could not pursue him.

Feeling a faint breeze coming from his right, Atrus stopped and turned, searching with both hands until he found the entrance. As he’d thought, the tunnel went sharply upward, forcing him to scramble up on his hands and knees, his head bent forward. There was a faint light up ahead, and as he came out of the narrow tunnel, he saw that he was precisely where he’d thought he’d be.

Only the ledge was brightly lit, a lantern standing off to one side, while ahead …

Atrus groaned. Once more his father had anticipated him. Once more, Gehn had had the final laugh.

The rope bridge was gone, the four metal pins jutting up nakedly from the rock.

He went across and stood there, looking down into the chasm. It was too deep, the jump too great. Or was it?

Atrus turned, hearing noises in the tunnel behind him. There was a flicker of light, growing stronger by the second. In a moment they would be upon him.

He turned back, staring at the chasm. It was now or never. Stepping back, he took a deep breath, then ran at it, hurling himself across the gap.

“Atrus!”

His chest slammed against the edge of the rock, winding him. Yet even as he began to slide, his right hand reached out and grasped one of the metal pins.

He spun about, his shoulder thudding against the rock, his right arm almost pulled from its socket as he held on for dear life. Yet he could feel the strength draining from his fingers; could feel them slowly slipping, the sweat from his palms sliding on the metal.

And then a shadow passed over the top of him. There was a deep grunt and then something gripped his upper arm and began to lift him slowly up.

Surprised by the strength of that grip, Atrus turned his head, expecting to see Rijus, but it was Gehn who stared back at him, a sullen anger in those pale eyes.

“Acch, boy!” he said, his fingers pinching mercilessly into Atrus’s flesh as they hauled him inch by inch to safety. “Did you really think you could outjump me?”

A
TRUS STOOD THERE A LONG TIME AFTER
his father had gone, staring at the shadowed door in shock.

He turned, looking across that huge, high-ceilinged space toward the desk. There lay the Age Five book.

A trap
, he thought.
Another door he’ll hope I’ll walk through. And when I do …

Atrus heard again the slam of the door as his father closed it on him.

He stepped out from beneath the great curved arch, the pinkish light of the lamp above giving his features a false glow of health. Beneath his feet alternating black and white tiles—circles on squares—stretched away to every corner of that great space, while a large mosaic at the center portrayed Ri’Neref, the most famous of all the Grand Masters of the Guild, his graybearded features somber, almost melancholic as he stared back across the ages.

The stone, once polished and beautiful, was webbed with tiny cracks, worn with age.

A prison
, Atrus thought, recognizing it for what it really was.

The stone here was not the lavatic black used elsewhere in the house, but a dull metallic gray carved with intricate patterns, like lacework, great bulbous pillars holding up the massive arch of the roof. He had seen that same stone in some of the most ancient structures in the city and realized that this was probably the oldest part of the house.

How old?
he wondered.
Ten? Twenty thousand years? Or older yet?
It was hard to tell. The D’ni had built for eternity, not knowing that their days were numbered.

Finally, in the northern corner of the chamber, beneath a massive arch, stood the locked doorway that led out of his prison, bloodred stone pillars standing like sentries to either side.

Remembering what his father had said about the D’ni love of secret passages, of doors in solid walls and tunnels through the rock, he began a search.

Slowly, patiently, he went from arch to arch, searching each of the massive alcoves carefully, his fingers covering every inch of stone, as high as he could reach right down to the floor.

It took the best part of two hours, and though he found no secret doors or passages, it was still well worth the effort. In the floor of one of the more shadowy recesses, half embedded in the unfinished stone, he found a D’ni stonecutter. It was a big old machine, like a massive crouching spider, and its power source was long exhausted, yet one of the cutting blades was as good as new.

At first Atrus thought he might have to leave it there, it was so firmly wedged into the rock, but after half an hour rocking it back and forth, he freed it from the stone.

He lifted the heavy cutter, feeling its weight, then nodded to himself. The door was solid metal and he would get nowhere trying to break through it, not even with this, but if he could chip away at the rock to either side, then maybe he wouldn’t need to.

Knowing there was no sense in delaying, he set to work at once. Taking off his top, he wrapped the cloth about the main body of the cutter, then went across and, kneeling in the deep shadow beside the door, began to attack the stone, low down and to his left.

He could not properly see what he was doing, but after ten minutes he stopped and, setting the cutter aside, checked with his fingers.

It wasn’t much of a notch, considering—in fact, he had barely chipped away more than a few flakes of the iron-tough stone—but at the top of that tiny, uneven depression the stone had split.

He traced the crack with his forefinger, then grinned. It was more than a foot long.

Atrus turned, looking toward the desk. There was a lamp there and fire-marbles. Hurrying across, he brought them back and, placing the lamp to one side so that it threw its light over the door, set to work again, aiming each blow at that split, aiming to widen it and crack the stone.

The first few blows did nothing. Then, with a sharp cracking noise, the split widened dramatically.

Atrus smiled and lifted the cutter again, meaning to extend the fissure, but even as he did, he heard the rock above him creak and groan.

He looked up. In the light from the lantern he could see that the roof directly above him was badly cracked. Even as he looked, tiny splinters of rock began to fall, as those cracks widened.

Snatching up the lantern, Atrus scampered backward. And not a second too soon. With a great sigh, the two pillars collapsed inwardly and a huge section of the roof caved in with a great crash.

Atrus lay on his back, some dozen paces off, staring back at the great pile of rock that had fallen, the dust in the air making him cough violently. As the dust slowly settled, he saw that the door was totally blocked. He edged back, then got to his feet, sneezing and rubbing at his eyes. Now he’d done it! Now he was trapped here for sure!