The Myst Reader (128 page)

Talking to the local landowners, it was clear that none of them felt threatened by the proposed influx from D’ni. It was just as the king had said—when everyone had so much why should they begrudge others sharing their good fortune?—and that, as much as anything, had convinced Atrus finally that everything would work out for the best.

Catherine, looking across at Atrus, smiled, for she had rarely seen him in such good humor. Now that the king had been informed, he was free to talk of D’ni and its ways, and was enjoying doing so. Just now the talk had turned to the art of writing and to the kind of Ages the D’ni wrote. Ro’Jethhe’s friends plied Atrus with question after question, fascinated by the whole notion of Guilds and particularly the Guild of Maintainers, though they clearly found it hard to comprehend just why such a Guild should exist in the first place.

“But
why?
” one of them insisted for perhaps the dozenth time. “Why do you need such a highly specialized Guild?”

“To restrain the weaker-minded,” Atrus answered patiently, “to protect against faulty Ages, and to ensure there is no abuse of the Ages.”

Another of the locals laughed. A drunken laughter. “But civilized people control themselves, so they can be seen!”

Atrus laughed awkwardly, not understanding the statement.

The local continued. “We write, we live, we control ourselves, we are seen.” Pounding his chest with each
we.

“I beg pardon,” Atrus said, still smiling and looking for a clue to what was being said.

“Self-restraint and the ability to write. They distinguish us from the beasts, wouldn’t you say, Atrus? They make us what we are. Men, and not unseen beasts.”

“Of course we are not beasts,” Atrus replied awkwardly. “But what is seen? What beasts are unseen?”

“You have much to learn.” The local laughed. “Perhaps your lenses can help you see the beasts that we cannot.”

Laughter broke out among the guests.

Atrus enjoyed riddles, but now he was the focus of the entertainment, without having a clue of what was being discussed. It unsettled him. But he gathered his wits and began to consider the information he had been given. Seen, unseen, control, writing, beasts … the choice of that particular D’ni word, bahro, was an odd one. It was a derivative of the root word for beast, bah, easily recognized, but the suffix ro had been added. It had to be a key to the riddle. The Terahnee would often prefix a name with ro in order to represent a people group, household, or family. Now he wondered what those combined words could imply. Beast families or households, unseen, what was unseen? Perhaps it referred to farms where unseen beasts were raised for food. No, he’d heard them use the word for beast without ro when referring to livestock. Wild animals—families or packs of unseen wild animals, out of control, in the far reaches of this Age, perhaps dangerous. That had to be it.

“Are we in danger when traveling beyond the civilized lands? Are there beasts that might be hostile?” Atrus tossed out the question looking for some confirmation of his conclusion.

Laughter again filled the room.

Atrus once again had to smile. He was not on the right trail.

“The beasts are neither civilized, nor distant, nor hostile, nor seen.” The local was truly enjoying this impromptu contest of wits. In fact, everyone in the entire gathering was smiling, watching.

Except Eedrah. Atrus noted that he was hanging on every word of the exchange, but intensely—deeply staring at Atrus, without a hint of a smile on his face. It was enough of a contrast to the others as to cause Atrus to lose his train of thought. He stared back at Eedrah.

The riddler continued. “The civilized control the civilized
and
the uncivilized. The civilized see the civilized
but
the uncivilized see all.”

Cheers arose from around the room.

Atrus glanced back at the speaker, the last clue simply adding to his confusion. He smiled and raised his hands upward, signaling surrender. The guests erupted in applause as the riddler took a bow.

Ro’Jethhe stepped in. “Atrus, it is not so difficult. You will be surprised at the answer.” He was smiling broadly. “Writers and nonwriters, it is merely a riddle of words. Bahro, or beast-people, and ahrotahntee, nonwriters, otherworlders. Clever, yes?”

Atrus let the words sink in—still not grasping what the connection was. “Beast people?”

“Why, yes,” Ro’Jethhe replied, reaching across to take a fresh cup of wine. “It is, after all, only we of Terahnee and D’ni who can write. The ahrotahntee have no such talent. It is why things are as they are. Surely it is so in D’ni, Atrus?”

Ahrotahntee. Catherine, grasping the riddle, felt herself go cold. She had not heard the term since Atrus’s father, Gehn, had used it.
Outsiders
, it meant.
Book-worlders.
Those who were not of D’ni blood. Or Terahnee …

Atrus sat up straight. “With great respect, you are mistaken, Ro’Jethhe. The ahrotahntee
can
write. You have only to teach them.”

There was a shocked silence. All eyes were on Atrus now, as if he had spoken something obscene.

Ro’Jethhe looked aside, clearly embarrassed. “You jest with us, Atrus, surely?”

Atrus looked about him, his eyes going from face to face, not understanding what was going on. “But Catherine writes, and
she
is ahrotahntee!”

There was a universal gasp. A look of utter shock had come to Jethhe Ro’Jethhe’s face, while all about the chamber men glared at Atrus and his party with open hostility, while their wives and daughters blushed and looked down. Even several of the stewards, who were not known to react, had glanced up at Atrus’s words and were looking to one another, as if asking what to do.

“Take care what you say,” Ro’Jethhe said, wiping his mouth.

“But it is true,” Atrus said, ignoring Catherine’s hand on his arm. “Indeed, my grandmother and my mother were both ahrotahntee!”

There was sudden uproar. Ro’Jethhe stood, looking to the stewards, who immediately went to the doors and, taking keys from the belts about their waists, proceeded to lock them. Ro’Jethhe watched them, then, his face hard and angry, turned back, facing Atrus.

“Even were such things true,” he said, “they should not be uttered. The unseen …”

“The unseen?” Atrus said, standing and taking a step toward his host. “What is this riddle?”

Atrus stopped, listening suddenly. There were noises in the walls surrounding them. A bumping and then a distinct thud, followed by a curse. Then, suddenly, a door opened in the wall where, but a split second before, there had been no door. Atrus knew that because he had been staring at the spot the very instant it had opened. And through that door, like ghosts, came six pale, silent figures, their shaven heads like ivory, their black, tight-fitting clothes making them seem more like cyphers than men. For they were men, despite their bowed, obedient heads, their averted eyes, their palpable fear of the steward who, with a snarling face, drove them silently across the floor between the Terahnee and out through a second door that opened as though by magic.

Atrus looked about him, wondering for that brief instant why they were not all as shocked as he was shocked, but all he saw were statues—faces that stared but did not see; eyes that, for that moment, were blank as stone. And as he saw them he understood, and that understanding sank into him, deeper and deeper, like a smooth, dark rock tumbling slowly to the ocean floor.

Slaves.
The relyimah—the “unseen”—were slaves. And this whole place …

Atrus’s mind reeled. Looking about him now, he saw not a world of splendor, but a world built to his father’s dark design; a world where the false notion of blood had so blinded its natives that they saw their fellow men as beasts—that was, when they deigned to see them at all.

The thought of it staggered him.

Atrus turned, looking to Jethhe Ro’Jethhe, seeing the man suddenly transformed. But his host, this seemingly genial man he had thought so kind, was glaring at him now.

“I spoke but the truth,” Atrus said.

Ro’Jethhe’s answering words were curt, acidic. “You have said enough. Nor will you repeat what you have said. Do you understand me, Atrus of D’ni?”

“Oh, I see now,” Atrus answered, a coldness shaping his words. “I see and understand.”

“Make sure you do.” Ro’Jethhe turned, gesturing to his senior steward. “Kaaru!”

At once the steward was at his side.

“See Master Atrus and his party to their rooms. And make sure they stay there.”

“What is this, Ro’Jethhe?” Atrus protested.

“It appears we cannot trust your lying tongue. That being so, you will be confined to your rooms until I get word from the king.” And with that he turned his back and hurried from the room. Within a minute all the rest of the Terahnee had likewise gone.

Atrus turned, looking to his tiny party, then looked across at the steward. The man had never seemed handsome, but now, studying his features, Atrus thought he could detect something brutish, something almost bestial about him. The steward, however, merely bowed.

“If you would come with me …”

BACK IN THEIR ROOM THEY HELD A CRISIS MEETING.
Catherine, Marrim, Carrad, Oma, and Esel sat in chairs while Atrus paced the floor like a caged animal.

“We cannot stay,” Catherine said.

“I agree,” Esel said. “We should leave here immediately.”

Oma nodded. “Yes, and destroy the Books
and
seal the Great King’s Temple once again.”

Atrus shook his head. “The king gave his word.”

“Yes,” Catherine said, “but that was when he thought we were D’ni. Now we are ahrotahntee.” She laughed bitterly. “Why, it’s a wonder they can still
see
us!”

Atrus turned, facing her. “I do not like this any more than you, Catherine. But Ro’Eh Ro’Dan is a decent man. I believe he will keep his word.”

“You want to stay?”

“Perhaps we should. We might use our influence to change things here.”

“
Change
things?” Catherine looked away. “All right,” she said. “Do what you must. But send Carrad back to tell Master Tamon what we know.”

“And what
do
we know?”

“That this is a slave society. What more do we
need
to know?”

“How they treat their slaves, perhaps?” Atrus said.

“But what
can
we do?” Oma asked. “You heard Eedrah. There are two hundred million of them.”

“We wait. But first we send Carrad back to the plateau.” Atrus paused, then shook his head, clearly distressed. “There has been a misunderstanding, on
both
our parts, but the Terahnee never lied to us.”

“Only because we never asked the right questions!”

Atrus looked to Catherine. “That’s true. We let what we saw seduce us; we mistook the surface for the substance. But that was our fault, not theirs! As I say, they never lied.”

“But this whole world is a lie!”

“Maybe so, but we cannot blame Ro’Jethhe and his like for that. They know nothing else.”

“And that is what I most fear,” Catherine said. “You want to give them eyes, Atrus, but what if they do not want to see? What if we cannot
make
them see? Conditioning is a powerful thing. To break it in an individual is difficult enough, but when that conditioning is social …”

“You forget one thing, Catherine. We have the ear of the king.”

“His ear, yes, but not his eyes.” She stared back at him, then, quieter. “I think you’re wrong, Atrus. I don’t believe they
can
be changed.”

ATRUS WOKE IN THE NIGHT FROM A FITFUL SLEEP—
a sleep plagued by dreams of doors opening and closing before and behind, in rooms that turned and twisted in an unending maze—and turned, expecting to find Catherine there beside him in the bed. But she was gone.

He sat up, then saw her, there on the far side of the room, at the desk, a lamp beside her as she wrote in her journal.

“Catherine?”

She half-turned toward him. “I couldn’t sleep. So I began to reread what I’d written since we came here.”