Myst Book #01
The Book of Atrus

by Rand Miller & David Wingrove



Prologue

Gehn's bootprints lay  heavy around the  tiny pool, the  lush, well-tended green
churned to mud. At one end of the garden, beneath a narrow outcrop, he had dug a
shallow grave. Now, as the dawn's light slowly crept over the sands to touch the
cleftwall twenty feet  above, he covered  over the young  girl's body, his  pale
cream desert  clothes smeared  with her  blood and  with the  dark earth  of the
cleft.

From the steps above Anna watched, exhausted after the long night. She had  done
what  she could,  but the  girl had  dearly been  ill for  some months  and  the
exertions of childbirth had eaten up  what little strength remained to her.  She
had died with a sigh of relief.

Even now, in the  silence of the dawn,  she could hear Gehn's  howls of anguish,
his hurt and angry  ranting; could hear the  words of blame which,  at the time,
had washed over her. It was her fault. Everything was her fault.

So it was. So it had always been.

He turned, finished,  and looked up  at her, no  love in that  cold, penetrating
gaze. Nineteen he was. Just nineteen.

"Will you stay?" she asked wearily.

His answer  was a  terse shake  of the  head. Almost  belligerently, he  stomped
across the surface of the garden,  churning up yet more of her  precious growing
space, oblivious, it seemed, to the significance of what he did. She watched him
crouch beside the pool,  unable in her heart  to be angry with  him-for all he'd
done and said. No, for  she knew what he must  be feeling. She knew herself  how
that felt-to lose the focus of one's life, the meaning ...

She looked down at her unwashed hands  and slowly shook her head. Why come  when
there was nothing she could do to help?

But she knew the answer. He had come only because there was no one else to  turn
to. He had not  wanted to come, but  desperation had shaped his  course. Knowing
his wife was ill, he had remembered his mother's healing powers. But he had come
too late.

Too late for her, anyway.

Anna raised her head, hearing the baby's cries. Stretching, she stood, then went
down the narrow steps, ducking beneath  the stone lintel into the interior.  The
baby was in the small inner chamber.  She crossed the room and ducked inside  as
its cries grew louder.

She stood over it a moment, staring  down at its pale blue eyes, then  picked it
up, cradling it against her.

"You poor thing," she whispered, kissing its neck, feeling it relax against her.
"You poor, poor thing."

She went out and stood against the rail, watching as Gehn crouched by the  pool,
washing. She saw how  the pool was muddied,  its precious liquid sullied.  Again
there was a carelessness about his actions that angered her. He was thoughtless.
Gehn had always been thoughtless. But  she held her tongue, knowing that  it was
not the moment to mention such things.

"You want me to dress the child for the journey?"

Gehn did not answer, and for a  moment she thought that maybe he had  not heard,
but when she went to speak again, he turned and glared at her.

"Keep it. Bury it with its mother, if you must. But don't bother me with it. You
saved it, you look after it."

She bristled, then held the child out, over the gap.

"This is your son,  Gehn. Your Jon.'You gave  him life. You are  responsible for
him. That is the way of things in this world."

Gehn turned away.

She drew the  child back. As  she did, it  began to cry  again. Below her,  Gehn
stamped across the  churned ground and  quickly climbed the  steps, pushing past
her roughly to go inside. A moment later he was back, his glasses perched on his
head. Anna stared at him, noting that he had discarded his cloak.

"Your cloak, Gehn ... You'll need your cloak out there."

He turned from her, looking out toward the lip of the volcano, just visible from
where they  stood. "Keep  it," he  said, his  eyes moving  fleetingly across her
face. "I'll not need it anymore!"

His  words frightened  her, made  her fear  for his  sanity after  all that  had
happened. She stared at the child in  her arms, not knowing at that moment  what
was best. Even  so, she was  determined he would  hold the child  once before he
went.

She made to give the child to Gehn, but he brushed past her and stepped out onto
the rope bridge. In a moment he was gone.

"But you didn't name him," she said quietly, holding the baby tight against her.
"You didn't even name him...."

*   *   *

Wthin the great volcano's shadow, the  desert floor was fractured. There', in  a
crack some  eighty feet  by fifteen,  the darkness  was intense.  The casual eye
might, indeed, have passed on, thinking  it no more than a natural  feature, but
for the strange lip-a wall of  stone some five or six feet  high-that surrounded
it.

For a moment all  was still, and then  a tall, cloakless figure  climbed up onto
the lip of the cleftwall, stepping out into the dawn light.

All was silence; a  silence as only such  desert places possess. In  the cool of
the desert dawn, a mist rose from the warm heart of the volcano, wreathing it in
a faint, mysterious veil. Anna watched as the tall cloakless figure climbed  the
volcano's slope,  the mist  swirling about  him, concealing  then revealing  him
again. The heavy lenses he wore gave his head a strange, yet distinctive  shape.
For a moment he stood there, his  head turned, looking back at the dark  gash of
the deft a  mile below him,  his tall, imperious  shape backlit by  the sun that
bled through the shifting layers of haze. Then, with a dreamlike slowness, "like
a' specter stepping out into nothingness, he turned and vanished.



CHAPTER 1

The  sandstorm had  scoured the  narrow rock  ledge clean.  Now, all  along  the
sculpted, lacelike ridge,  shadows made a  thousand frozen forms.  The rock face
was decorated with eyes and mouths, with outstretched arms and tilted heads,  as
if a myriad of strange and beautiful creatures had strayed from the dark  safety
of the caldera's gaping  maw, only to be  crystallized by the sun's  penetrating
rays.

Above them, in the shadow of the volcano's rim, lay the boy, staring out  across
the great ocean of sand that stretched toward the mountainous plateaus that were
hazed in the distance.  The only thing larger  than that vast landscape  was the
clear blue sky above it.

The boy was  concealed from watchful  eyes, his very  existence hidden from  the
traders who, at that moment, had stopped  their caravan a mile out on the  sands
to greet the old madwoman. The patched and dirty clothes he wore were the  color
of the desert, making him seem but a fragment of that arid landscape.

The boy lay  perfectly still, watching,  the heavy lenses  he wore adjusted  for
long-sight, his sensitive eyes taking in every tiny detail of the caravan.

The storm had delayed the caravan two days, and while two days was as nothing in
this timeless  place, for  the boy  it had  seemed a  small eternity.  For weeks
before the caravan was due he would dream of them night and day, conjuring  them
up in his mind; imagining himself cloaked  and hooded, up on the back of  one of
the great beasts, leaving with them. Off into the greater world.

Of  those dreams  he told  his grandmother  nothing. No.  For he  knew how   she
fretted; worrying that one  of the more unscrupulous  traders might come in  the
night and take him, to sell him into slavery in the markets of the south. And so
he hid when she said hide, and held his tongue about the dreams, lest he add  to
her worries.

Right now the boys eyes were focused on the face of one of the eight men: one he
often studied-a  dark man  with a  narrow head,  his features  sharp and  curved
within the hood of his jet black cloak, his beard trimmed close to'his cheeks.

Studying the  halted caravan,  the boy  noted the  changes since  they had  last
passed by. They had nineteen camels now-two more than last time. This and other,
smaller signs-new necklaces on several of the camels, small items of jewelry  on
the wrists and  about the  necks of  the men,  the heavier  lading of the camels
revealed that trade was good right now.  Not only that, but the ease of  the men
spoke volumes.  As they  haggled with  his grandmother,  the boy  noted how they
laughed, revealing small,  discolored teeth. Teeth  that, perhaps, evidenced  an
addiction to the sweet things they sold.

He watched, taking it all in, knowing that his grandmother would ask him later.

What did you see, Atrus?

I saw ...

He saw the one  with the knifelike face  turn to his camel  and, reaching across
the ornate and bulging saddlebag, take a small cloth sack from within a strange,
hemispherical wicker basket. The sack seemed to move and then settle.

Atrus adjusted  his glasses,  certain that  he had  imagined that movement, then
looked again, in  time to see  his grandmother place  the sack upon  the pile of
other things she'd bartered for. For a brief while longer he watched, then, when
it showed no sign of moving, looked to his grandmother.

Anna stood facing the eldest of the traders, her gaunt yet handsome face several
shades lighter than his, her fine gray hair tied back into a bun at the nape  of
her neck. The hood of her cloak was down, as was his, their heads exposed to the
fierce,  late  afternoon heat,  but  she did  not  seem to  mind.  Such she  did
deliberately, to convince  the traders of  her strength and  self-reliance. Yes,
and suffered for it, too, for even an hour out in that burning sun was more than
enough, not to speak of the long walk back, laden down with heavy sacks of  salt
and flour and rolls of cloth, and other items she'd purchased.

And he lay here, hidden, impotent to help.

It was easier, of course, now that he could help her tend the garden and  repair
the walls, yet at times like this  he felt torn-torn between his longing to  see
the caravan and the wish  that his grandmother did not  have to work so hard  to
get the things they needed to survive.

She was almost done now. He watched her hand over the things she'd grown or made
to trade-the  precious herbs  and rare  minerals, the  intricately carved  stone
figures, and the strange, colorful iconic paintings that kept the traders coming
back for  more-and felt  a kind  of wonder  at the  degree of her inventiveness.
Seven years  he had  lived with  her now;  seven years  in this dry and desolate
place, and never once had she let them go hungry.

That in itself, he knew, was a  kind of miracle. Knew, not because she  had told
him so, but because he  had observed with his own  lensed eyes the ways of  this
world  he  inhabited, had  seen  how unforgiving  the  desert was.  Each  night,
surviving, they gave thanks.

He smiled,  watching his  grandmother gather  up her  purchases, noting how, for
once, one of the younger traders made  to help her, offering to lift one  of the
sacks up onto her shoulder.  He saw Anna shake her  head and smile. At once  the
man stepped back, returning her smile, respecting her independence.

Loaded up, she looked about her at the traders, giving the slightest nod to each
before she turned her back and began the long walk back to the cleft.

Atrus lay there, longing to clamber down and help her but knowing he had to stay
and watch the caravan until it  vanished out of sight. Adjusting the  lenses, he
looked down  the line  of men,  knowing each  by the  way they  stood, by  their
individual gestures; seeing how this one would take a sip from his water bottle,
while that one would check his camel's harness. Then, at an unstated signal, the
caravan began to move,  the camels reluctant at  first, several of them  needing
the touch of a whip before, with a grunt and hoarse bellow, they walked on.

Atrus?

Yes, grandmother?

What did you see?

I saw great cities in the south, grandmother, and men-so many men ...

Then, knowing Anna would be expecting him, he began to make his way down.

*   *   *

As Anna  rounded the  great arm  of rock,  coming into  sight of the deft, Atrus
walked  toward her.  Concealed here  from the  eyes of  the traders,  she  would
normally stop and let Atrus take a  couple of the sacks from her, but  today she
walked on, merely smiling at his unspoken query.

At  the northern  lip of  the cleft  she stopped  and, with  a strange,   almost
exaggerated care, lowered the load from her shoulder.

"Here," she said quietly, aware of  how far voices could travel in  this exposed
terrain. "Take the salt and flour down to the storeroom."

Silently, Atrus did as he was  told. Removing his sandals, he slipped  them onto
the narrow  ledge beneath  the cleftwall's  lip. Chalk  marks from  their lesson
earlier that day covered the surface of the outer wall, while close by a  number
of  small  earthenware pots  lay  partly buried  in  the sand  from  one of  his
experiments.

Atrus swung one of  the three bone-white sacks  up onto his shoulder,  the rough
material chafing his  neck and chin,  the smell of  the salt strong  through the
cloth. Then,  clambering up  onto the  sloping wall,  he turned  and, crouching,
reached down with his left foot, finding the top rung of the rope ladder.

With unthinking care, Atrus climbed down into the cool shadow of the cleft,  the
strong scent  of herbs  intoxicating after  the deserts  parched sterility. Down
here things grew on every side. Every last square inch of space was  cultivated.
Between the various  stone and adobe  structures that clung  to them, the  steep
walls of the cleft were a  patchwork of bare red-brown and vivid  emerald, while
the sloping floor surrounding  the tiny pool was  a lush green, no  space wasted
even for a path. Instead, a rope  bridge stretched across the cleft in a  zigzag
that linked the various structures not joined by the narrow steps that had  been
carved into the rock millennia before. Over the years, Anna had cut a number  of
long troughlike shelves  into the solid  walls of the  cleft, filling them  with
earth and patiently irrigating them, slowly expanding their garden.

The storeroom was at the far end,  near the bottom of the cleft. Traversing  the
final stretch  of rope  bridge, Atrus  slowed. Here,  water bubbled  up from  an
underground spring, seeping  through a tilted  layer of porous  rock, making the
ancient steps wet  and slippery. Farther  down a channel  had been cut  into the
rock, directing the meager but precious flow across the impermeable stone at the
bottom of the cleft into the natural depression of the pool. Here, too, was  the
place  where his  mother was  buried. At  one end  of it  lay a  small patch  of
delicate blue flowers, their petals like tiny stars, their stamen velvet dark.

After  the searing  heat of  the desert  sand, the  coolness of  the damp  stone
beneath  his  feet was  delightful.  Down here,  almost  thirty feet  below  the
surface,  the air  was fresh  and cool,  its sweet  scent refreshing  after  the
dryness of the desert  outside. There was the  faintest trickling of water,  the
soft whine of a  desert wasp. Atrus paused  a moment, lifting the  heavy glasses
onto his brow, letting his pale eyes grow accustomed to the shadow, then went on
down, ducking  beneath the  rock overhang  before turning  to face the storeroom
door, which was recessed into the stone of the cleftwall.

The surface of that  squat, heavy door was  a marvel in itself,  decorated as it
was  with  a hundred  delicate,  intricate carvings;  with  fish and  birds  and
animals, all  of them  linked by  an interwoven  pattern of  leaves and flowers.
This, like much else in the cleft, was his grandmother's doing, for if there was
a clear  surface anywhere,  she would  want to  decorate it,  as if the whole of
creation was her canvas.

Raising his foot, Atrus  pushed until it gave,  then went inside, into  the dark
and narrow space. Another year and he would need to crouch beneath the low stone
ceiling. Now, however,  he crossed the  tiny room in  three steps; lowering  the
sack from his shoulder, he slid it onto the broad stone shelf beside two others.

For a moment he stood there,  staring at the single, bloodred symbol  printed on
the sack. Familiar though it was, it was a remarkably elaborate thing of  curves
and squiggles, and whether it was a word or simply a design he wasn't sure,  yet
it had a beauty,  an elegance, that he  found entrancing. Sometimes it  reminded
him of  the face  of some  strange, exotic  animal, and  sometimes he thought he
sensed some kind of meaning in it.

Atrus turned, looking up, conscious  suddenly of his grandmother waiting  by the
cleftwall, and chided himself for  being so thoughtless. Hurrying now,  stopping
only to  replace his  glasses, he  padded up  the steps  and across  the swaying
bridge, emerging  in time  to see  her unfasten  her cloak  and, taking  a long,
pearl-handled knife from  the broad leather  toolbelt that encircled  her waist,
lean down and slit open one of the bolts of cloth she'd bought.

"That's  pretty,"  he said,  standing  beside her,  adjusting  the lenses,  then
admiring the vivid vermilion and cobalt pattern, seeing how the light seemed  to
shimmer in the surface of the cloth, as in a pool.

"Yes," she said,  turning to smile  at him, returning  the knife to  its sheath.
"It's silk."

"Silk?"

In answer she lifted it and held it out to him. "Fed."

He reached out, surprised by the cool, smooth feel of it.

She was still looking at him, an enigmatic smile on her lips now. "I thought I'd
make a hanging for your room. Something to cheer it up."

He looked  back at  her, surprised,  then bent  and lifted  one of the remaining
sacks onto his shoulder.

As he mad" his way down and across to the storeroom, he saw the rich pattern  of
the cloth  in his  mind and  smiled. There  was a  faint gold  thread within the
cloth,  he  realized, recalling  how  it had  felt:  soft and  smooth,  like the
underside of a leaf.

Depositing the second sack, he went back. While he was gone, Anna had lifted the
two bolts of cloth up onto the lip of the cleftwall, beside the last of the salt
and flour sacks. There was  also a small green cloth  bag of seeds, tied at  the
mouth with a length of bloodred twine.  Of the final sack, the one he'd  thought
had moved, there was no sign.

He frowned, then looked to his grandmother, but if she understood his look,  she
didn't show it.

"Put the seeds in the kitchen," she said quietly, lifting the bolt of silk  onto
her shoulder. "We'll plant  them tomorrow. Then come  back and help me  with the
rest of the cloth."

As he came back from the storeroom, he saw that Anna was waiting for him on  the
broad stone ledge  at the far  end of the  garden. Even from  where he stood  he
could see how tired she was. Crossing the rope bridge to the main house, he went
quickly down the narrow steps that hugged the wall and, keeping carefully to the
smooth, protruding rocks that delineated  the pools western edge, crouched  and,
taking the metal ladle from its peg, leaned across and dipped it into the still,
mirror-like surface.

Standing again,  he went  swiftly along  the edge,  his toes  hugging the  rock,
careful not  to spill  a drop  of precious  water, stopping  beside the ledge on
which Anna sat.

She looked up at him and smiled; a weary, loving smile.

"Thank you," she said,  taking the ladle and  drinking from it, then  offered it
back.

"No," he said softly, shaking his head. "You finish it."

With a smile, she drained the ladle and handed it back.

"Well,  Atrus," she  said, suddenly  relaxed, as  if the  water had  washed  the
tiredness from her. "What did you see?"

He hesitated, then. "I saw a brown cloth sack, and the sack moved."

Her laughter  was unexpected.  Atrus frowned,  then grinned  as she produced the
sack from within the folds  of her cloak. It was  strange, for it seemed not  to
hold anything. Not  only that, but  the cloth of  the sack was  odd-much coarser
than those the traders normally used. It was as if it had been woven using  only
half the threads. If it had held  salt, the salt would have spilled through  the
holes in the cloth, yet the sack held something.

"Well?" she said, amused by his reaction. "Are you going to take it?"

He stared at her, genuinely surprised. "For me?"

"Yes," she said. "For you."

Gingerly, he took it from her, noticing that the sack's mouth was tied with  the
same red twine as the seed bag.

"What is it?"

"Look and see," she said, taking her knife and handing it to him by the  handle.
"But be careful. It might bite."

He froze, looking to her, perplexed now.

"Oh, go on," she said, laughing softly. "I'm only teasing you, Atrus. Open it."

Slowly, reluctantly,  he slipped  the blade  beneath the  twine and  pulled. The
mouth of the sack sighed open.

Putting the blade down on the rock, he lifted the glasses up onto the top of his
head, then grasped the sacks neck, slowly drawing it open, all the while peering
into its dark interior.

There was something there. Something small and hunched and ...

The sound made him drop the sack  and jerk back, the hairs at his  neck standing
up with shock.

"Careful..." Anna said, bending down to pick the sack up.

Atrus watched, astonished,  as she took  out something small  and finely furred.
For a moment he didn't understand, and then, with a shock, he saw what it was. A
kitten! Anna had bought him a kitten!

He made a sound of delight, 'then, getting to his feet, took a step toward  her,
bending close to look at the tiny thing she held.

It was beautiful. Its fur was the color of the desert sand at sunset, while  its
eyes were  great saucers  of green  that blinked  twice then  stared back at him
curiously. In all it was no bigger than one of Anna's hands.

"What is it called?" he asked.

"She's called Pahket."

"Pahket?" Atrus  looked up  at his  grandmother, frowning,  then reached out and
gently stroked the kittens neck.

"The name's an ancient one. The eldest of the traders said it was a lucky name."

"Maybe," Atrus said uncertainly, "but it doesn't feel right. Look at her.  She's
like a tiny flame." He smiled as  the kitten pressed against his hand and  began
to purr noisily.

"Then maybe you should call her that."

"Flame?"

Anna nodded. She  watched her grandson  a moment, then  spoke again. "There's  a
small day bowl in the kitchen ..."

Atrus looked up. "The blue one?"

"Yes. Flame  can use  it. In  fact, she  could probably  do with some water now,
having been in that sack"

Atrus smiled, then, as if he'd done it all his infant life, picked the kitten up
with one hand, cradling it against his side, and carried her across, vaulting up
the steps in twos and threes  before ducking inside the kitchen. A  moment later
he reemerged, the bowl in his other hand.

"Come on. Flame," he said, speaking softly to the kitten as if it were a  child,
his thumb gently rubbing the top of its head, "lets get you a drink."

*   *   *

As darkness fell,  Atrus sat on  the narrow balcony  that ran the  length of the
outer sleeping chamber, the  dozing kitten curled beside  him on the cool  stone
ledge as he stared  up at the moon.  It had been a  wonderful day, but like  all
days it had to end. Below and to his right, he could see his grandmother, framed
in the brightly  lit window of  the kitchen, a  small oil lamp  casting its soft
yellow glow  over her  face and  upper arms  as she  worked, preparing a tray of
cakes. They, like the kitten, were a treat, to celebrate his seventh birthday in
two days' time.

The  thought of  it made  him smile,   yet into  his joy  seeped an  element  of
restlessness. Happy as he was here  with his grandmother, he had recently  begun
to feel that there was more than this. There had to be.

He looked past the moon,  following a line of stars  until he found the belt  of
the  hunter, tracing  the shape  of the  hunters bow  in the  night sky  as  his
grandmother had taught him.  There were so many  things to know, so  many things
yet to learn.

And when I've learned them all, grandmother?

He remembered how she had laughed at that, then leaned toward him. There's never
an end to learning, Atrus. There are more things in this universe, yes, and more
universes, than w could ever hope to know.

And  though he  did not  quite understand  what she  had meant  by that,  simply
staring at  the vastness  of the  night sky  gave him  some tiny  inkling of the
problem. Yet  he was  curious to  know all  he could-as  curious as the sleeping
kitten beside him was indolent.

He looked down from that vastness. All about him the cleft was dotted with  tiny
lights that glowed warmly in the darkness. "Atrus?"

He turned, looking up as Anna came and crouched beside him on the narrow  ledge.
"Yes, grandmother?"

"You have a lot to write in your journal today."

Atrus smiled, then stroked the kitten, petting it between the ears, and  feeling
it push back against his fingers.

"I wrote it earlier, while you were in the storeroom."

"Ah ...." She reached  out, gently brushing the  kittens Hank with the  backs of
her fingers. "And how goes your experiment?"

"Which one?" he asked, suddenly eager.

"Your measurements. I saw you out there earlier."

For nearly six months now Atrus had  been studying the movement of the dunes  on
the far side of the volcano. He had placed a series of long stakes deep into the
sand along the dune's edge,  then had watched, meticulously measuring  the daily
movement of  the dune,  using the  stakes as  his baseline,  then marking  those
measurements down on a chart in the back of his journal.

"I've almost  finished," he  said, his  eyes shining  brightly in the moonlight.
"Another few weeks and I'll have my results."

Anna smiled at  that, amused and  yet proud of  the care he  took. There was  no
doubting it,  Atrus had  a fine  mind-a true  explorers mind-and  a curiosity to
match.

"And have you a  theory?" she asked, noting  how he sat up  straighter to answer
her.

"They move," he answered.

"A little or a lot?"

H e smiled. "It depends."

"Depends?"

"On what you think is a little, or what you think is a lot."

She laughed, enjoying his answer. "A little would be, oh, several inches a year,
a lot would be a mile."

"Then it's neither," he  answered, looking down at  Flame again. The kitten  was
dozing  now,  her head  tucked  down, her  gentle  snores a  soft  sound in  the
darkness.

Anna reached out, her fingers brushing his hair back from his eyes. In some ways
he was an ungainly child, yet there was something about him that was noble.  The
kindness, the  sharp intelligence  in his  eyes-these things  distinguished him,
giving the lie to his physical awkwardness.

"It changes," he said, his eyes meeting hers again.

"Changes?"

"The rate at which the dune travels. Sometimes it barely moves, but when there's
a storm ..."

"Yes?" she asked quietly.

"It's the wind," he said. "It pushes the smaller grains up the windward side  of
the dune. From there they tumble  over the crest, onto the leeward  side. That's
why the dune is shaped the way  it is. The larger, coarser grains don't  move so
much, that's why  the windward slope  is gradually curved.  It's packed densely.
You can walk on it as on a rock. But the leeward side ..."

"Yes?" she said, encouraging him.

He frowned, wrinkling up his nose  as he thought it through. "Well,  the leeward
side is constantly changing.  The fine grains build  up, forming a steep  slope,
until... well, until  they all tumble  down. If you  try to walk  on it you sink
down into it. It's not packed like the windward side."

Anna smiled, her eyes never leaving his  face. "You say it tumbles over. Do  you
know why?"

Atrus nodded enthusiastically, making Flame stir in his lap. "It has to do  with
how the grains balance  on each other. Up  to a certain angle  they're fine, but
beyond that..."

"And have you measured that angle?" she asked, pleased with him.

Again he  nodded. "Thirty-five  degrees. That's  the steepest  it gets before it
begins to slip."

"Good,"  she  said,  resting her  hands  on  her knees.  "It  seems  like you've
considered everything, Atrus. You've tried to see the Whole."

Atrus had looked down,  gazing at the sleeping  kitten. Now he looked  up again.
"The Whole!"

She laughed softly. "It's something my father used to say to me. What I mean  by
it, is that you've looked at the problem from many angles and considered how the
pieces fit together. You've asked all the questions that needed to be asked  and
come up with the answers. And now  you have an understanding of it." She  smiled
and reached out again,  letting her hand rest  lightly on his shoulder.  "It may
seem a small thing, Atrus-after all, a dune is but a dune-but the principle's  a
sound one and will stand you in good stead whatever you do, and however  complex
the system is you're looking at.  Always consider the Whole, Atrus. Always  look
at the interrelated-ness of things, and  remember that the 'whole' of one  thing
is always just a part of something else, something larger."

Atrus stared at  her, slowly nodding,  the seriousness of  his gaze belying  his
seven years.  Seeing it,  Anna sighed  inwardly. Sometimes  he made  her feel so
proud. Such fine, clear  eyes he had.  Eyes that had  been so encouraged  to see
that yearned to observe and question the world around him.

"Grandmother?"

"Yes, Atrus?"

"Can I draw a picture of Flame?"

"No," she said, smiling down at him. "Not now. It's time for bed. You want Flame
to sleep with you?"

He grinned and nodded.

"Then bring her through. She can sleep at the foot of your bed tonight. Tomorrow
we'll make a basket for her."

"Grandmother?"

"Yes, Atrus?"

"Can I read for a while?"

She smiled then reached out to ruffle his hair. "No. But I'll come and tell  you
a story, if you like."

His eyes widened. "Please. And Nanna?"

"Yes?" she asked, surprised by his use of the familiar term.

"Thank you for Flame. She's beautiful. I'll take good care of her."

"I know you will. Now come inside. It's late."

*   *   *

Atrus's bed was on a shelf of rock cut into the back wall of the inner  sleeping
chamber like a tiny catacomb. A beautifully woven quilt was his mattress,  while
a  large, doubled  square of  cloth, sewn  neatly by  Anna along  the edges  and
decorated with a pattern of tiny, embroidered golden stars, served for a  sheet.
In a niche in the rock at the head of the shelf rested a small oil lamp, secured
by narrow metal bars at top and bottom.

Anna reached in and,  lifting the curiously engraved  glass, lit the wick,  then
moved back, letting Atrus  climb into the tiny  space. Soon he would  be too big
for the sleeping shelf, but for now it sufficed.

Looking at her grandson, she felt a twinge of regret; regret for the passing  of
innocence, knowing that she should cherish such moments as this, for they  could
not last. Nothing lasted. Neither individual lives, nor empires.

"So," she said, tucking him in, then lifting the half-dozing cat onto him, so he
could cuddle it a while, "what would you like me to tell you?"

He looked away from her a moment,  his pale eyes seeming to read the  flickering
shadows within the shelf, then met her eyes again, smiling.

"How about the tale of Kerath?"

"But you've heard that several times now, Atrus."

"I know, but I'd like to hear it again. Please, grandmother."

She smiled  and lay  her hand  on his  brow, then,  dosing her  eyes, began  the
ancient tale.

It was set in the  land of the D'ni, dating  back, so it was said,  to the time,
thousands of years ago, when their homeland had suffered the first of the  great
earthquakes that, ultimately, had caused them to flee and come here.

Kerath had been the last of the great kings; last not because he was deposed but
because, when he had achieved all he had set out to achieve, he had stepped down
and appointed  a council  of elders  to run  the D'ni  lands. But  the "tale  of
Kerath" was the story  of the young princes  teenage years and how  he had spent
them  in the  great underground  desert of  Tre'Merktee, the  Place of  Poisoned
Waters.

And when Atrus heard the tale, what did he think? Did he imagine himself a young
prince, like Kerath, banished into exile by his dead fathers brother? Or was  it
something else in the  tale that attracted him,  for there was no  doubting that
this was his favorite story.

As she came to a close, narrating the final part, of how Kerath tamed the  great
lizard and rode it back into the  D'ni capital, she could sense how Atrus  clung
to her every word, following each phrase, each twist in the story.

In her mind she closed the book silently and set it aside, as she had once  done
for another little  boy in another  time, in a  place very different  from this.
Opening her eyes, she found Atrus staring up at her.

"Are there many tales, grandmother?"

She laughed. "Oh, thousands ..."

"And do you know them all?"

She shook her head.  "No. Why, it would  be impossible, Atrus. D'ni  was a great
empire, and its libraries were small cities  in themselves. If I were to try  to
memorize all the tales of the D'ni it would take me several lifetimes, and  even
then I would have learned but a handful of them."

"And are the tales true?" Amis asked, yawning and turning to face the wall.

"Do you believe them?"

He was silent, then, with a sleepy sigh, "I guess so."

Yet she sensed he was not satisfied. Reaching out, she lifted the blanket  until
it covered his neck, then, leaning across, kissed his brow.

"Shall I leave Flame where she is?"

"Mmmm ..." he answered, already half asleep.

Smiling, Anna  reached across  and, lifting  the glass,  snuffed the  lamp, then
stood and left the room.

The lamp was  still burning in  her workroom on  the far side  of the cleft. The
half-completed sculpture lay where  shed left it on  the desk, the workbox  open
next to it, the delicate stone-working instruments laid out in their trays.  For
a moment  she stood  there, looking  down at  it, considering  what needed to be
done, then moved past it, reaching up to take a tiny, pearl-backed case from the
shelf where she kept her books.

Thumbing the clasp, she opened it  and stared at her reflection, drawing  a wisp
of gray hair back off her brow.

"What do you see, Anna?"

The  face that  looked back  at her  was strong  and firm,  the bone   structure
delicate without being brittle; refined, rather than coarse. In her time she had
been a great beauty. But time was against her now.

The thought made her smile. She had  never been vain, yet she had  always-always
wondered  just how  much of  her real  self showed  in her  face. How  much  the
interplay of eye and mouth revealed. And yet how much those same subtle features
could hide. Take Atrus, for instance. When he smiled, he smiled not simply  with
his lips  but with  the whole  of his  face, the  whole of  his being:  a great,
radiant smile that shone out from him. Likewise, when he was thinking, it was as
if one could see  right through him-like glass-and  watch the thoughts fizz  and
sparkle in his head.

And her own face?

She tilted her head slightly to  the side, examining herself again, noting  this
time the  tiny blue  beads she  had tied  into her  braids, the colorful, finely
woven band about her neck.

The face that stared back at  her was pale and taut-ly fleshed,  almost austere;
the deeply green eyes were intelligent, the mouth sensitive; yet it was in those
few small,  surrounding touches-the  beads, the  band-that her  true nature  was
revealed: that part, at least, that loved embellishment. From childhood on,  she
had always been the  same. Give her a  blank page and she  would fill it with  a
poem or a story or a picture. Give her a blank wall and she would  always-always
decorate it.

Give me a child ...

She snapped the tiny case shut and slipped it back onto the shelf.

Give her  a child  and she  would fill  its head  with marvels.  With tales  and
thoughts and facts beyond imagining.

What do you see, Anna?

Yawning, she reached across to douse the light, then answered the silent query.

"I see a tired old woman who needs her sleep."

"Maybe," she answered after a  moment, smiling, remembering the girl  shed been.
Then, stepping out onto the steps that hugged the cleftwall, she quickly crossed
the cleft once more, making for her bed.



CHAPTER 2

The first sign was a  darkening of the sky far  to the east, high up,  not where
you would expect a  sandstorm. Atrus was exploring  the sun-facing slope of  the
volcano, searching for rare rocks and crystals to add to his collection, when he
looked up and  saw it-a tiny  smudge of darkness  against the solid  blue. For a
moment he wasn't quite sure what it was. He moved his head, thinking it might be
a blemish in one of the lenses, but it wasn't that.

Looking back, he found  it was still there.  Not only that, but  it was growing.
Even as he watched it seemed to darken.

Atrus felt a vague unease grip him.

The ten-year-old turned, making his way back down the slope, then hurried across
the open stretch of sand between  the nearest ledge and the cleft,  panting from
the heat. Stopping only to slip his sandals into the gap beneath the cleftwall's
lip, he clambered down the rope  ladder, making the stone rungs clatter  against
the wall.

That noise alerted Anna. On the far  side of the shadowy cleft, the top  half of
the hinged door to her workroom swung open. She looked out, her eyebrows  formed
into a question.

"Atrus?"

"Something's coming."

"People, you mean?"

He shook his head. "No. Something big in the sky, high up. Something black."

"A sandstorm?"

"No ... the whole sky is turning black."

Her  laugh was  unexpected. "Well,  well," she  said, almost  as if  she'd  half
expected whatever it was. "We'll need to take precautions."

Atrus stared at his grandmother, perplexed. "Precautions?"

"Yes," she said, almost gaily now. "If  it's what I think it is, we'd  best take
advantage of it while we can. The chance is rare enough."

He stared at her as if she were speaking in riddles.

"Come on," she said, "help me now.  Go fetch the seeds from the store  room. And
bowls. Fetch  as many  bowls as  you can  from the  kitchen and  set them up all
around the cleftwall."

Still he stared at her, openmouthed.

"Now," she said, grinning at him. "If you could see it on the horizon then it'll
be upon us before long. We need to be prepared for it."

Not understanding, Atrus did as he  was told, crossing the rope bridge  to fetch
the seeds, then crisscrossing it  time and again, carefully ferrying  every bowl
he could find  and setting them  all around the  cleftwall's rim. That  done, he
looked to her.

Anna was standing  on the cleftwall,  staring out, one  hand shielding her  eyes
against the glare. Atrus went across and climbed up, standing next to her.

Whatever it was, it now filled a  third of the horizon, a great black  veil that
linked the heavens and the earth. From where he stood it seemed like a  fragment
of the night ripped from its appointed time.

"What is it?" he asked. In all his ten years he had not seen its like.

"Its a storm, Atrus," she said, turning to him with a smile. "That blackness  is
a huge rain  cloud. And if  were lucky-if were  very, very lucky-then  that rain
will fall on us."

"Rain?"

"Water," she said, her smile broadening. "Water falling from the sky."

He  looked  from  her  to  the  great  patch  of  darkness,  his  mouth  open in
astonishment. "From the sky?"

"Yes,"  she  answered,  raising  her arms,  as  if  to  embrace the  approaching
darkness. "I've dreamed of this, Atrus. So many nights I've dreamed."

It was the first time she had  said anything of her dreams, and again  he stared
at her as if she'd been transformed.  Water from the sky. Dreams. Day turned  to
night. Putting his right hand against his upper arm he pinched himself hard.

"Oh, you're awake, Atrus," Anna said, amused by his reaction. "And you must stay
awake and  watch, for  you'll see  sights you  may never  see again."  Again she
laughed. "Just watch, my boy. Just watch!"

Slowly, very slowly it came closer, and as it approached the air seemed to  grow
cooler and cooler. There  was the faintest breeze  now, like an outrider  moving
ahead of the growing darkness.

"All right," she said, turning to him after a long silence. "Let's get to  work.
We need to  scatter the seeds  all around the  cleft. Use all  the bags but one.
We'll not get this chance again. Not for many years."

He  did as  she told  him, moving  in a  daze, conscious  all the  while of  the
blackness that now filled the whole of  the horizon. From time to time he  would
look up fearfully, then duck his head again.

Finished, he pocketed the tiny cloth bag then clambered up onto the cleftwall.

Flame was sheltering beneath the stone  ledge on the floor of the  cleft. Seeing
her there, Anna called to him. "Atrus!  You'd better put Flame in your room.  If
she stays where she is she'll be in danger."

Atrus frowned, not understanding how she could possibly be in danger. Surely the
deft was  the safest  place? But  he did  not argue,  merely went and, gathering
Flame under his arm, took her into the storeroom and locked her in.

Returning to  the lip  of the  cleftwall he  saw that  the storm was almost upon
them. Climbing out onto the open  sands, he looked to Anna, wondering  what they
would do,  where they  would hide,  but his  grandmother seemed unconcerned. She
merely stood there,  watching that immense  darkness approach, undaunted  by it,
smiling all the while. Turning, she called to him, raising her voice against the
noise of the oncoming storm.

"Take your glasses off, Atrus, you'll see better!"

Again, he did as he was told, stowing the heavy lenses with their thick  leather
strap in the deep pocket of his cloak.

Ahead, the storm front was like a massive, shimmering wall of black and  silver,
a solid  thing advancing  on him,  filling the  whole of  the sky  ahead of him,
tearing up the desert sand as it went. Strange, searingly bright flashes  seemed
to dance and flicker in that darkness, accompanied by a low, threatening  rumble
that exploded suddenly in a great crash of sound.

Trembling,  he closed  his eyes,  his teeth  clenched tight,  his body  crouched
against the  onslaught, and  then the  rain burst  over him,  soaking him  in an
instant, drumming against his head  and shoulders and arms with  such fierceness
that for a  moment he thought  it would beat  him to the  ground. He gasped with
shock,  then  staggered  around,  surprised  to  hear,  over  the  rain's fierce
thundering, Anna's laughter.

He looked down past his feet  at the earth, astonished by its  transformation. A
moment before he had been standing on the sand. Now his feet were embedded in  a
sticky, swirling mess that tugged at him as he tried to free himself.

"Anna!" he called, turning to appeal to her, putting his arms out.

She came across, giggling now like a young girl. The rain had plastered her hair
to her head,  while her clothes  seemed painted to  her long, gaunt  body like a
second skin.

"Isn't it wonderful!" she said, putting her face up to the rain, her eyes closed
in ecstasy. "Close your eyes, Atrus, and feel it on your face."

Once more he did as he was told, fighting down his instinct to run, letting  the
stinging rain beat down on his exposed cheeks and neck. After a moment his  face
felt numb.  Then, with  a sudden  change he  found hard  to explain, he began to
enjoy the sensation.

He ducked his  head down and  squinted at her.  Beside him, his  grandmother was
hopping on  one leg,  and slowly  turning, her  hands raised  above her head and
spread, as if in greeting to the  sky. Timidly he copied her. Then, as  the mood
overtook him, he began  to twirl about madly,  the rain falling and  falling and
falling, the noise  like the noise  at the heart  of a great  sandstorm, so loud
there was a silence in his head.

And  then,  with a  suddenness  that made  him  gasp, it  was  gone. He  turned,
blinking, in time to see it drift across the cleft and climb the volcano wall, a
solid curtain of falling water that  left the desert floor dark and  flat behind
it.

Atrus looked about him, seeing how every  pot was filled to the brim-a score  of
trembling mirrors reflecting back the sudden, startling blue of the sky. He made
to speak, to  say something to  Anna, then turned  back, startled by  the sudden
hissing noise that rose from the volcano's mouth.

As he watched,  great billows of  steam rose up  out of the  caldera, as if  the
dormant giant had returned to life.

"It's all right," Anna said, coming  over and placing her hand on  his shoulder.
"It's only where the rain has seeped down into the deep vents."

Atrus burrowed into his grandmothers side. Yet he was no longer afraid. Now that
it had passed-now that he had survived it-he felt elated, exhilarated.

"Well?" she asked quietly. "What did you think?"

"Where did it come from?" he  asked, watching, fascinated, as that massive  dark
wall receded slowly into the distance.

"From the  great ocean,"  she answered.  "It travels  hundreds of  miles to  get
here."

He nodded, but his mind was  back watching that great silver-black curtain  rush
toward him once again and swallow him up, feeling it drum against his flesh like
a thousand blunt needles.

Atrus  glanced  up  at  his  grandmother  and  laughed.  "Why,  you're steaming,
grandmother!"

She grinned and poked him gently. "And so are you, Atrus. Come, let's go inside,
before the sun dries us out again."

He nodded and began  to climb the cleftwall,  meaning to go and  free Flame from
the storeroom, yet as he popped his head over the rim he stopped dead, his mouth
falling open in a tiny oh of surprise.

Below him the cleft was a giant blue-black mirror, the shadow of the steep walls
dividing it in half, like a jagged shield.

Coming alongside him, Anna crouched and, smiling, looked into his face.

"Would you like to learn to swim, little sand worm?"

*   *   *

Anna woke Atrus in the dark before first light, shaking him gently then standing
back, the lamp held high, its soft yellow glow filling the shelf where he lay.

"Come," she said simply, smiling at him as he knuckled his eyes. "I've something
to show you."

Atrus sat up, suddenly alert. Something had happened. Something ... He stared at
her. "Was it real, grandmother? Did it really happen? Or did I dream it?"

"It happened,"  she answered  softly. Then,  taking his  hand, she  led him out,
through her own shadowed chamber and onto the narrow balcony.

The moon was two days off full, and  though it was no longer at its zenith,  its
light still silvered the far edge of the pool.

Atrus stood there,  breathing shallowly, transfixed  by the sight,  staring down
into the perfect ebon mirror of the  pool. Not the pool hed known from  infancy,
but a bigger, more  astonishing pool-a pool that  filled the cleft from  edge to
edge. Staring into it he let a sigh escape him.

"The stars ..."

Anna smiled and  leaned past him,  pointing out the  shape of the  hunter in the
water. "And there," she said. "Look, Atrus, there's the marker star."

He stared at the brilliant pure blue star then looked up, seeing its twin  there
in the heavens.

"Is this it?" he asked,  after a moment, turning to  look at her. "Is this  what
you were going to show me?"

She shook her head. "No ... Come. Follow me"

In the moment  before he emerged  from the deft-  in that instant  before he saw
what his grandmother had woken him to see-Atrus paused on the second top rung of
the ladder and looked down.

Below him, far  below, it seemed-so  far that it  was almost as  if he had  been
inverted and now hung out over  space-lay the star-dusted sky. For a  moment the
illusion was perfect, so perfect that, had he let go of the rung, he was certain
that he  would have  fallen forever.  Then, conscious  that his  grandmother was
waiting patiently on the  other side of the  lip, he pulled himself  up onto the
top of the cleftwall.

And  stopped,  stone  still,  his  jaw dropped,  the  sight  that  met  his eyes
incredible and dreamlike.

Between the cleft and the lip of the caldera, the whole side of the volcano  was
carpeted in  flowers. Even  in the  moonlight he  could distinguish those bright
colors. Violets  and blues,  dark greens  and lavender,  bright reds and violent
oranges.

He stared, uncomprehending. It was impossible.

"They're  called ephemerals,"  Anna said,  speaking into  that perfect  silence.
"Their seeds-hundreds of thousands of tiny seeds-lay in the dry earth for years.
And then, when finally  the rains come, they  blossom. For a single  day-for one
single night-they bloom. And then ..."

She sighed. It  was the saddest  sound Atrus had  ever heard. He  looked to her,
surprised by that sound. There had been such joy in her voice, such excitement.

"What is it, grandmother?"

She smiled wistfully then reached out, petting his head. "It's nothing, Atrus. I
was thinking of your  grandfather, that's all. Thinking  how much he would  have
loved this."

Atrus jumped down, his feet welcomed  by the lush, cool feel of  vegetation. The
earth beneath was damp and cool. He could squidge it between his toes.

Crouching, he ran his hands over the tops of the tiny blooms, feeling how  soft,
how delicate they were,  then plucked a single,  tiny flower, holding it  before
his face to study it.

It had five tiny pink petals and delicate stamen the color of sandstone. He  let
it fall.

For a moment he knelt  there, his eyes taking it  all in. Then, suddenly, a  new
thought struck him. Jerking around, he looked to Anna.

"The seeds!"

Atrus stood and, picking his way carefully about the cleftwall, stooped here and
there, examining  all those  places where,  before the  storm had  come, he  had
scattered their precious seeds.

After  a  while he  looked  to Anna  and  laughed. "It  worked!  The seeds  have
germinated! Look, Nanna, look!"

She stood there, grinning  back at him. "Then  we'd better harvest them,  Atrus.
Before the sun comes up. Before the desert takes back what it's given us."

*   *   *

The work  was done.  Now there  was rime  simply to  explore. As the dawns light
began to cast  its long shadows  over the sands,  Atrus climbed the  side of the
volcano. Flame  in tow,  the ginger  cat intoxicated,  it seemed,  by the sudden
profusion of flowers.  She romped and  rolled about as  if the years  had peeled
back and she was a kitten again.

Watching her, Atrus giggled.  He wore his glasses  now, the sun-filter set  low,
the magnification high. Now  was the time to  indulge his curiosity, before  the
sun climbed  too high  and the  heat grew  too unbearable;  and before,  as Anna
assured him they would, the blooms dried up and vanished.

For a time he wandered idly, almost as aimless as the tiny, scrawny cat that was
his constant companion. Then, without  knowing it, he found himself  looking for
something. Or rather, not so much looking as trying to pinpoint exactly what  it
was he'd seen but not understood.

He stood still, turning  only his head, trying  to locate just what  it was he'd
glimpsed. At first he saw nothing. Then, with a little start, he saw.  TherdYes,
there in  that shallow  incline that  ran down  to one  of the  volcano's small,
inactive vents!

Atrus went  across and  stood over  it, nodding  to himself.  There was no doubt
about it, the vegetation  here was more lush,  the flowers bigger, their  leaves
thicker and broader.

And why was that?

He bent down and, reaching in among the tiny stems, pulled one of the plants  up
and examined its  shallow roots. Earth  clung to it.  He lifted it  and sniffed.
There  was  something  strange,  something  almost  metallic  about  that smell.
Minerals. Somehow  the presence  of minerals-specific  minerals?-had helped  the
plants grow larger here.

He cleared a tiny space  with one hand, then scooped  up a handful of the  earth
and carefully spilled it into one of the pockets of his cloak. Straightening up,
he looked back down the slope to where Flame was lying on her back in a patch of
bright yellow flowers, pawing at the sky.

"Come on!" he said, excited now, wanting to test his theory.

*   *   *

Almost three months had passed now since the day of desert rains. Since then the
ten-year-old had labored every evening, stood at his workspace, an oil lamp hung
on a  peg on  the wall  at his  side. Flame  sleeping on  the floor nearby as he
patiently tracked down  which of the  chemicals he had  found in the  sample was
responsible for the enhanced growth.

His workroom  was in  a small,  freshly cut  alcove at  the back of Anna's room.
Working carefully,  patiently, over  the period  of a  year, he  had chipped the
narrow  space  from  the  rock  with  his  own  hands,  using  his grandmother's
stoneworking tools, careful to  remove the stone a  little at a time  as she had
taught him, checking all the while for weaknesses in the rock, for flaws in  its
structure that might split and bring the whole wall tumbling down on them.

There was  a ledge-a  working surface  he had  smoothed and  polished until  the
surface seemed like glass.  Strange-looking technical instruments littered  that
surface  now. Above  it he  had cut  three narrow  shelves where  he stored  his
things:  narrow cuplike  pots made  of stone  and clay,  tiny handwoven  baskets
filled with various powders and chemicals, the bleached bones of various  desert
animals, and, on the topmost shelf,  his collection of rare rocks and  crystals:
polished agates like  the pouting lips  of strange creatures;  a large chunk  of
zeolite, which reminded him of the  whiskers of some exotic snow beast;  nodules
of  blue azurite  beside a  cluster of  bright yellow  sulfur crystal;  a  long,
beveled finger  of icelike  quartz, and,  in a  tiny transparent  box, a  single
tiger's eye.  These and  many others  crowded the  shelf, sorted  into the seven
systems- cubic, tetragonal, monoclinic, orthorhombic, triclinic, hexagonal,  and
trigonal-he had read of in his grandmothers books.

On the wall behind his work ledge  was the hanging his grandmother had made  for
him from the red and  blue silk she had bought  from the traders that time,  its
fringed edge  decorated with  tassels of  gold thread.  Hand-drawn pictures  and
diagrams-some his, some Anna's-filled the remaining walls.

His task had not been easy, not with the basic equipment he had at his disposal.
Atrus had  thought, at  first, that  the task  would prove  a simple one. He had
expected to find, at most, three, maybe four different chemicals in the  sample,
but to his  surprise-and dismay-it had  not proved anything  as straightforward.
After weeks of testing, he had identified more than thirty different elements in
the sample. The vents,  it seemed, were a  regular cornucopia of chemical  life.
Nor was it easy to devise ways to test his theory. His grandmothers books, which
had whole chapters on the shaping and  uses of stone and metal, had few  entries
on agriculture. He had been forced to improvise.

*   *   *

When Atrus sensed the  crop was ripe for  harvesting, he picked a  number of the
bigger shoots-choosing a couple from among each different type-and, placing them
in Annas best basket, carried them up to the kitchen.

He stood  there at  the stone  sink next  to the  window, staring out across the
cleft as he rinsed the shoots thoroughly, taking care to remove all of the  dirt
from  their roots.  Down below,  Flame had  gone across  to the  patch and   was
sniffing the earth  where it had  been disturbed, and  tentatively rooting about
with her paw.

Atrus watched  her a  while, smiling  broadly at  her antics,  then, giving  the
shoots a good shake to  remove the last few drops  of water, he lay them  on the
cutting board and went across, removing one of Anna's knives from the rack.

As he began to chop and prepare the shoots, he watched Flame stretch and  settle
among the remaining shoots, cleaning  herself, her tiny pink tongue  licking her
paws before she began to groom her short orange fur.

"Hey  you,"  he said,  laughing  gently. It  was  bad enough  that  she ate  the
spearmint grass on the far side of the pool, without her making a bed out of his
special patch.

Finished,  he  took  the  chopped  shoots  across  and  scraped  them  into  the
earthenware bowl. They had a fresh, clean scent, like mint, though not as sweet.
Taking a short length he put it to his nose, sniffing it, then popped it in  his
mouth.

It tasted good, too. Fresh and ...

Atrus grimaced. There was a  distinct aftertaste; a bitter, unpleasant  tang. He
ran the tip of his tongue around his gums, then shivered.

"Eeuch!"

"Atrus?"

He turned to find Anna standing there, looking at him curiously.

"What is it?"

"Nothing," he said, picking up the bowl and taking it across to the sink  again.
Maybe he hadn't washed them thoroughly enough. The last thing he wanted was  for
them to taste bad.

He felt Anna's fingers brush his back softly as she made her way past him to the
scullery, then felt her breath on his neck as she leaned over him.

"They look good," she commented, smiling as  he turned to look at her. "Shall  I
cook some rice to go with them?"

He shook his head. "No. I'll do it. And I'll make a special sauce."

She nodded,  then, pressing  his arm  gently, moved  past him  and out  onto the
steps.

Atrus watched her go, then turned back, looking out across the cleft once  more.
Flame had settled now, curled up in  a tiny orange ball amidst the bright  green
shoots. He smiled, then, pouring fresh  water from the pitcher by his  side, set
to rinsing the shoots through once again.

*   *   *

Atrus was repairing the stonework at the far end of the cleftwall when the pains
started. At first he thought it was just a cramp and, stretching his left arm to
ease the muscles down that side, made to carry on. Yet as he reached up to  take
the trowel, a shooting pain went right through him, making him double up.

"Atrus?"

Anna was at his side in an instant.

"Atrus? What is it? What's the matter?"

He made to tell her,  but the next one took  his breath. He knelt, wincing  with
the pain.

It was like being stabbed.

"Atrus?"

He  looked  up at  her,  his vision  glazed  momentarily. Then,  unable  to help
himself, he began to throw up.

After a while he  lifted his head, feeling  drained, exhausted, his brow  beaded
with  sweat.  Anna  was kneeling  next  to  him, her  arm  about  his shoulders,
murmuring something to him.

"What?"

"The shoots," she said, repeating what she'd been saying. "It must have been the
shoots. Did you eat some?"

Atrus began to shake his head, then remembered. "I did. Just one. I..."

There was a tremor  in his stomach, a  momentary pain. He swallowed  then looked
back at her.

"It must have been something in them," Anna said, reaching up to wipe his  brow.
"What did you use?"

"Use?" His thoughts  were in disarray.  He felt lightheaded  and disoriented. "I
didn't..."

It came  to him  suddenly. The  chemicals. It  must have  been something  in the
chemicals.  And then  he remembered.  The aftertaste.  That bitterness  ...  not
strong, but unpleasant enough to alert him.

He groaned. "I've let you down!"

"No," Anna said, pained by his words. "You can't get it right every time. If you
did ..."

He looked at her, angry not with her but with himself. "I could have killed you.
Killed us both!"

Anna winced and made to shake her head,  to deny him, but he was staring at  her
now, defying her to say no.

"No, Atrus,"  she said  finally. "You  haven't let  me down.  You'll learn  from
this."

But Atrus  seemed unconvinced.  "I nearly  killed us,"  he repeated, shaking his
head. "I nearly ..."

She reached out and held him to  her, hugging him until he grew still,  relaxed.
Then, helping him get up, she took him over to the pool and, kneeling him beside
it, scooped up water in her hands and washed his face and neck.

"There,"    she   said    finally,   smiling    at   him.    "That's    better."
.

Slowly, wearify, he got to his feet. "I guess I'd better dig it all up. I..."

He turned, staring. "Flame?"

Anna stepped past him, then crouched beside the tiny orange bundle. For a moment
she was  still, her  ear pressed  against its  side, then,  with a slowness that
confirmed what Atrus had most feared, she straightened up.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I ..."

Atrus stepped  across and  knelt beside  her. For  a moment  he was  very still,
looking down at the tiny animal. Then, carefully, as if it only slept, he picked
it up and, cuddling it against him, took it across to where a tiny patch of blue
flowers bordered the cleft's side.

Anna turned, watching him, seeing how dignified he was at that moment; how grown
up; how he kept in all he was feeling. And she knew, unmistakably, that in  that
instant he had shed something of  his childishness and had taken a  further step
out into the adult world. Out, away from her.



CHAPTER 3

In the blistering heat of the late afternoon sun, faint wisps of sulfurous steam
rose from tiny fumaroles in the volcano's mouth, coiling like a dancers veils in
that shadowy dark  beneath the edge  before they vanished  in the intense  glare
above.

Atrus stood on the lip of the  volcano, staring out across the deep bowl  of the
caldera,  his  glasses-the  largest  of  the two  pairs  that  had  hung  in his
grandmother's workroom-pulled down over his face, the thick leather band hugging
the back of his shaven head tightly  beneath the white cloth hood he wore.  Over
his mouth and nose was the cloth mask Anna had made for him and insisted that he
wear, while about his waist was  a thick belt studded with tools-a  perfect copy
of the one his grandmother wore about her own.

Fourteen now, Atrus had grown fast this past year; he was almost a mans  height,
but he had yet to  fill out. His face, too,  had changed, taking on the  harder,
more angular  shapes of  manhood, both  nose and  chin having  lost the softness
they'd had in childhood. He was not  a weak boy, not by any means,  yet watching
him from the top of the cleftwall,  Anna noted how thin he was. When  the desert
winds blew she was afraid they would  carry him away, there seemed so little  of
him.

For the past few weeks he had  been setting up his experiment. Now he  was ready
to begin.

Turning, Atrus clambered  down, out of  the burning light,  into the deep,  much
cooler shadow just below the lip. Here, on a narrow ledge, he had rigged up most
of his equipment. Straight  ahead the volcano wall  fell away steeply, while  to
his right, just  beyond a curiously  rounded rock that  looked as though  it had
been formed from melting mud, was a narrow vent. Above it he had placed a  domed
cap made of beaten metal. It was crudely manufactured, but effective, and he had
staked it to the surrounding rock with  four thick pins. On top of the  dome was
fixed a small metal cylinder.

Atrus reached up, his gloved hands gently turning the tiny knobs on either  side
of his glasses, adjusting the opacity of the lenses so that he could see better.
Then, brushing a  fine layer of  dust from the  top of the  metal cap, he leaned
forward and studied the finger-length silver valve, checking its welding for the
dozenth time before glancing at the two crudely calibrated gauges that were  set
into the dome's face to either side  of the valve. Just above each of  the dials
was a thumb-sized  metal stud, a  small circular hole  bored through the  top of
each.

Atrus straightened, letting out a long breath. He had one chance at this, so  it
had to be right. If it went wrong, if it didn't work, then it would be a year or
more before they could get all the parts they needed from the traders.

He turned, looking up to where  two big, coiled wires-wires he had  made himself
under Anna's supervision-dangled over the  edge of the crater. Just  above them,
jutting out over the drop, was a  long arm of jet black stone. Two  small wheels
had been pinned into its. face at  the far end where it overhung the  volcano. A
handwoven rope ran between the wheels, forming a winch. Like the cap, it  seemed
crude, yet it  would serve its  purpose perfectly. To  test it, Atrus  had spent
several afternoons lowering rocks into  that maw, then raising them  again-rocks
many times the weight of the load it would have to carry now.

On the  other side  of the  craters lip,  just next  to where  the rock  arm was
weighed down by a pile of heavy  stones, sheltered by a makeshift tent, was  his
pride  and joy-the  beginning and  the end  of all  this patient  endeavor:  his
battery.  Reaching up,  he grasped  one of  the wires,  pulling it  toward  him,
drawing  out  enough of  its  length so  that  it stretched  to  the metal  cap.
Attaching it to one of the studs, he then repeated the process.

Adjusting his glasses, he clambered back up the wall and over the lip, out  into
the burning sunlight.

For a moment he stood there, getting  his breath. Each time he emerged from  the
shadow, it was like stepping into a furnace. Nor did it matter how often he  did
it; every time, that change from the  cool of the shade to the sudden,  stifling
heat of the open was like a physical blow.

Ducking under the thick cloth screen of the tent, Atrus smiled. This time he had
tried hard to look at  all the angles, to make  sure he took all aspects  of the
Whole into account in his calculations.

The battery rested in the corner of  the tent, against a ledge of rock.  Looking
at the massive thing,  Atrus felt a justifiable  pride. He had cut  the block of
stone himself and, using Anna's finest cutting tools, had hollowed it, following
the design  in the  ancient D'ni  book. Making  the plates  for the  battery was
comparably easy.  Chemicals lay  in abundance  in the  dry soil  surrounding the
volcano, and he  had been fortunate  to find a  large deposit of  galena-the ore
containing a  mixture of  sul-fur and  lead-not far  from the  cleft. As for the
sulfuric acid  he had  needed, the  one substance  that was  in abundance on the
volcano was sulfur. Indeed, when he finally came to make it, the only thing that
had limited the size of the battery was its weight.

Adjusting his  lenses once  again, Atrus  knelt and  studied it  proudly. He had
spent many nights buffing and polishing  the stone, then, on a whim,  had carved
three ancient D'ni words into  its side, the complex characters  tiny, elaborate
works of art in themselves:

Light. Power. Force.

It looked like a tiny stone house, the metallic glint of its terminals giving it
a strange, exotic look.

Beside it, altogether  different, lay a  second, much smaller  box-the explosive
device. This one  was made of  an unglazed red  clay, cast in  his grandmother's
kiln. Undecorated, the single, rounded aperture on its top face was plugged with
a hard seal  of wax, from  the center of  which jutted a  length of thick  twine
which he had treated  with a solution of  various highly reactive chemicals.  On
its front face was a thick, day handle.

Carefully, he picked it  up and, wrapping it  in his cloak, carried  it outside.
Easing his way over the lip once more, he steadied himself, one hand against the
rough, crumbling wall, as he edged down onto the ledge.

Setting the box down, he turned  and, standing on tiptoe, reached up  and caught
hold of the  thick, metal hook  on the end  of the rope,  gently tugging at  it,
hearing the brake mechanism click then click again on the far side of the rim.

That, too, was his own invention.

On some of the earliest trials of the winch, he had found that the rock  dragged
the rope down  much too quickly,  and when he'd  tried to slow  it, the rope had
burned his palms. After much experimentation,  he had devised a way of  stopping
the supply wheel after each rotation,  so that the winch could only  be operated
by a series of gentle tugs.

Bending down, he picked the box up again and slipped the curved tip of the  hook
through its handle, then  turned back and, holding  the rope out away  from him,
slowly lowered it over the drop. As the rope went taut, he moved back.

There was only one more thing to  do now. Reaching into the inner pocket  of his
cloak, he removed the ancient D'ni tinderbox.

Leaning over, one hand  supporting him against the  rock arm, he held  the flame
beneath the end of the twine fuse on the dangling box, then, when it had caught,
released the catch and stepped back.

For a moment he  thought it had gone  out, then, with a  fizz, it began to  burn
fiercely.

Atrus turned and, half-running up the slope, scrambled over the rim, making  for
the winch.

This was the most crucial part. If  the fuse burned too quickly, or if  for some
reason the winch jammed, things would go wrong.

Kneeling beside the  brake wheel, he  slowly began to  turn it, listening  to it
click and click and click, all the while tensed against a sudden detonation, all
the while counting in his head.

When he'd counted twenty, he threw  himself down, stretched out flat behind  the
pile of stones, his hands over his ears.

... twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six ...

The explosion rocked the  side of the volcano.  It had been four  seconds early,
even  so that  didn't matter,  the box  would have  been in  the correct  place,
opposite the fault.

Atrus laughed, then, dusting  himself off, stood. As  the echoes died, he  could
hear, through the ringing in his  ears, the sound he'd hoped to  hear-the strong
hiss of steam forcing its way  through the cap and an accompanying  high-pitched
mechanical whine.

Still laughing, he climbed  up onto the lip  and looked down. The  winch-arm had
gone, as  had a  large chunk  of the  ledge, but  the vent-protected by the huge
rock-was fine. Steam hissed from the cap in a steady, forceful stream.

Turning, looking down at  Anna where she stood  on the cleftwall, he  raised his
arms and waved to her eagerly, grinning with triumph.

"It  works!" he  yelled, pulling  the mask  down from  his nose  and mouth.  "It
works!"

From below Anna waved back to him, then, cupping her hands before her mouth, she
shouted something, but  it was difficult  to make out  what she was  saying, his
ears were ringing so much. Besides, the furious hissing of the steam, that  high
pitched whine, seemed to grow by  the moment. Co back, she'd said,  or something
like it. Grinning, he  nodded, then, waving to  her again, turned back  to watch
the hissing cap.

"It worked," he  said quietly, noting  how the cap  was trembling now,  rattling
against the four restraining pins. "It really worked."

Climbing down,  he went  across and,  taking care  not to  get too  close, edged
around until he could see the gauges.

Yes! A thrill of excitement went  through him, seeing how both arrows  were deep
in the red. It was passing a chary!

He stood back, grinning, then felt himself  go cold. Even as he watched, one  of
the metal pins  began to move,  easing itself slowly  from its berth  within the
rock, as though some invisible but mighty hand were pulling it from the stone.

Slowly he began to edge away. As he did, the noise from the cap changed,  rising
a full octave, as if that same invisible hand had pressed down on the key of  an
organ.

Atrus  turned and,  scrambling up  the slope  and over  the rim,  began to  run,
ignoring the impact of the heat, fighting it ... but it was like running through
some thick, glutinous substance.  He had gone barely  ten paces when he  tumbled
forward, coming up facing the way he'd come. And as he did, the whole of the rim
behind him seemed to lift into the air.

*   *   *

Coming to, Atrus looked up, surprised by  the sight that met his eyes. On  every
side, the great walls of the volcano stretched up, forming a jagged circle where
they met the startling blueness of the sky.

He was in the crater-the rim must have given way.

Slowly he got to his feet. Steam billowed across the rock-cluttered floor of the
volcano, concealing its far  edges. From time to  time a figure would  form from
the clouds, the crystalline shapes strangely beautiful.

He saw the battery at once. Going over to it, he crouched, then shook his  head,
amazed by its condition. It was virtually untouched. The polished stone exterior
had a few buffs and scratches, but it was still in one piece. Moreover, the dial
on the top showed that it was fully charged.

Atrus laughed,  delighted. Reaching  out, he  smoothed its  upper surface almost
lovingly. At least he  knew now that the  principle was sound. If  he could only
find the right vent, if he could only get the pressure right, then it would work
and they would  have an unlimited  supply of electricity.  Their lives would  be
transformed. The cleft would shine like a cat's eye in the desert night.

Smiling, Atrus raised his  head, looking directly ahead  of him. For a  moment a
cloud of steam obscured his view. Then, as it cleared, he found himself  staring
into blackness.

It was a cave. Or a tunnel of some kind.

He stood, then took a step toward it.

Strange. It  seemed almost  as though  it had  been-carved from  the surrounding
rock.

The steam swirled back, concealing it.

"Atrus!"

He turned, looking up at Anna, high above him, silhouetted against the  crater's
lip.

"Come up! Come up here now!"

Atrus frowned. "But my battery ..."

"Now!"

*   *   *

Walking back, she was unnaturally silent. Then, suddenly, she stopped and turned
to face him.

"Atrus, what did you see?"

"I saw ..." He hesitated, surprised by her question.

"Atrus. Answer me. What did you see?"

"My battery. My battery was charged."

She let out her breath. "And was that all?"

"There was steam. Lots of steam." He frowned, then. "My battery. I've got to get
my battery."

He made  to turn  back, but  she placed  a hand  gently on  his arm. "Forget the
battery. It's too dangerous. Now come, let's clean you up."



CHAPTER 4

The moon  was barely  up when,  making sure  not to  wake his grandmother, Atrus
crept out.  Taking a  rope and  the large  piece of  sack from the storeroom, he
ventured out onto the volcano's slope.

Halfway up the slope he paused, feeling a renewed sense of shock at the  altered
shape  of the  caldera's rim.  That physical  change seemed  somehow linked   to
another, deeper change within himself.

Atrus stood at the  rim, looking down the  loose path that hugged  the volcano's
inner slope. Staring down  into that darkness he  experienced a sense of  threat
he'd not felt before.

He climbed  over the  rim, moving  down into  the darkness,  disconcerted by the
unfamiliar rumbling that emanated  from the depths below.  A tiny shiver ran  up
his spine, stirring the hairs at the back of his neck.

Out on the volcano's floor it  was strangely warm and humid. Atrus  looked about
him, then slowly made his way across, his heart pounding, his eyes searching the
nearest outcrops  of rock.  Steam swirled  and hissed,  wreathing those  shapes,
transforming them in the moons fine, silvered light.

The battery was  where he left  it. For a  moment he crouched  over it, his left
hand resting  loosely on  its familiar  casing. But  his eyes  were drawn to the
tunnel's mouth. Compelled, he walked across.

Then, taking  the tinderbox  from his  inner pocket,  he pressed  the catch  and
stepped inside.

In the glowing light from the tinder he could see how the tunnel stretched  away
into the darkness, sloping gradually, like a giant wormhole cutting through  the
solid rock. It was cool there. Surprisingly so. As if a breeze was blowing  from
within the tunnel.

He walked on, counting his steps. At fifty paces he stopped and turned,  looking
back at the way he'd  come. From where he stood  he could not see the  entrance.
The curve of the tunnel obscured it from sight.

He walked on, as if in some kind of spell, compelled to see where this led.

The smell of sulfur was far less strong than it had been. Other, stranger smells
filled the air. Musty, unfamiliar smells.

Atrus turned and went over to the wall, placing his palm against it. It was cool
and smooth and  dry. He was  about to move  away when some  irregularity farther
down the wall drew his attention. He  walked over to it, holding up the  tinder,
then stopped. Facing him a single word  had been cut into the wall-a huge  thing
half his own height and twice his breadth.

D'ni! There was no mistaking it. It was a D'ni word!

Atrus stared at it, not recognizing it, but committing it to memory.

Until now, he had  only half-believed the things  his grandmother had told  him.
There were days, indeed, when he had imagined that she had made the books on her
shelves herself, in the  same way she seemed  to conjure her paintings  from the
air, or turn a piece of unformed rock into an exquisitely carved figure.

Such thoughts had disturbed him, for he had never known his grandmother to  lie.
Yet the tales were  so strange, so fantastic,  that he found it  hard to believe
that such things had ever really happened.

Atrus began to back away, to head back for the entrance, but as he did he almost
slipped on something  beneath his feet.  It rolled away  from him, beginning  to
glow, softly at first, then brightly, its warm red light filling the tunnel.

He went across and crouched beside  it, putting his hand out tentatively  to see
if it were hot. Satisfied it was  cool, he picked it up, holding it  between his
thumb and forefinger to study it.

It was a small, perfectly rounded  rock-a marble of some kind. He  had collected
rocks and crystals for almost ten years now, but he had never seen its like.  He
cupped it in his right hand, surprised by its lack of warmth.

Dousing the tinder, he slipped it into his pocket, then straightened up, holding
the marble out and looking to see if there were any others, but several minutes'
search revealed no more.

Then, knowing  that time  was pressing,  he turned  and hurried  out, meaning to
raise the battery before Anna woke and wondered where he was.

*   *   *

It took almost an hour for him to drag the battery back up to the rim. Anna came
and helped  him the  last thirty  feet or  so, standing  on the  lip above  him,
straining on the rope, while he knelt and pushed the battery from below.

In silence they carried it down the slope to the cleft.

Anna disappeared over  the cleftwall, returning  a moment later  with a bowl  of
water. Atrus sat, staring at his hands where they lay folded in his lap, waiting
for her to chastise him for disobeying her, but she was silent still.

"It was my fault," he said finally, glancing at her, wondering why she had  said
nothing. "I wanted to put things right."

Expressionless, she handed him the bowl.  "Drink that, then come. I'll make  you
breakfast. I think it's time I told you a story."

*   *   *

Atrus had been sitting  on the ledge beside  the kitchen window, the  empty bowl
beside him as he listened, fascinated, to his grandmother's tale.

He  had heard  all kinds  of tales   from her  across the  years, but  this  was
different; different because,  unlike the others,  there were no  great deeds of
heroism, no man to  match the hour. Yet,  finishing her tale, Annas  voice shook
with emotion.

"... and  so, when  Veovis finally  returned, the  fate of  the D'ni was sealed.
Within a day the great work of millennia was undone and the great caverns of the
D'ni emptied of life. And all because of Ti'ana's mis-judgment."

Atrus was  silent a  while, then  he looked  up at  Anna. "So  you blame Ti'ana,
then?"

She nodded.

"But she couldn't have known, surely? Besides, she did what she thought best."

"To salve her own  conscience, maybe. But was  it best for the  D'ni? There were
others who wanted Veovis  put to death after  the first revolt. If  their voices
had been  listened to  ... if  only Ti'ana  had not  spoken so eloquently to the
Great Council..."

Anna fell silent again, her head lowered.

Atrus frowned, then shook his head. "I didn't know..."

"No ..."  Anna stared  a moment  longer at  her hands,  then looked  to him  and
smiled. "Nor does it really matter now. All that is in the past. The D'ni are no
more. Only the tales remain."

He took  the still-glowing  marble from  his pocket  and held  it out to her. "I
found it on the floor of the volcano."

At the sight of  the marble her whole  countenance changed. " Where  did you say
you found it?"

"In the volcano," he said, his  voice less certain than before. "Near  where the
battery had fallen."

She stared back at him. "In the tunnel?"

"Yes."

Slowly Anna reached out and took the  fire marble from his hand; holding it  up,
she dropped it  suddenly into the  bowl of water  at her side.  Instantly it was
extinguished.

'"You must not go there again, Atrus. It's very dangerous down there."

"But grandmother ..."

She stared at  him, her normally  gentle face harder  than he had  ever seen it.
"You must not go  there again, Atrus. You're  not ready yet. Promise  me, Atrus,
please."

"I promise."

"Good," she said, more softly, reaching out to rest her hand upon his shoulder.

*   *   *

Each afternoon, as the  sun began to descend  and the shadows spread  across the
foot of the cleft, Anna and Atrus would  sit in the cool shade on the low  stone
ledge beside the pool and talk.

Today, Atrus had brought his journal out  and sat there, the ink pot beside  him
on the ledge, copying out the word Anna had drawn on a loose sheet. For a  while
he was silent, concentrating, his keen eyes flicking from Anna's drawing to  his
own, checking he had the complex figure right. Then he looked up.

"Grandmother?"

Anna, who was sitting back with her  head against the cool stone wall, her  eyes
closed, answered him quietly. "Yes, Atrus?"

"I still don't understand. You say  there's no English equivalent to this  word.
But I can't see why that should be. Surely they had the same things as us?"

She opened her eyes and sat forward, stretching out her bare, brown toes,  then,
placing her hands on her knees, she looked at him.

"Words aren't just words, Atrus. Words are ... well, let me see if I can explain
it simply. At the simplest level a  word can be a label. Tree. Sand.  Rock. When
we use such words, we know roughly what is meant by them. We can see them in our
mind's eye. Oh,  what precise kind  of tree, or  sand or rock,  for that we need
further words- words which,  in their turn, are  also labels. A large  tree. Or,
maybe, a palm  tree. Red sand.  Or, maybe, fine  sand. Jagged rocks.  Or, maybe,
limestone rocks. The first word alters our sense of that second word in a fairly
precise manner. At another level, words can represent ideas. Love. Intelligence.
Loyalty. These, as I'm  sure you see at  once, aren't quite so  simple. We can't
simply add an extra  word to clarify what  we mean, particularly when  the ideas
aren't simple  ones. To  get to  the real  meaning of  such concepts  we need to
define them in several ways. Love,  for instance, might be mixed with  pride and
hope, or, perhaps, with jealousy  and fear. Intelligence, likewise, might  refer
to  the unthinking,  instinctive intelligence  of an  ant, or  the deeper,  more
emotionally rooted  intelligence of  a man.  And even  within men,  intelligence
takes on many separate  forms-it can be slow  and deep, or quick  and sparkling.
And loyalty ... loyalty can be the blind loyalty of a soldier to his  commander,
or the stubborn loyalty of a wife to a man who has wronged her. Or..."

She saw he was smiling. "What is it?"

He handed her the  loose sheet back. "I  think I see. At  least, I think I  know
what you were going to say."

Anna  found  herself  grinning,  pleased,   as  ever,  by  his  quickness,   his
perceptiveness. Atrus rarely needed to be told a thing twice, and often, as now,
he was way ahead of her.

"Go on," she said.

Atrus  hesitated,  tilting his  head  slightly, as  he  always did  when  he was
thinking. Then,  choosing his  words carefully,  he began.  "Well, just as those
words  that  describe  ideas  are  a  level  above  the  words  that  are simple
descriptive labels,  so there's  a farther,  more complex  level above that. One
which this D'ni word functions on."

"Yes, and?"

"I see that, but ..." He frowned, then shook his head. "What I can't see is what
could be more complex  than ideas. I can't  picture in my head  what that higher
level might be."

"And that's precisely why there is no English equivalent for this."

"Yes, but ... what does it mean?"

"This word-this particular D'ni word-is to  do with the circulation of the  air.
With wind patterns and humidity."

Atrus stared at her now, his brow knitted. "But... but surely such a word  would
be a label?"

"No. Not this word. This word does more than simply describe."

"Then ..." But he clearly  could not see what she  was driving at. He looked  to
her, his pale eyes pleading for an explanation.

Anna laughed. "You must just accept that there is such a level, Atrus."

"But you said ..."

"I know what I said, and I still mean it. You must question everything and  find
the truth  in it.  But this  once you  must simply  accept what I'm telling you.
There is something beyond  labels and ideas. Something  which is a synthesis  of
the two. Something the D'ni discovered many, many years ago, and learned to  put
into words. One day you will understand more clearly, but for now ..."

She  could see  Atrus was  unhappy with  that. He  had been  taught to  question
everything. To  look with  his own  eyes, and  quantify, and  check. He had been
taught never to accept  things simply because he  had been told they  were true.
And now ... well, now she was asking him to break the habit of his thought.

I should not have had him draw that word, she thought, wondering at the instinct
which had made her do it. He is not yet ready for the Caro-hevtee. Yet generally
she trusted her instincts. Generally they were proved right.

As he looked away, she could see how he was still struggling with the notion  of
how  an idea  could also  be a  label, how  something so  general could  yet  be
specific and descriptive, and  part of her wanted  to put him out  of his misery
and tell him. But he wasn't ready yet.

Anna stood and stretched, then looked about her at the orderliness of the cleft.
Sometimes, in her  imaginings, she thought  of the cleft  and of her  grandson's
mind in much the same vein, as if the one were a metaphor for the other. Yet  at
that moment she understood the inadequacy of the comparison, for just as one day
he would outgrow this tiny living space  and venture out into the world, so  his
thoughts and speculations were certain one day to outgrow her careful  nurturing
of them.

Looking at him, she knew he was destined to be greater than herself. Wiser, more
formidable of mind. Yet  the thought did not  scare her or make  her envious. If
anything, it made her sad, for she got great pleasure from teaching him, and  to
think of losing that...

Anna  sighed, then,  picking her  way carefully  across the  cleft, mounted  the
steps. It was time to make supper.

*   *   *

A full month passed and as the moon came round to full once more, Atrus made his
way idly up the slope, whistling to himself-one of the songs Anna had taught him
as a child: a D'ni song that had  the simplest of tunes. And as he whistled,  he
heard Anna's voice in his head, softly singing the refrain.

As he came to the end of it he looked up, and stopped dead, staring  openmouthed
at the sight that met his eyes.

Ahead of him,  the whole of  the upper slope  was wreathed in  a thick cloud  of
brilliantly white vapor, as  if a thick curtain  had suddenly been dropped  over
the volcano's edge. The mist slowly roiled,  like the steam on the surface of  a
cooking  pot,  neither advancing  nor  retreating, yet  turning  in upon  itself
constantly.

It was so strange, so unlike anything Atrus had ever seen, that he stepped back,
suddenly  afraid. And  as he  did, a  man stepped  from within  that  glistening
whiteness, seeming for  a moment almost  to be a  part of it;  a tall, unearthly
figure with a  large forehead and  a strong, straight  nose, over the  bridge of
which were strapped a  pair of glasses identical  to Atrus's own. A  white cloak
flapped  out  behind the  stranger,  giving him  the  appearance of  some  great
mythical king.

Rooted to the spot, Atrus watched  the stranger walk down the slope  toward him,
his fear transformed to awe by the strength and energy, the controlled power and
cold assurance of the creature who approached.

Atrus staggered back, astonished. Above him, the figure stopped and, lifting the
thick lenses that covered his eyes, squinted down at Atrus.

"I see you have my glasses."

Atrus stared, unable to answer. The man  who stood above him was as pale  as the
moon, his  hair as  white as  bleached marble,  and the  irises of his eyes were
huge,  a  thin circle  of  pale green  about  them. His  cheekbones  were finely
chiseled and yet strong, his hands both delicate and powerful. Everything  about
him-from the cut of his clothes to his aristocratic demeanor-spoke of an  innate
strength allied to an  effortless elegance. He seemed  old, certainly, but in  a
timeless way that reminded Atrus of his grandmother.

He stared back at Atrus, as an eagle stares, then spoke again. "Well, boy?  Have
you no greeting for your father?"

"My ..." Recognition hit Atrus like a physical blow. He shook his head. "I ..."

"What's your name?"

"Atrus ..."

"Atrus ... of course ..."The man stretched  out a hand and placed it on  Atrus's
head, the contact like an electric shock. "And I am Gehn, son of Atrus."

Atrus swallowed.  He was  dreaming. For  certain he  was dreaming.  Nervously he
touched his tongue  against his upper  lip, feeling the  hard, salty shape  of a
grit of sand.

No. Not a dream.

"Gehn," Atrus said softly, echoing the word.

The  stranger nodded,  then removed  his hand.  "Good. Now  go and  inform  your
grandmother that she has a visitor."

*   *   *

Atrus ran down  the moonlit slope,  calling to Anna  loudly as he  ran, the dust
flying  up behind  him. As  he came  to" the  cleftwall, he  almost vaulted  it,
forgetting to remove his sandals.

"Grandmother! Grandmother!"

Her head poked from the kitchen window, startled. "What's happened?"

Atrus stood on the swaying bridge, breathless, gasping his answer. "A  strangers
come! He sent me on ahead!"

Anna's mouth fell open. "Gehn ..."  she said, almost whispering the word.  Then,
collecting herself, she ducked back inside. There was the sound of a metal  bowl
falling against the stone floor, and then the outside door flew open.  Barefoot,
she hurried down the steps that hugged the wall, her haste surprising Atrus.

"Grandmother?"

But she barely  seemed to heed  him as she  circled the narrow  rim of the inner
wall and began to climb the rung ladder.

Atrus turned,  watching as  she clambered  up onto  the cleftwall,  even as  the
stranger with the ash-white hair, the man who called himself his father,  strode
across and stopped, barely ten feet from the cleft.

"Mother?" he asked quietly, tilting his head slightly.

"Gehn," she  said once  more, hesitating.  Then she  stepped closer, hugging him
tightly. "Where have you been, my son?  Why in the Makers name did you  not come
back?"

But Atrus, watching, noticed how the warmth of her embrace was not reciprocated,
how lightly the stranger's hands touched her shoulders, how distant he was as he
stepped back from her, like a great lord from one of the tales.

"I came to see the child," he said, as if he'd not heard her. "I came to see  my
son."

*   *   *

Atrus lay sprawled out on his belly  on top of the cleftwall, staring across  at
the shadowed rectangle of the kitchen, and at the bright square of the window in
which Anna and  the newcomer were  framed. Though the  two had been  talking for
some while now, little  of real importance had  been said. Even so,  there was a
strange  tension  between them.  Anna,  particularly, seemed  to  be walking  on
eggshells, afraid to say too much, yet keen to know where Gehn had been and what
he had done. By comparison, Gehn was relatively taciturn, ignoring her questions
when it suited him not to answer them.

Just now, Gehn  was sitting on  the polished stone  ledge, to the  right of the"
tiny galley kitchen,  beside the door,  his booted feet  spread wide, his  long,
delicate hands resting on his knees, as he looked up at Anna. He had removed his
cloak. Beneath it he  wore a close-cut suit  of midnight blue, the  jacket edged
with scarlet and decorated with a  pattern of repeated symbols in red  and green
and yellow. It was so rich, so marvelous, Atrus could barely keep his eyes  from
it. But there were other fantastic things to be seen, not least of which was the
pipe that lay beside him on the ledge.

The bottom of  the pipe was  a hollowed wooden  bowl, from which  a shaped glass
stock, trimmed with silver, led to a curved copper mouthpiece. A tiny domed  cap
was set into the bowl  in front of the stock,  while at the center of  the bowl,
feeding into the glass of the stock, was a thick silver spindle.

As Atrus  watched, Gehn  took a  tiny glass  sphere from  a pouch  in the  thick
leather belt he wore. Turning it upside down, Gehn shook it gently, revealing  a
clear liquid that moved slowly,  glutinously, its surface reflecting the  yellow
lamplight like oil.

Resting the sphere on his knees, Gehn  unscrewed the lid to the spindle and  set
it aside, then poured  a tiny amount of  the liquid into the  stock and replaced
the  lid. Then,  taking a  small leather  bag from  his jacket  pocket, he  took
something from inside.

Atrus gasped. It  looked like the  marble he had  found earlier. Gehn  placed it
within the domed cap.

Anna turned from where she stood and looked at Gehn. "Will you be staying long?"

Gehn glanced at  her, then replaced  the lid of  the cap. "No.  I have to  leave
tomorrow," he answered, his voice heavily accented.

"Ah ..." There  was regret in  Annas voice; hurt  in those dark,  familiar eyes.
"It's just that ... well,  I thought you might stay  with Atrus a while. Get  to
know him, perhaps. He's a good boy. You'd be proud of him. And after all ..."

Gehn tightened the cap and looked up at her, his face expressionless. "I  intend
to take him with me."

Anna turned, facing him, shock in her face. "With you?"

Atrus, watching from the darkness, felt  his pulse quicken, his mouth grow  dry.
His heart was thudding in his chest.

Gehn  lifted the  pipe, staring  at it,  then cupped  it between  his hands  and
pressed his thumb down on the silver spindle. There was a snapping sound and the
pipe seemed to  come alive, burning  briefly with a  fierce blue light.  After a
moment, that same light filled the whole  of the stock, making the strange,  oil
like liquid gently bubble.

In that strange, unearthly light, Gehn's face seemed very different, the shadows
inverted.

"Yes," he answered, meeting Anna's eyes. "Have you a problem with that?"

"But Atrus belongs here..."

"Here?" There was incredulity in Gehn's voice. "And where is here? Nowhere, that
is where. A hole in the ground, that's all this is. Yes, and that's all it  will
ever be. This is no place for a son of mine. No place at all."

Anna fell silent, watching Gehn as he lifted the copper mouthpiece to his  mouth
and inhaled, the  muscles in her  cheek twitching oddly.  Then she spoke  again,
quieter than before, yet with a firmness Atrus recognized at once. "But he's not
ready yet. He's too young. There's so much he has to learn ..."

Taking the pipe from his mouth, Gehn interrupted her. "Of course Atrus is ready.
Why,  he is  exactly the  age I  was when  I first  left here.  And as  for  his
education, that is the very reason I returned, so that I could teach him."

"You?"

Anna's tone was incredulous, yet Gehn seemed indifferent to her criticism.  "Who
better? I am, at least, educated to the task. And I am his father."

Gehn set the pipe down and leaned toward Anna, frowning. "You did tell him about
me?"

She looked away, a tightness in her face.

Gehn stood, angry now. "You mean  you told him nothing? Kerath damn  you, woman!
How could you?"

Anna kept her voice low, conscious of Atrus outside, listening. "And what was  I
to say? That his father left the very hour he was born? That he didn't even care
enough to name him?"

"I would have called him Atrus. You know that."

She turned  back, glaring  at him,  suddenly, explosively  angry. "Yes,  but you
didn't! I did. Yes, and  I raised him. Me, Gehn,  not you. And now you  want him
back, as though he  were a parcel you'd  left with me for  safekeeping! But boys
aren't parcels, Gehn! They're living, growing things. And Atrus hasn't  finished
his growing."

"I  shall decide  that," he  said gruffly.  "Besides, he  can help  me with   my
studies. Be my assistant."

"Your assistant?"

"In my researches. I  have need of a  willing helper, and the  boy seems willing
enough."

"Researches into what?"

"Into the D'ni culture."

"The D'ni?" Anna laughed bitterly. "All that has gone. Don't you understand that
yet?"

"No," he answered, drawing himself up, a note of pride entering his voice.  "You
are  wrong. That  is where  I have  been these  past fourteen  years. In   D'ni.
Researching, studying,  seeking out  the great  and mighty  secrets of  the D'ni
culture." He gave a single, dignified nod. "I tell you, none of it was lost.  It
is still all there."

Atrus, watching, felt  a shiver go  down his spine,  a tiny ripple  of disbelief
making him feel, for that instant, that he was in a dream.

Still then? But that was impossible, surely?

Anna shook her head dismissively. "No, Gehn. You forget. I've seen it with these
eyes. It's gone. Destroyed. Can't you accept that? Can't you forget the past?"

Gehn  stared back  at her  coldly, imperiously,  accepting nothing.  "Oh, I  can
easily believe that_yoM would like to forget it!"

She stared back at him silently.

"You never valued it, did you?" he continued, not sparing her. "You never  cared
for it the way I cared. But I am not having that for my son. I want him to  know
about his past.  I want him  to be proud  of it, the  way I am  proud of it." He
bristled with indignation. "I shall not betray him the way you betrayed iml"

"Gehn! How can you say that? I did my best for iff you!

"Your hisfi And how good was your best? This hole in the ground you call a home?
Is this your best?"

Anna looked away. "Atrus should decide. You can't just take him."

Gehn leaned right  in to her,  his face only  inches from her  own. "Of course I
can. I am the boys father. It is my right."

"Then let me  come with you.  Let me look  after the boy  while you are teaching
him."

Gehn shook his head. "That would not be right. It would not be the D'ni way.  Or
do you forget that also?  Do you forget how you  gave me up to the  Guild when I
was but four years old."

"But..."

His voice overrode hers harshly. "But nothing. He is coming with me and that  is
that. If you wish to  help, you might pack a  knapsack for him for the  journey.
Not that he'll need much."

"But Gehn ..." She reached  out to touch his arm,  but he pulled away from  her.
Turning, Gehn reached down and picked up his pipe, then, tugging open the  door,
he stepped out, into the open air.

For a moment he  stood there, turned away  from where Atrus lay,  drawing on his
pipe, the  light from  the kitchen  making a  silhouette of  him, then he turned
back, his chest and arms and face revealed in the faint blue glow of the pipe.

"Atrus?"  he  said, speaking  to  the boy  where  he lay  on  his belly  on  the
cleftwall. "Go to bed now and get  some sleep. We shall be leaving early  in the
morning."



CHAPTER 5

Crouching besides across and, careful not  to disturb the earth, plucked one  of
the delicate blue flowers. Placing it in the journal he had open on his knee, he
closed the book gently, then slipped  it into the small leather knapsack  at'his
side.

For a moment he simply stared, taking  in the sight. In the half-light he  could
not discern their proper color, yet he  had only to close his eyes and  he could
see the flowers in the sunlight, like a quilt of lilac lain on that bed of rich,
dark earth.

Goodbye, he said silently.

To be truthful, Atrus did not  really know what to feel. Excitement?  Certainly,
the  prospect of  traveling- of  seeing D'ni-thrilled  him, yet  the thought  of
leaving here, of  leaving Anna, frightened  him. Too much  had happened far  too
quickly. He felt torn.

"Atrus! Come now. We must go."

He turned, looking across  at the figure silhouetted  against the dawn light  at
the far end of the cleftwall, and nodded.

Anna was waiting  for him close  by. Embracing her,  he felt a  kind of panic, a
fear of not  seeing her again,  well up in  him. She must  have sensed it,  for,
squeezing him tightly,  she then moved  back, away from  him, holding his  upper
arms and smiling at him.

"Don't worry now,"  she said softly.  "I'll be all  right. The store's  full and
what with all those  improvements you've made for  me, I'll not know  what to do
with myself half the time."

Her kind  face lit  vith a  smile. "Besides,  your father  has promised me he'll
bring you back three months from now to visit.

"Three months?" The news cheered him immensely.

"Yes, so you must not worry."

She  reached  down,  then handed  him  his  pack. He  had  watched  her earlier,
selecting various items from their meager  store and placing them into the  pack
for  his journey,  including all  of the  tiny cakes  she had  cooked only   the
previous day. Atrus stared at the pack, his fingers brushing lightly against its
brightly embroidered cloth, moved by  the simple care she took  over everything,
knowing he would miss that.

"Now listen to me, Atrus."

Atrus  looked  up,  surprised  by how  serious  her  voice  suddenly was.  "Yes,
grandmother?"

Her  dark, intelligent  eyes searched  his. "You  must remember  what you   have
learned here, Atrus. I  have tried to teach  you the mechanics of  the earth and
stars; the ways of science and the workings of nature. I have tried to teach you
what is good and what is to be valued, truths which cannot be shaken or changed.
This knowledge is  from the Maker.  Take it with  you and weigh  everything your
father teaches you against it."

Anna paused,  then leaned  in toward  him slightly,  lowering her  voice. "I  no
longer know  him, but  I know  you, Atrus.  Measure your  own deeds  against the
truths 1 have taught you. If you act for self-gain then no good can come of  it.
If you act selflessly, then you act well for all and you must not be afraid."

Anna moved back, smiling once more. "The journey down will be long and hard  but
I want you to be brave, Atrus. More than that, I want you to be truthful. To  be
a better son to your father than fate allowed him to be with his."

"I don't  understand ..."  he began,  but she  shook her  head, as  if it didn't
matter.

"Do what your  father asks. But  most of all,  Atrus, do not  violate what is in
your nature. You understand me?"

"I think so, grandmother."

"Then I have no fears for you."

He embraced her again, gripping her tightly and kissing her neck. Then,  turning
from her, he climbed the steps and crossed the rope bridge.

At the cleftwall he turned, looking back at her, his eyes briefly taking in  the
familiar sights  of the  cleft, its  shape like  a scar  in his memory. Anna had
climbed the steps and now stood on the narrow balcony outside her room.  Lifting
an arm, she waved.

"Take care on your journey down. I'll see you in three months."

Atrus waved back,  then, heaving a  deep sigh, turned  and jumped down  from the
wall, following his father up the slope of the volcano.

*   *   *

They were in the tunnel.

"Father?"

Gehn turned and, holding the lantern high, looked back down the tunnel at Atrus.
"What is it, boy?"

Atrus lifted his own lamp and pointed  at the D'ni symbol carved into the  wall;
the symbol he had  seen that morning after  the experiment. "This sign,  father.
What does it mean?"

Gehn motioned to him  impatiently. "Come on now,  Atrus. Catch up. We've  wasted
enough time as it is. There will be occasion for such things later."

Atrus  stared  at  the  intricate  symbol  a  moment  longer,  then,  hiding his
disappointment, turned away, hurrying to catch up with his father.

"We need to make up time," Gehn said, as Atrus came alongside. "The journey is a
long one and I have several experiments  in progress. I must be back in  time to
see how they have developed."

"Experiments?"  Atrus  asked,  excited  by  the  sound  of  it.  "What  kind  of
experiments?"

"Important ones," Gehn answered, as if that were sufficient to satisfy his son's
curiosity. "Now hurry. There will be time to talk when we reach the first of the
eder tomahn."

Atrus looked up at his father. "Eder tomahn?"

Gehn glanced at his son as he strode on. "The eder tomahn are way stations. Rest
houses, you might term them. In the days of the late empire there were plans  to
have commerce with the  world of men. Such  plans, fortunately, did not  come to
pass, yet the paths were forged  through the earth and rest houses  prepared for
those D'ni messengers who would venture out."

Atrus looked back at his father, astonished. "And this tunnel? Is this D'ni?"

Gehn shook his head.  "No. This is simply  a lava tube. Thousands  of years ago,
when the volcano was still active, hot lava ran through this channel, carving  a
passage to the surface."

Again Atrus felt a surge of disappointment. The walls of the tunnel had been  so
smooth, its shape  so perfectly round,  he had been  sure it must  have been the
product of D'ni construction.

"Yes," Gehn continued, "but  you will see things  before our journeys done  that
will make you forget this tiny wormhole. Now, come over to the left, Atrus,  and
get behind me. The tunnel slopes steeply just ahead."

Atrus did as he was told, keeping close behind his father, careful not to  slip,
his left hand keeping his balance against the curved wall of the lava tube,  his
san-daled feet gripping the hard, dry floor. All went well until, by chance,  he
turned and looked back up the tunnel. Then, with a sudden rush of understanding,
he realized where  he was. The  darkness behind him  seemed suddenly oppressive.
Who knew what waited back there beyond the lanterns glow?

He turned back, realizing just how dependent on his father he was. If he were to
lose himself down here ...

Ahead of him Gehn had stopped. "Slowly now," he said, looking back at Atrus. "It
ends just here. Now we go down The Well."

Atrus blinked, seeing how the tunnel ended in a perfect circle up ahead.  Beyond
it was simple blackness. He went out and stood beside his father on the  narrow,
crescent-shaped ledge, overwhelmed by the sight that met his eyes.

In front of  them lay a  giant oval of  blackness-a chasm so  huge it seemed you
could drop a whole volcano into it.

The Well.

Gehn raised  his lamp,  letting its  light glint  wetly off  the far wall of the
great shaft, revealing the massive stri-ations of the rock, then pointed to  his
left.

"Just there. See, Atrus? See the steps?"

Atrus saw them,  cut like the  thread of a  screw into the  uneven sides of  the
great hole,  but the  thought of  using them,  of descending  that vast shaft by
their means, frightened him.

Gehn looked to him. "Would you like to go first, Atrus, or shall I?"

Atrus swallowed, then spoke, keeping the fear from his voice. "You'd better. You
know the way."

"Yes," Gehn said, giving his son a knowing smile. "I do, don't I?"

For the first hundred steps or so, the steps passed through a narrow tunnel  cut
into the edge of  the chasm with only  a thin gap low  down by the floor  to the
right, but then,  suddenly, the right-hand  wall seemed to  melt away and  Atrus
found himself out in the open, staring down into that massive well of  darkness.
Startled by the sight, he stumbled and his right sandal came away, toppling over
the edge and into the darkness.

He stood there a  moment, gasping, his back  against the wall, trying  to regain
his nerve. But suddenly he found himself obsessed with the idea of falling  into
that darkness; and not just falling, but deliberately throwing himself. The urge
was so strange and overpowering it made the hairs at the back of his neck  stand
on end.

Below him, almost directly opposite  him across the great shaft,  Gehn continued
his descent, unaware, it seemed, of the immense danger, stepping lightly, almost
effortlessly, down the spiral, his  lamplight casting flickering shadows on  the
groined  and striated  rock, before  he vanished  inside another  of the  narrow
tunnels.

I must go on, Atrus told himself, freeing his left foot from the sandal; yet the
fear he felt froze his muscles. It was like a dream, an evil dream. Even so,  he
forced himself to  move, taking first  one step and  then another, each  step an
effort of sheer will.

If I fall I die. If I fall...

His father's voice echoed across that vast open space. "Atrus?"

He  stopped,  his  shoulder  pressed against  the  wall,  and  closed his  eyes.
"Y...yes, father?"

"Do you  want me  to come  back to  you? Would  you like  me to  hold your hand,
perhaps?"

He  wanted to  say yes,  but something  in Gehn's  voice, the  faintest tone  of
criticism,  stopped  him.  He  opened  his  eyes  again  and,  steeling himself,
answered. "No ... I'll be all right."

"Good. But not so slow, eh? We cannot  spend too much time here. Not if I  am to
be back in time."

Controlling his fear, Atrus began to descend once more.

Imagine you're inside a tree, he told himself. Imagine it.

And suddenly he could see  it vividly, as if it  were an illustration in one  of
his grandmother's  books. He  could picture  it in  the brilliant  sunlight, its
branches stretching from horizon to horizon, a tiny crescent moon snagged  among
its massive leaves. Why, even the  blades of grass about its trunk  were several
times the height of a man!

Halfway down, there was  a depression in the  side of the shaft-a  kind of cave.
Whether it was natural or D'ni-made,  Atrus couldn't tell, but Gehn was  waiting
for him there, sitting on a carved stone ledge, calmly smoking his pipe.

"Are you all right, Atrus?" he asked casually.

"I'm fine now," Atrus answered genuinely. "There was a moment..."

He fell silent, seeing  that his father wasn't  listening. Gehn had taken  out a
tiny notebook  with a  tanned leather  cover and  was studying  it as he smoked.
Atrus glimpsed a diagram of paths and tunnels.

With a tiny grunt, Gehn closed the book and pocketed it again, then looked up at
Atrus.

"You go ahead. I'll finish my pipe, then catch up with you."

*   *   *

It was several hours hard walking through a labyrinth of twisting tunnels before
they finally  came to  the eder  tomahn. The  D'ni way  station was built into a
recess of a large cave, its  black, perfectly finished marble in stark  contrast
to the cave's  natural limestone. Atrus  walked over to  it and, holding  up the
lantern, ran his fingers across the satin-smooth surface, marveling at the  lack
of evident joints between the blocks,  the way his own image was  reflected back
to him in the stone. It was as though the stone had been baked like melted  tar,
then set and polished like a mirror.

Real, Atrus thought, amazed by it.

Gehn meanwhile had  walked across to  face the door,  which was deeply  recessed
into the stone. Reaching into the neck  of his tunic, he drew out a  magnificent
golden chain which, until that moment, had been hidden from sight. On the end of
it was a bevel-edged key, a  thick, black thing streaked with red.  Placing this
to one  of the  matching shapes  recessed into  the door,  Gehn pushed  until it
clicked. There was a moment's silence, then a strange clunk-clunk-clunk and  the
sound of a metal grating sliding back.

He removed the key and  stepped back. As he did,  the door slid into the  stone,
revealing a dimly lit interior.

Gehn stepped inside. Atrus, following,  stopped just inside the room,  surprised
at  how  big it  was.  There were  low,  utility bunks  to  either side  of  the
dormitory-sized room and a door at the end led through to what Atrus assumed was
either a kitchen or a washroom of some kind. He looked to his father.

"Why are we stopping?"

To his  surprise, Gehn  yawned. "Because  the hour  is late,"  he answered. "And
because I am tired."

"But I thought..."

Gehn raised  his hand,  as if  to stop  any further  argument. Then, turning, he
gestured toward  a large  knapsack that  rested on  the bunk  in the  right-hand
corner.

"That is yours," Gehn said unceremoniously. "You can change now or later, it  is
entirely up to you."

Atrus went across and, unfastening the leather buckle, looked inside.  Frowning,
he tipped the bag up, spilling its contents onto the mattress.

Standing back, he gave a little laugh, surprised, then turned, looking to  Gehn,
who was sitting on the edge of one of the facing bunks, pulling off his boots.

"Thank you," he said. "I'll change later, if that's all right."

Gehn grunted. "Do as you will, lad. But I would not sleep in the boots if I were
you. I don't know if they fit. I had to guess at the size."

Atrus turned back, gently  brushing one of the  boots with his fingertips,  then
lifted it,  cradling it,  sniffing in  its rich,  deep smell.  It was  strangely
beautiful. Studying it, he could see that it had never been worn before.

Beside  the  knee-length boots,  there  was a  cloak-a  smaller version  of  his
father's, a black  shirt with a  strange book symbol  on it, a  skull-shaped hat
made of some kind of metal that  seemed soft unless you really pressed it  hard,
and a small leather-and-metal pouch.

Atrus  squatted  on the  edge  of the  bed  to examine  this  last, untying  the
drawstring and peering inside.  For a moment he  didn't understand, then with  a
gasp of delight, he poured a number of the tiny objects out into his palm.

Fire-marbles' It was a  whole pouch of fire-marbles!  Why, there must have  been
fifty, sixty of them!

He looked to his father, meaning to  thank him again, but Gehn was sprawled  out
on his back, fast asleep.

Going across, Atrus stood there a  moment, staring down at his father.  In sleep
he could see  the similarities to  Anna, in the  shape of Gehn's  chin and mouth
particularly. Both  had striking,  noble faces.  Both had  that same  mixture of
strength and  delicacy in  their features.  Yes, now  that he  had the chance to
really look he  could see that  it was only  the pallor of  Gehn's skin, the ash
whiteness of his hair  that made him seem  so different. That and  the dignified
austerity of his manner.

Noticing that Gehn  had removed only  one of his  boots, Atrus gently  eased the
other boot  off and  set the  two side  by side  at the  head of the bunk. Then,
taking the cover from the adjacent bunk, he spread it out over his father.

He was about to move away, when something drew his attention. Reaching down,  he
picked  up the  pipe from  where it  had fallen.  For a  moment he  held it  up,
studying  the  engravings  that  covered  the  silver  bands  about  the  stock,
astonished by the detail of the  work. Curious, he placed the spout  beneath his
nose and sniffed. It had a strange, sweet scent; the same as that he had noticed
on his father's breath.

With a  sigh, Atrus  placed the  pipe beside  the boots,  then went back across,
sitting there  a while,  his ringers  idly sorting  the fire-marbles, noting the
variations of color and size. Then, putting them away, he set the pouch down  on
the floor beside the bunk and stretched  out, his hands behind his head. He  was
asleep in an instant.

*   *   *

He woke to find Gehn shaking him.

"Come on, lad.  We have a  long journey ahead  of us today.  Get changed and  we
shall be off"

Atrus sat up slowly,  wondering where he was,  surprised not to find  himself on
the  ledge  in  his  own  room, his  mattress  beneath  him,  the  smell of  his
grandmother's cooking in the air.

Knuckling his eyes, he put his feet round onto the floor, struck at once by  how
cold it was, how damp the air.

Feeling sluggish and despondent Atrus stood, beginning to dress, the texture and
smell of the new clothes- their  smooth softness after the roughness of  his own
garments-making him feel strange. Pulling  on the boots, he felt  extremely odd,
transformed almost, as if the change went deeper than the surface of appearance.

Atrus looked about  him, as if  at any moment  he might wake,  but he could  not
delude himself: he was  awake, and he was  traveling with his father,  down into
the depths of the earth.

That thought now  thrilled him. He  looked to Gehn.  "Will we reach  D'ni today,
father?"

"No. Not today."

Disappointed, Atrus turned back, beginning to pack away his surface clothes, but
Gehn, seeing  what he  was doing,  came across  and pulled  them from  the pack,
throwing them to the  floor. "You will not  need those rags now,  Atrus. You are
D'ni now. You shall wear only D'ni clothes henceforth."

Atrus stared at the discarded clothes, reluctant to part with them. They were  a
link  to  the past,  to  Anna and  the  cleft. To  leave  them here  seemed  ...
impossible.

"Well, boy? What are you waiting for?"

Atrus looked up, stung by the sharpness in his father's voice, then, remembering
his promise to Anna,  bowed his head obediently.  Slipping his own bag  into die
knapsack, he packed the pouch of fire-marbles and the strange protective hat.

"Good," Gehn  said, nodding  decisively as  he heaved  his knapsack  up onto his
shoulders. "We shall eat as we go along."

Atrus blinked, wondering just what his father had in mind, but it was clear Gehn
was in no mood for explanations. Buckling his own knapsack, Atrus threw it  over
his shoulder, then followed his father out.

*   *   *

They went down through an ant's nest of damp, narrow tunnels that, from time  to
time, would open out into small caverns before running on into the rock.

At the bottom of a particularly  steep and narrow tunnel, they emerged  into the
largest cavern they had yet encountered. The ceiling was forty, maybe fifty feet
above them, while the light from their lanterns revealed only the nearer end  of
the tunnel, the far  end being obscured in  darkness. Ahead and to  their left a
long pool hugged the rock,  while to the right the  way was made difficult by  a
jumbled slope of small boulders.

Stopping, Gehn removed his pack and took out what looked to Atrus like some sort
of pot  or caddy.  Setting it  down, he  then took  out his  hat and, turning to
Atrus, gestured that he should do the same.

"The way gets difficult from here," he said. "You'll be grateful for those boots
before long."

But Atrus wasn't so  sure. The boots might  look beautiful and smell  wonderful,
but already both of his heels and the  outside of the big toe on his right  foot
were beginning to rub uncomfortably.

Taking his  knapsack off,  he found  the D'ni  helmet and  strapped it  on, then
looked to his father. Gehn shrugged on his pack, then, reaching down, picked  up
i  <i   a the pot.

"Come on" he said, turning to smile at Atrus. "I think you might like this  next
part."

Atrus nodded, then reached  down to retrieve his  pack. As he did,  the whole of
the cave in front  of him lit up  as if a breach  had suddenly been made  in the
roof and the sunlight had rushed in. He looked up, startled, seeing at once that
the brilliant light emanated from the "pot," a broad and powerful beam spreading
to fill  the far  end of  the cavern,  revealing a  sight so  amazing that Atrus
blinked and rubbed the backs of his hands over his eyes.

It was like a waterfall of crystal, cascading from the ceiling to the floor, its
melted, flowing forms unlike anything Atrus had ever seen.

"What is it?" Atrus asked,  a note of pure awe  in his voice as he  followed his
father  up onto  that great  pile of  rocks, his  eyes drawn  constantly to  the
glistening, crystalline curtain.

"It's called dripstone," Gehn answered matter-of- factly, moving the beam of the
torch across  the frozen  face of  it. "It's  formed by  mineral deposits in the
water leaking through the  roof of the cavern,  building up over thousands  upon
thousands  of  years. Such  deposits  take many  forms-flowstone  and dripstone,
stalactites and stalagmites, shelfstone and helictites. Some are as delicate  as
lace, others as brutal  as the rock itself."  Gehn laughed. "Never fear,  Atrus.
You will see many such wonders in the next few hours."

As they came close, Atrus stopped,  staring open-mouthed at the sight. He  would
never have guessed, never  in a thousand years-but  Gehn was already moving  on,
down the  slope toward  the entrance  to another  tunnel. Taking  one last look,
Atrus turned, then clambered down the rock, hurrying to catch up.

*   *   *

Gehn had  not been  wrong. In  the hours  that followed  Atrus saw  a dozen such
splendors-caves filled  with long,  delicate columns  no thicker  than his  arm,
jutting like an inverted crystal forest from the ceiling, or huge but delicately
ridged candles,  endless fringes  of tiny,  frozen fingers  dripping from  them,
melting into the fluid rock. At the same time, however, his boots began to chafe
him badly.  Discomfort became  soreness, which  in turn  became pain, such that,
after a while, Atrus could not take a single step without wincing.

When, finally, they  stopped, in a  long, low cave  that was edged  with shallow
pools, the first thing he did was to remove one of his boots.

Gehn came across and knelt beside him. "Show me."

Gingerly, he let  Gehn take his  foot by the  ankle and study  it. The skin  had
rubbed away in three  separate places. Blood streaked  his heel and between  his
toes.

Gehn  looked up  at him  soberly, as  if to  judge his  reaction. "I  have  some
ointment in my pack. It ought to alleviate your discomfort."

Atrus quickly applied the cream and bandaged his feet, then pulled on his  boots
again.

"Good," Gehn said, pleased with him. "Then let us proceed. The path begins  just
ahead of us."

Atrus stood slowly, flexing his toes within the bandages. "The path?"

"Into D'ni," Gehn said, slipping his pack back on.

The words raised Atrus's spirits, making him momentarily forget his injuries.

D'ni! he thought, his  mind filled with a  dozen colorful images from  the tales
his grandmother had told him over the years. D'ni!

*   *   *

Atrus stared up at  the elaborately decorated stone  and metal arch that  framed
the entrance to the tunnel, then turned, looking to his father.

"Are we there?"

"No," Gehn answered, "but this |is where the path begins."

Immediately beneath  the great  arch, the  tunnel floor  was smoothly paved, the
floor covered in  an intricate, abstract  swirl of variously  colored stones and
metals that  seemed to  merge and  melt and  never repeat  itself. The  path ran
arrow-straight into  the tunnel,  neither rising  nor falling,  in a manner that
suggested it had been cut by the D'ni, not bored by natural forces.

Following Gehn, Atrus  stepped beneath the  arch, their booted  feet clicking on
the marbled  floor, the  sound echoed  back and  forth along  the tunnel. He was
limping now, trying  not to put  too much weight  on his right  foot, but he was
determined not to complain.

When will we be there? he wanted to ask, bursting with the excitement he felt at
the thought of finally seeing  D'ni, but he could see  how Gehn was lost in  his
thoughts and was loath to disturb him.

Partway down the tunnel the air seemed to change, to grow warmer, stuffier,  and
suddenly there was an  old, familiar smell in  his nostrils. Sulfur! It  was the
sharp, eye-stinging tang of sulfur.

Gehn turned and gestured to him. "You had best put your lenses on, lad."

Atrus did as he was told; then,  feeling in his tunic pocket, he pulled  out the
one item of his clothing he had managed to save, the mask Anna had made for him,
and  tied it  about his  nose and  mouth. Then,  wincing, he  hobbled after  his
father.

Slowly the  tunnel grew  brighter, warmer,  the air  stuffier. The  tunnel ended
abruptly in a sheer drop. Ahead the D'ni path ran on, smoothly, uninterrupted it
seemed, on giant pillars  of stone. Below it,  no more than eighty  feet beneath
where Atrus  stood, was  a bubbling  lake of  lava, black  at the edges, a fiery
golden yellow at the center.

The heat was intense, the fumes  almost suffocating. Gehn, he noted, now  wore a
mask about his mouth and nose, and for a moment he wondered what his father  had
meant to do, whether he'd meant him to venture out across that lake without  any
form of protection.

The thought disturbed him.

Gehn turned, beckoning him on. "Walk  quickly," he said, "and don't pause  for a
moment. Things are much cooler on the other side."

Atrus hesitated, then followed his father out onto the bridge, the heat from the
path immediately evident, even through the  thick soles of his boots. Ten  paces
on and  he was  half-running, trying  to keep  his feet  off the  stingingly hot
paving.

Ahead, he now realized, the bridge, which he'd thought continuous, was breached.
A single span had collapsed, leaving- a jagged gap, over which a narrow beam  of
D'ni stone had been laid.

He watched his father cross this narrow causeway effortlessly, without  breaking
stride, yet when he came to it Atrus found himself unable to go on.

Just below him the red hot  surface seemed to slowly undulate, like  some living
thing, a great bubble  of superheated air emerging  every now and then  to break
the surface  with a  giant "glop,"  the air  filled suddenly  with steam and the
stinging scent of sulfur.

Atrus was coughing now. His feet seemed to be burning and his chest felt fit  to
burst. If he did not cross the beam soon he would collapse.

"Come on.'" Gehn urged from the other side. "Don't stop, boy.' Get going  again.
You're almost there!"

His head was swimming now and he felt  that any moment he would fall. And if  he
fell ...

He took  three paces  out onto  the beam,  feeling its  intense heat through the
thick leather of his boots.

"Come on!" his father urged,  but he could not move.  It was as if he,  too, had
been turned to stone.

"Come on!"

The beam lurched under him and for a moment he thought he was going to fall, but
some instinct took hold of him. As  the narrow beam tilted, he jumped, his  feet
thudding against the stone on the other side.

His vision blurred. He couldn't breathe. Staggering, he took a step backward ...



CHAPTER 6

Atrus woke in a cool, brightly-lit cavern, the air of which was fresh and  sweet
after the air in the lava cavern. There was a blanket over him and from close by
he  could hear  the echoing  drip drip  drip of  water. Shivering,  he sat   up,
wondering where he was,  and immediately saw his  father, less than thirty  feet
away,  standing  beside a  pool,  the surface  of  which seemed  to  glow as  if
illuminated from below.

His feet and legs ached and  his head still felt strangely heavy,  but otherwise
he felt  all right.  Piecing things  together, he  began to  understand. He  had
almost fallen from the bridge. His father must have rescued him.

Thinking of it,  he looked down,  smiling. It was  the kind of  thing Anna would
have done. The same  thing he himself would  have done had their  positions been
reversed.

Atrus looked across again, trying to get  the measure of this man-this  stranger
who had come into his life so suddenly and changed it. He was strange, there was
no doubting it, and his manner was  abrupt almost to the point of rudeness,  but
maybe there was a reason for that. Maybe he was simply not used to dealing  with
people: as unused to the idea of a "son" as he, Atrus, was unused to the idea of
a "father." If so, he should make allowances. Until they knew each other better.
Until that tie of blood was also one of friendship.

This line  of reasoning  cheered him.  Throwing off  the blanket  he got  up and
hobbled over to  where his father  stood, standing beside  him silently, looking
out across the strangely lit pool.

"What does that?" he asked, pointing to the water's surface.

Gehn turned. He had  clearly been preoccupied with  some matter. "Ah, Atrus  ...
you're up."

"I ... I guess I have to thank you."

Gehn shrugged, then looked back across  the pond. "It's good to talk  again," he
said, pushing out his chin in  a strange gesture. "It's been very  isolated down
here on my own. I've longed for a companion for a long time now. An intellectual
companion, that  is. When  I knew  you were  alive ...  well." He turned. "To be
honest with you, Atrus, I was surprised. I did not expect you to survive. But  I
was pleased. I thought we might get on. Eventually."

Atrus smiled shyly. "I hope so. I want to learn."

"Good. That is a healthy attitude to have." Then, "Are you up to traveling on? I
have been pushing you, I realize, but there is good reason."

"I'll be okay,"  Atrus said, feeling  a sudden warmth  toward his father.  "It's
just so ... strange."

Gehn stared at him  thoughtfully. "Yes. I suppose  it must be, after  the cleft.
But the best  of it lies  ahead, Atrus. And  I mean the  best. D'ni. Tonight  we
shall reach D'ni."

Atrus's  face  lit.  "Tonight?"  Then an  expression  of  confusion  crossed his
features. "But what time  is it now? Morning,  afternoon? I can't follow  it any
longer. Down here time seems to have no meaning."

Gehn took out his D'ni timer and handed it to Atrus.

"See  there,"  he said,  indicating  the five  differently  shaded sectors-three
light, two dark-that were  marked on the circular  face. A thin trail  of silver
spiraled from the center of the  circle, stopping just inside the second  of the
lightly shaded sectors. "Right now it  is the D'ni midday. We D'ni  measure time
differently from those who  dwell on the surface.  They set their clocks  to the
passage of the sun. We, however, set our clocks to the biological rhythms of our
environment. Each  of those  sectors represents  just over  six hours in surface
time."

"So the D'ni day is longer?"

"Very good, Atrus. You learn quickly."

Gehn took the timer back  and, shaking it, held it  to his ear, almost as  if to
check it was still working. Then, satisfied, he slipped it back into his  pocket
and looked to Atrus.

"If you're ready?"

*   *   *

Despite Atrus's expectations, the way  grew harder. Fallen rock blocked  the way
in several places and  they had to climb  over piles of jagged  stone or squeeze
through narrow gaps. The  tunnels, too, seemed to  grow smaller and darker,  and
though he could not be sure of it, Atrus sensed that they had long strayed  from
the straight path that led direct to  D'ni. Certainly there was no sign of  that
wonderful stone-and-metal path beneath their feet. Despite everything,  however,
his spirits were high, his whole being filled with an excited anticipation  that
coursed like a drug in his veins.

D'ni! He  would soon  be in  D'ni! Why,  even the  dull pain  in his feet seemed
insignificant beside that fact.

They had traveled only an hour or so  when Gehn called back to him and told  him
to get over to the right. Just  ahead, part of the tunnel floor had  fallen away
to form a kind of pit. As he edged around it he could see, far below, a  valley,
with what looked like  a broad, dark river  flowing through it. He  strained his
ears, thinking he could faintly  hear the sound of  it-a roaring, rushing  noise
but could not be sure.

Farther on,  that noise,  which he  had begun  to think  was merely in his head,
began to grow, until, coming out of  the tunnel into a massive opening, the  far
walls of which could not be glimpsed in the darkness, that same sound filled the
air, seeming to shake the walls on  every side. The air was damp and  cold, tiny
particles of glittering mist dancing in the light from their lanterns.

Atrus backed against the  wall. Then, as Gehn  switched on the big  lamp, he saw
what it was.

Water fell in a solid sheet from a ledge two hundred feet above them, plunging a
thousand feet into a massive pool below. In the torch's beam the water was  like
solid crystal.

Atrus  turned, in  time to  glimpse Gehn  returning the  notebook to  his  inner
pocket. He  gestured past  Atrus, indicating  the way  with his  torch, the beam
illuminating a broad ledge that circled the massive cavern.

Coming out into the  smaller cavern at the  back of the falls,  Gehn stopped and
called him over, holding  his lantern out over  a shelf of rock  that was filled
with crystal-clear water.

Atrus leaned close to  look, then gave a  little gasp of surprise.  In the water
were a number of long, colorless  fish that looked like worms. They  had frilled
transparent gills  and fins.  As he  looked, they  scurried across and, slipping
through a tiny rent in the lip of  the rock, seemed to jump into the pool  below
with a plip-plop-plip that echoed throughout that tiny space.

"What were they?" Atrus asked, looking up into his fathers eyes.

"Salamanders,"  Gehn  answered.  "They  live  down  here,  along  with crickets,
spiders,  millipedes, and  fish. They're  troglodytic, Atrus.  They never  leave
these caves. And they're blind, too. Did you notice that?"

Gehn turned away and walked on, his boots crunching across the littered floor of
the cavern.

For a  long time  they had  been descending;  now they  began to  climb, the way
getting easier, until the tunnel they were following suddenly swung round to the
right and met a second, larger tunnel.

Stepping out  into it,  Atrus gave  a little  gasp of  surprise. It was the D'ni
path!  Both  ahead  and  behind  it  stretched  away,  straight  and   perfectly
cylindrical, into the darkness of the rock.

Staring back at the way they'd come, he understood what they must have done. For
some reason-a cave-in, possibly-the straight path had been blocked, and they had
taken an alternate route.

For a moment he recollected his father studying the diagrams in his notebook and
the faint anxiety that had been in  his eyes, and wondered how he had  come upon
those  paths; whether  it had  been a  question of  stumbling aimlessly  in  the
darkness,  constantly tracing  and retracing  his path  until he'd  found a  way
through.

"Atrus?"

He turned. Gehn was already fifty feet up the tunnel.

"I'm coming!" he called, hobbling to catch up. But in his mind he was  imagining
his father, all those years ago, when he had first returned to D'ni,  struggling
in the darkness here beneath  the earth-alone, completely and utterly  alone-and
felt a deep admiration for the courage that had driven him.

*   *   *

"Are we close?"

"Not far," Gehn answered. "The Gate is just ahead."

The news thrilled Atrus.  Not far! There had  been times when he'd  thought they
would walk forever and  never arrive; but now  they were almost there.  The land
he'd dreamed about all his life lay just ahead. A land of wonder and mystery.

Atrus hurried on, catching up with his father, keeping abreast with him as  they
neared the tunnel's end. He could see it now, directly ahead, and beyond it,  on
the far side of a massive marble plaza ...

"Is that the Gate?" he asked, awed, his voice a whisper.

"That's it," Gehn said, grinning proudly. "It marks the southern boundary of the
D'ni kingdom. Beyond it, everything for a hundred miles belongs to the D'ni."

Atrus looked  to his  father, surprised  that he  talked of  the D'ni as if they
still existed, then he looked back, taking in the sheer size of the great  stone
gate that was revealed beyond the tunnel's exit.

As they came out, he looked up and  up and up, his mouth open in wonder.  Though
the surface was cracked in places  and fragments had fallen away, littering  the
great expanse of marbled  floor that lay before  him, it was still  magnificent.
Filling the whole of one end of  what was clearly a vast cavern, the  huge stone
barrier plugged  that space  from wall  to wall,  its surface  filled with  what
seemed like an infinity of intertwining shapes-of men, machines, and beasts;  of
flowers and shields and faces; and  D'ni words, some of which he  recognized-all
of it cut  from a jet  black granite that  seemed to sparkle  in the light  from
Gehns lantern.

The Gate dwarfed them, like nothing they had so far seen. As he walked toward it
Atrus felt the  hairs on his  neck rise. Whatever  he had pictured  in his head,
whatever he'd imagined while listening  to Annas tales, the reality  exceeded it
by far.

Stepping beneath that arch, he looked up; its massive thickness impressing  him.
How had the D'ni  fashioned such a vast  artifact? How had they  cut the blocks,
how fashioned them? From his own limited experience, he knew the difficulties of
working stone, but the D'ni had thought nothing of throwing up such a huge  mass
of it.

Ahead of him the marble floor ended abruptly. Beyond it a cavern stretched away,
its walls pocked with tunnel entrances. Hundreds of them. Thousands, maybe.

It was suddenly very warm, the air much closer than it had been. Gehn glanced at
his notebook again, then began to make his way across the floor of the cavern.

Selecting one of the larger tunnels, he gestured to Atrus to catch up with  him,
then turned and disappeared inside. The tunnel was much larger than any they had
been  in,  with  countless  tunnels  and  small  caverns-  clearly  artificially
excavated-branching off.

Atrus followed  his father,  his eyes  constantly surveying  what lay  to either
side, noticing new things every second: great wheels and gantries; factories and
warehouses; great mounds of loose rock and equally huge pits over which  massive
abandoned cranes stood like sentinels-all  these and many other things,  most of
which he could not recognize at first sight.

Great machines stood idle everywhere  he looked, as though abandoned  only hours
before,  their oil-like,  lacquered surfaces  gleaming darkly  in their  passing
light. Huge mining  rigs rested on  great pneumatic platforms  beside the gaping
holes of shafts bored into the foot of the cavern's walls, like massive  insects
feeding, their squat dark shapes still and silent.

Steam rose unchanneled from  great fissures on every  side: steam that had  once
powered the industrial might of D'ni. Elsewhere simple stone houses stood empty,
roofless in  the D'ni  style, the  thin cloth  screens that  had once maintained
their privacy shredded by  the same force that  had toppled the stone  towers of
the factories.

Seeing it all, Atrus wondered just how it  could have come to an end. It was  so
vast, so extraordinary.

From time to time other paths  crossed their own, making him realize  that there
was not  one D'ni  path but  an endless  labyrinth of  them, threading their way
through the dark earth.

Suddenly, without warning, Gehn began to  climb the wall of the tunnel,  ducking
into a much smaller  shaft. Atrus, catching up,  looked across to his  right and
saw that  the tunnel  was blocked  some twenty  yards ahead,  collapsed in  upon
itself.  Fearful of  losing Gehn,  he climbed  the tunnel  wall, following   him
inside.

*   *   *

They had  been walking  for hours  and all  the way  their path  had got  slowly
narrower, hotter, stuffier. Gehn now walked with the notebook open in one  hand,
consulting it almost  constantly. The path  had taken so  many twists and  turns
that Atrus felt numbed by it, but still Gehn went on, confident, it seemed, that
it led somewhere.

Then, suddenly,  the quality  of the  light changed.  Atrus blinked,  his senses
sparked  to life  by that  sudden change.  There was  a faint  breeze, a  slight
cooling of the air. As they turned  the next corner there was a marked  increase
in the intensity of the light, a definite orange glow up ahead. The air was cool
and clear, heavy suddenly with the scent of vegetation. The path climbed.

Ahead there was an opening. A circle of brilliant orange light.

As Atrus stepped out, it was to be met by the most astonishing sight he had  yet
encountered.

Facing him was an enormous valley,  six miles across and ten broad,  its steeply
sloping shores descending to a glowing orange lake that filled at least half the
valley's floor. At the center of that lake was a huge island, a mile or more  in
width, two twisted columns  of rock pushing up  from that great tumulus  to soar
more than a mile into the air.  Beyond that, to its right, the great  rock walls
were curiously striped, regular tiered levels of colored stone reaching up  into
the shadows overhead, above the level at which Atrus himself stood. Within those
levels great pools of orange water glowed.

He looked up, expecting clouds, or maybe stars, but the blackness was immaculate
overhead. Slipping his glasses down, he increased their magnification,  studying
the far side of the lake.  Buildings! They were buildings! Buildings that  clung
to the great rock precipice, seeming to defy gravity!

Atrus  craned  his  neck,  following  the  course  of  the  rock  walls  upward,
understanding  coming  to him  in  an instant.  He  was inside!  Inside  a vast,
cavernous expanse.

He stared,  awed by  the strange  beauty of  the sight.  Beneath him  the ground
sloped steeply  down to  the sea's  edge where,  in a  tiny harbor,  a boat  was
moored. To the right, just offshore, the sea was dotted with tiny islands,  like
dark blemishes in that orange mirror.

"There," Gehn said, coming alongside. "Now, perhaps, you might understand why  I
could not  leave you  in that  ridiculous crack  in the  ground. Is that not the
grandest sight you have ever seen, Atrus?"

It was, and  he did indeed  understand why his  father had brought  him, yet the
reminder cast  a shadow  over what  he was  feeling at  that moment. Suddenly he
wanted Anna to be there with him, wanted to share it with her-to be able to talk
to her and ask her questions.

"Come," Gehn said from just below him as he began to make his way down the steep
slope. "Another hour and we're home."

*   *   *

Atrus stood on the foredeck, his right hand gripping the rail as Gehn maneuvered
the strange craft out onto the mirror-smooth waters, digging the pole deep,  his
muscles straining.

Atrus looked about  him excitedly, conscious  of the absence  of echoes in  that
vast space,  of the  sound Gehn's  pole made  as it  dipped into  the water. The
cavern was so vast, it felt almost as if they were back outside, on the surface,
sailing on a moonless night, but for that orange glow that underlit everything.

As the blunt, wedge-shaped prow of the  boat came around, Atrus saw the city  in
the distance once again.  From here it seemed  immaculate and beautiful, a  vast
bowl  of  towers  and spires,  as  if  it alone  had  not  been touched  by  the
destruction he had seen elsewhere. But they were not going to the city. Not yet,
anyway. "Home," it seemed, was on one of the cluster of islands that skirted the
right-hand wall of the cavern.

Atrus let out a  little sigh. Now that  he had stopped walking,  his muscles had
finally  begun to  seize up.  His body  ached and  his eyelids  felt like   lead
weights. The gentle movement of the boat didn't help either. It lulled him, like
a voice singing in his head. He blinked, trying to keep his eyes open, trying to
stay  awake a  while longer,  but it  was hard.  It felt  like he  had walked  a
thousand miles.

For a moment Atrus dozed where he stood, then he jerked awake again, looking up,
expecting to see stars littering the desert sky.

"Where ...?"

He turned,  looking back  to where  his father  sat in  the center  of the boat,
slowly rowing them toward the island, and shook his head to clear it,  convinced
he was in the grip of some strangely vivid dream.

Facing front again,  he saw the  island looming from  the shadows up  ahead, its
twisted, conical outline silhouetted black against the surrounding sea. Briefly,
he noticed how the water about the  far end of the island was dark  and wondered
why.

Home,  he thought,  noting the  fallen walls,  the toppled  tower of  the  great
mansion that  sat upon  the summit  of the  island like  a huge slab of volcanic
rock. Home ...

Yet even as he saw it, sleep overcame him. Unable to prevent himself, he fell to
his knees, then slumped onto the deck,  unconscious, so that he did not see  the
boat pass beneath  the island, into  a brightly lit  cavern. Nor did  he see the
waiting figure standing on the flight of winding steps that led up into the rock
above.

*   *   *

"Atrus? Are you awake?"

Atrus lay there, his eyes closed, remembering the dream.

The voice came closer. "Atrus?"

He turned onto his back and stretched. The room was warm, the mattress strangely
soft beneath him.

"What is it?" he asked lazily, uncertain yet whether he was awake.

"It is  evening now,"  the voice,  his father's  voice, said.  "You have slept a
whole day, Atrus. Supper is ready, if you want some."

Atrus opened  his eyes,  focusing. Gehn  stood there  two paces  from the bed, a
lantern in one hand. In its flickering light the room seemed vast and shadowy.

"Where are  we?" he  asked, the  details of  the dream  receding as  he began to
recall the long trek through the caverns.

"We are on K'veer," Gehn said, stepping closer, his pale, handsome face  looming
from  the shadow.  "This will  be your  room, Atrus.  There are  clothes in  the
wardrobes over there if you want to change, but there is no real need. When  you
are ready, you should turn left outside the door and head toward the light."

Atrus nodded, then,  with a shock,  realized that his  feet no longer  hurt. Nor
were they bandaged. "My feet .. :'

Gehn looked down  at him. "I  treated them while  you were asleep.  They will be
sore for several days, but you can rest now."

"And your experiments? Were we in time?"

Gehn turned away, as  if he hadn't heard,  then walked across the  room, drawing
back  the heavy  curtains to  reveal, through  a massive,  latticed window,  the
orange glow of the cavern beyond. There was a broad stone balcony and a view  of
the distant city.

"I shall leave you now," Gehn said, setting the lantern down on the table beside
the bed. "But try not  to be too long, Atrus.  There arc things we need  to talk
about."

Atrus waited for  his father to  leave the room,  then sat up,  sliding his legs
around and examining his feet in  the lamp's light. Where the sores  were worst,
on his heels and ankles and on the balls of his feet, Gehn had smeared them with
an ointment that left a dark stain on the skin. Atrus touched one of the patches
gingerly,  then  sniffed  his fingers.  It  was  the same  as  the  ointment his
grandmother had always used whenever hed grazed his knees or shins or elbows  on
the rock.

Atrus?

Yes, grandmother?

What do you see, Atrus?

I see the D'ni city, grandmother. I see ...

Atrus stepped  out onto  the balcony,  looking at  it, trying  to fix  it in his
memory so that he could tell her when he saw her again.

Far out there was a moving shadow  on the water. He narrowed his eyes,  watching
it a while, then shrugged and looked  beyond it at the city once again.  Yes, he
thought. I see the most incredible sight I've ever seen.

*   *   *

"Ah, Atrus ... come and sit with me."

Atrus hesitated in the doorway, then  stepped inside, into the clear blue  light
of the  kitchen. His  father sat  at a  table to  his left,  a plate of food set
before him.

It was  a big  V-shaped room  with two  large windows  overlooking a stone-paved
terrace garden that  jutted out over  the orange sea.  The light outside  seemed
much darker now, and to compensate,  Gehn had placed several lanterns in  niches
about the room.

Looking  about  him,  Atrus  noticed  that  the  kitchen  was  solid  stone. The
cupboards,  the table,  the benches,  even the  sink and  oven, were  made of  a
strange, smooth banded gneiss that, like  the path they had followed into  D'ni,
seemed to have been  softened and then molded  like clay. Tiny strips  of metal,
intricately fashioned, were threaded into the black-and-white-striped stone in a
manner Atrus found hard to fathom. Though it was stone, it had a light warm feel
that was unexpected. How they  had managed it was a  mystery to him, yet it  was
clear that the D'ni had developed processes well advanced, of the ways of men.

"How do you feel now?" Gehn asked, gesturing for him to take a seat across  from
him.

How  did he  feel? Homesick,  but also,  now that  his waking  mood had  passed,
immensely curious. What did his father  want of him? Gehn had said  something to
Anna about teaching him. But teaching him what?

"Hungry," he answered finally, finding it safest.

"Good," Gehn said. Turning, he picked up a small handbell from the table  beside
him and rang it.

At once a figure filled the  far doorway, looming briefly in the  shadows before
it entered the room.

"Atrus, this is Rijus, my serving man."

The man who stood there, holding a large, shallow basket piled high with  fruit,
was tall, taller even than  Gehn, and had a great  domed head that seemed to  be
made of polished ivory. He wore a  baggy dark blue one-piece, tied at the  waist
with a length of similarly colored cord, but the most remarkable thing about him
were his  eyes; lidless  eyes that  were like  blemished eggs  in his  otherwise
undistinguished face.

Atrus looked to his father, uncertain how to behave, then, when Gehn gave him no
clue, he turned back and, bowing  his head slightly, said, "I'm pleased  to meet
you, Rijus."

"It is no use trying to engage Rijus in conversation, Atrus. Rijus is a mute. He
was born that  way and he  will die that  way. But he  understands commands well
enough. If you need something, you should simply ask Rijus."

Atrus hesitated, then gave a little nod.

"Well, boy? What are you waiting for? Are you hungry or not?"

Atrus stood and, conscious of  the servant's unnaturally staring eyes  upon him,
went over  to him.  A dozen  different kinds  of fruit  were spread  out in  the
basket- only  a few  of which  he recognized,  and then  only from  the traders'
packs.  Tiny  beads  of  moisture  speckled  their  brightly  colored  surfaces,
enhancing their strange but perfect forms.

He looked back at Gehn. "Did you grow these, father?"

"In a manner of speaking."

Atrus turned back, wondering what to  choose, almost afraid to touch them,  they
seemed so perfect. Then, reaching out, he  picked one of the long, yellow,  oval
shaped fruit, attracted by its strange, five-ribbed form.

It was rotten. It fell apart as he lifted it, revealing its dark brown  innards.
He looked to his father, surprised.

Gehn gestured to Rijus impatiently. "Take them away." Then, turning to Atrus, he
fixed him with his stare.

"Come, Atrus. I think  it is time we  began our task. Time  you found out why  I
brought you here to D'ni."


*   *   *

A twist of steps  led up to a  broad, high-ceilinged corridor, the  end of which
opened out onto  a balcony directly  above the terrace.  On the far  side of the
balcony, set into the rock face, was a massive metal door, the jet black face of
which was decorated with the same  elaborate patterns Atrus had glimpsed on  the
Inner Gate.  Pausing before  it, Gehn  reached inside  his cloak  and took out a
large key, fitting it into the lock and turning it twice before removing it.

He stepped  back. There  was a  faint shudder  and then  the door began to rise,
sliding into  the rock  smoothly and  silently, to  reveal a  dark, wedge-shaped
opening. Six steps led  down into a spacious  room, lit from above  by a massive
star-shaped lamp. At the very center  of the room was a raised  dais, surrounded
by three steplike ledges. On top of that dais were five large granite pedestals.
Atrus  turned, looking  about him,  impressed by  what he  saw. The  walls  were
covered with massive shelves made of thick slabs of stone, and on those  shelves
were hundreds, possibly thousands of  leather-bound books, similar to those  his
grandmother had kept back on her shelf in the cleft.

Gehn turned,  looking to  his son.  "This, as  you see,  is the library. This is
where you will come for your lessons every day." He gestured toward a low  stone
table in one corner. "That will be your desk. But before we commence, I want  to
show you why I brought you here, and  why it is so important that you learn  the
ways of D'ni."

Raising his right hand,  he beckoned Atrus to  him, then, as the  young man came
alongside him, took his elbow and led him up the steps and onto the dais.

At the  center of  the dais,  recessed into  its bone-white  marble floor, was a
circular pool surrounded by five marble pedestals.

Gehn stood before him. "Choose a book. Any book on the shelves."

"What?"

"Choose a book."

Atrus went across to  the shelves, letting his  eyes travel across their  richly
bound spines. There was no writing on  any of them. A few had symbols,  but none
made any sense.

He turned, looking to his father.

" Choose a book."

Atrus took one down, the smell of its light green cover strangely  intoxicating,
exciting.

Gehn reached out, taking  it from him. Opening  it, he scanned it  quickly, then
nodded.  Turning the  book about,  Gehn placed  it reverently  on the  pedestal,
watching Atrus all the while.

Atrus stepped closer,  looking down at  the open pages.  The left-hand page  was
blank, but on the right...

He gasped, amazed by the clarity of the picture in that small, rectangular  box.
Why, it was like staring through a window!

A strange, rust red  conical mound filled the  foreground, reminding Atrus of  a
giant termite's nest.  Behind it was  a lush backdrop  of vivid, almost  emerald
green, with a glimpse of a cloudless sky above.

As Atrus watched, the image on the  page slowly changed, seeming to tilt to  the
right, like an eye attempting to follow something just out of vision. The  mound
slowly disappeared, to  be replaced in  the foreground by  a fast-flowing stream
that tumbled between the rocks, then fell spectacularly into a crystal pool. But
no sooner had it  focused on that, than  it lifted again, swinging  out and over
the surrounding gully, to  reveal, beyond it, a  valley filled with low,  almost
bushlike trees, on which  could be seen a  host of vividly colored  fruit. There
was a glimpse of a long, clear pool surrounded by grassy slopes and of  distant,
snowcapped mountains, and then the image returned to the rust red mound.

Gehn stepped across. "Give  me your hand. You'll  live as the D'ni  now. This is
what you were born for."

*   *   *

Atrus felt the skin on his palm tingle as though a faint electrical current  had
passed through it. His hand seemed drawn to the image on the page, attracted  to
it. For a  moment that was  all. Then, with  a sudden, sickening  lurch, he felt
himself sucked into  the page. Or  rather, it was  as if the  page grew suddenly
huge, enveloping him in the weave of its fibers. At that same instant he felt  a
curious shifting sensation. It felt as though he were melting, the fragile shell
of him imploding, collapsing back in upon himself, and then the blackness seeped
through.

And as he finally surrendered to that blackness, so he found himself back in his
body, standing on the grass just in  front of the mound, a fresh breeze  blowing
into his face, the stream below him, the waterfall and the valley just beyond.

Gone were  the marble  pedestals, the  book-lined walls,  the solid rock ceiling
overhead! Atrus reached out, as if to touch them, but there was nothing.

Atrus looked up, startled by the transition. Huge white clouds drifted in a  sky
so blue it  looked like a  child's painting. The  air hummed with  tiny insects,
while all around him the heady scents of fruits and flowers swamped his senses.

He fell  to his  knees, astonished.  This was  magic, surely.'  Behind him  Gehn
shimmered into being.

"Get up onto your feet, boy," Gehn said, quietly but firmly.

Atrus struggled to his  feet, then turned to  face his father. He  was unable to
believe what had just happened to him.

"Where ... where are we?"

Gehn stepped past him, standing beside  the scream, his booted feet on  the edge
of a steep incline, looking down at the waterfall.

As Atrus came alongside, Gehn looked to his son, his chest swelling with  pride.
"Once the D'ni ruled  a million worlds, using  what was grown in  them to clothe
and feed and provision themselves. So it was in the time of their greatness." He
shook his head. "But all that is  passed. Now there's only you and I,  Atrus. We
two, and the worlds we shall make."

"Make, father?"

Gehn looked out across the land that lay beneath them and nodded, a fierce pride
in his face  as he spoke.  "Yes, Atrus. I  made this world.  I made the  rock on
which we stand,  and the very  air we are  breathing. I made  the grass and  the
trees, the insects and the birds. I fashioned the flowers and the earth in which
they grow. I made the mountains and the streams. All that you see, I made."

Turning to face Atrus,  Gehn placed his hands  on his son's shoulders,  his eyes
burning with excitement now.

"I plan to make you my apprentice,  Atrus, and teach you about the books.  Would
you like that?"

Looking up at his  father, Atrus remembered suddenly  how Gehn had stepped  from
that great veil  of whiteness at  the volcano's edge,  awed by the  power in the
figure that stood facing him.

"Yes, father," he answered clearly, "I'd like that very much."



CHAPTER 7

"That phrase ...  now where did  I see that  phrase?" Gehn placed  the quill pen
back in  the marble  ink pot,  then, sitting  forward, reached  across his desk,
taking the second of the big,  leather-bound books from the stack. Edging  aside
the book he  had been writing  in, he drew  the ancient volume  toward him, then
opened it and quickly flicked through until he came to the passage he had marked
with a thin blue strip of paper.

"Ah ... that's it. That should do it."

He looked up,  his eyes focused  inward briefly, as  he considered what  else he
might need. It was  barely midday, but here  in Gehn's study it  was permanently
night, the  shadows of  that cavernous  room kept  at bay  by a small stone lamp
perched on the corner of his massive wooden desk.

Gehn read the line again, tracing it with his index finger, then squinted at the
page.

"Perhaps  a little  overelaborate ...  remove those  two descriptive  words  ...
embellishment, that's all they are."

He nodded, pleased with  himself, then, moving the  book he had been  working on
until it rested beside the ancient text,  he began to copy out the D'ni  phrase,
taking care to leave out the two words he considered served no purpose.

"There," he .said softly,  looking up again, aware  of his surroundings for  the
first time in over three hours.

Every surface in that huge, cavelike  room was filled with books. Shelves  lined
the walls from floor to ceiling, leaving space for little else. Just across from
Gehn was an ancient  hearth. And then there  was the door, of  course. Otherwise
there was nothing but shelves-not even  any windows. Even the floor was  covered
in stacks  of books-some  new, some  old-some piles  of which  had tumbled over,
remaining where  they fell,  thick layers  of dust  covering their musty leather
bindings, like ash on a volcano's slope.

Across from Gehn, between two  standing shelves containing Gehn's own  journals,
was a smaller desk, laid out with pens and ink and a pile of copying books, like
those his son wrote in.

Focusing on them, Gehn seemed to wake with a start and glanced at the timer that
lay to his left on the desk.

"Kerath preserve me!" he muttered, getting up and pocketing the timer, realizing
he was late.

He hurried  across the  room, then,  taking the  long silver  key from the bunch
attached to his  waist, he unlocked  the door and  went outside, taking  care to
lock the door again before he turned and hurried down the narrow stone steps.

At the bottom  of the steps  lay the library.  As Gehn stepped  out, he saw that
Atrus was seated at his desk in the far corner, his arms folded before him,  his
copybook open, ready.

"Father?"

Making no apology for his tardiness, Gehn strode across and, taking a long white
chalk from the pot, turned  to the great slate board  and began to sketch out  a
D'm word, taking great care as he did to demonstrate the flow of each stroke.

Turning back, he noted how attentively his son was watching him. Seeing him like
that, Gehn felt a  momentary frustration at the  boy's innate placidity. Oh,  it
was a fine quality in a servant or in a subject species, but in a D'ni they were
absurd. For a second  or two, Gehn felt  something akin to futility  at the task
he'd set himself.

Unaware, Atrus labored on,  slowly copying down the  figure from the board,  his
tongue  poking between  his lips  as he  painstakingly mimicked  the shapes  his
fathers hand had made to form the strokes and curls of the D'ni word.

"Atrus!"

The boy looked up. "Yes, father?"

"You must learn to concentrate. It is not easy, I know. It has taken me dose  to
thirty years to master the art. But  you must try hard, Atrus. You will  achieve
nothing unless you are willing to harness yourself to the yoke of learning."

Atrus, his head down, his eyes staring at his desk, nodded. "Yes, father."

"Good," Gehn said, placated by the boy's humility, by his willingness to  listen
to his fathers instruction; by his innate quickness of mind. Then, seeing a  way
he might  improve matters,  he went  across and  took a  large, extremely  thick
volume from one of the shelves and carried it across.

"Here," he said, setting it down  on the desk beside Atrus's open  workbook. "As
it is clear that you need extra tuition, and as my own time is presently tied up
in a number  of experiments, I  think we must  try an experiment  of a different
kind."

Atrus looked up at him, his eyes eager suddenly.

"Yes, Atrus. This book is a very  special book. It is called the Rehevkor.  Once
every school in D'ni had several copies of this book. From it pupils would learn
how to write those  fundamental D'ni words that  formed the basic vocabulary  of
our race. I suppose the nearest comparison  you would have for it is a  lexicon,
but this is far more complex."

Gehn took the edge of the massive  cover and pulled the book open, then  pointed
down at the detailed diagrams that rilled both pages.

"As you can see, each double-page spread concerns a single D'ni word, and  shows
clearly what pen strokes must be used and in what precise order. What I want you
to do, Atrus, is to work through  the Rehevkor from the first page to  the last,
concentrating on twenty words a night to  begin with. I will provide you with  a
supply of copying books  to work in, but  you must promise me  to practice these
figures until they are second nature to you. Until you could sketch them in your
sleep. You understand me, Atrus?"

"I understand."

"Good." Gehn reached out, dosing the book, then made to turn away.

"Father?"

"Yes, Atrus?"

"How old is the text?"

"The Rehevkor?" Gehn turned back. "Ten thousand years old. Maybe older."

He saw the awe in his sons eyes at that and smiled inwardly. Atrus's  eagerness,
his clear  appreciation of  the greatness  of the  D'ni, was  something that he,
Gehn, could work upon.

"Father?"

Gehn sighed, for the briefest moment tempted to yell at the boy and tell him  to
stop this endless questioning. Then, realizing that he must be patient if he was
to undo all the harm Anna had done to the child, he answered him.

"Yes, Atrus?"

"I just  wondered why  the sea  is less  bright now  than it was earlier, that's
all."

Gehn leaned back, relaxing. "That is easy to explain. The plankton has a  thirty
hour cycle that corresponds with that of the D'ni. It sleeps when we sleep,  and
is most active when we are most active. Thus we have night and day down here. Of
a distinctly black and orange kind."

If it was a joke,  it was either a very  bad one, or touched on  something Atrus
did not understand, yet Gehn seemed to  find it funny, for his laughter went  on
for some while, and Atrus, pleased  to discover that his father did,  after all,
possess a sense of humor, laughed with him.

*   *   *

Later, after Atrus  had returned to  his room, Gehn  walked over to  the central
dais and,  climbing up  onto the  marbled floor,  looked about  him at the great
books where they rested on their pedestals.

Talking to Atrus about various matters,  he had realized suddenly just how  much
he had missed the chance simply to talk these past fourteen years.

Alone. He  had been  so alone.  Not emotionally,  for he  considered himself  as
emotionally self-sufficient  as any  man could  be, but  intellectually. He  had
missed the  chance to  stretch himself  in debate,  yes, and  to demonstrate the
vastness of his knowledge.  And though the boy,  as yet, was little  more than a
sounding board for his ideas, yet there was immense potential in him.

Yes, but  then how  could he  have been  certain that  the boy even existed? The
chances were  that he  had perished.  After all,  it was  hard to imagine anyone
surviving in that desolate little crack in the ground!

"Patience. I must have patience with the boy, and then, in time ..."

But right now  time was the  one thing he  found himself severely  lacking. Over
these past few weeks  not one but several  of his experiments had  suddenly gone
badly wrong, and he  had been forced to  spend more and more  time attempting to
deal with the problems that had arisen.  To try to give Atrus as much  attention
as he needed was ... well, impossible.

Still, Atrus was an  obedient child. He could  see that the boy  tried his best.
And maybe a few sessions with the  Rehevkor would bring him up to scratch.  Time
would tell.

Right now, however, other matters needed his attention. Crossing the dais,  Gehn
stood over one of the open books,  staring down at the descriptive box. Then  he
placed his hand upon it. A moment later he was gone.



CHAPTER 8

In  the weeks  that followed,  Atrus fell  heavily beneath  his fathers   spell.
Mornings he would work hard, repairing  the walls and paths of the  many-leveled
island. Then, in the afternoons, after he had bathed and eaten, he would sit  at
his  desk in  the great  library, while  Gehn taught  him the  rudiments of  D'm
culture.

Much of what Gehn taught him was  familiar from his own reading and from  things
Anna had told him over the years, but  there was also a great deal he had  never
heard before, and so he kept silent. Besides, now that he knew it was real, even
those things he knew seemed  somehow transformed: different simply because  they
wen real.

For several days  he had been  working on the  question of why  the water at the
north end of the island was  clear of the light-giving plankton, and  had traced
the problem to  the spillage from  an old pipe  that led down  from his father's
workroom. He had  taken samples of  that spillage and  found traces of  lead and
cadmium in it-elements that were clearly poisoning the plankton. Not having  the
equipment to make a proper filter, he  decided that, as the spillage was only  a
trickle, it would probably be best to block the pipe off altogether. He was busy
doing this one morning, standing on the steps below the seawall, leaning  across
to fit the tiny stone cap he'd fashioned to block the end of the pipe, when Gehn
came out to see him.

"Atrus?"

He turned and  looked. His father  stood at the  head of the  steps, cloaked and
booted as if for a journey, looking out across the sea toward the great rock and
the city beyond.

"Yes, father?"

"I have a new task for you."

Atrus straightened up, then threw the  steel facing-tool he had been using  down
onto the sack beside him, waiting for his father to say more.

Gehn turned, combing his fingers through his ash-white hair, then looked to him.
"I want you to  come into the city  with me, Atrus. I  want you to help  me find
some books."

"The city? We're going to the city?"

Gehn nodded. "Yes, so  you had better go  and change. You will  need your boots.
And bring your knapsack, too."

Atrus hesitated a moment, then, with a  curt nod to his father, gathered up  his
tools and hurried up the steps.

"I shall go down to the dock and prepare the boat," Gehn said, stepping back  to
let his son pass. "Meet me down there.  And hurry now. I want to be back  before
nightfall."

Gehn was  standing at  the stern  of the  boat, his  hand on the tethering rope,
ready to cast off, as Atrus came down the twist of stone steps and out into  the
low-ceilinged cave that housed the jetty.

Since that evening when he had first arrived on Kveer, Atrus had never been  off
the island. Nor had a day passed in all that time when he had not looked to  the
distant D'ni city and dreamed of going there.

Climbing aboard, he looked to his father for instructions.

"Sit there,"  Gehn said,  pointing to  a low  bench that  dissected the  shallow
craft. "And try not to lean over too far. I don't want to have to pull you out."

He nodded, chastened by his father's words.

As his father cast  off, then swung the  boat around, poling it  out through the
narrow entrance, Atrus turned in his seat, staring out across that vast  expanse
of  orange sea,  past the  scattering of  intervening islets,  toward the   D'ni
capital, seeing yet again  how its crowded levels  climbed the cavern wall  into
the darkness.

Ancient, it was. Ancient beyond all imagining.

As they  came out  into the  open water,  Atrus turned,  looking back  as Gehn's
island emerged into  view. The day  he'd arrived, he  had been too  exhausted to
take in all its details, but  now he stared, fascinated, seeing K'veer  properly
for the first time.

By  now he  knew every  room and  corridor, every  stairway and  terrace of  the
sprawling, many-leveled mansion, yet seeing it now from that slight distance  he
pieced it all together  for the first time,  making sense of it;  seeing how its
spiral shape had been determined by the rock on which it had been built.

From a quarter mile  away its dark stone  walls- fallen in places,  shored up in
others-gleamed almost metallically in the light from below.

It was a strange, unearthly vision, but  no more so than any of the  sights that
met the eyes down  here. Besides, the sensitivity  of his eyes, which  had meant
he'd had to shield his  eyes from the brightness of  the desert sun, here was  a
positive advantage. He found this light soothing to his eyes ... almost natural.
Maybe the fact that he was part D'ni made his eyes weak. All he knew for certain
was  that  he  had  not  needed  to  wear  his  glasses  down  here,  except for
magnification.

Atrus looked to his father, conscious for the first time of )ust how  distracted
he was. In  his own excitement  he had missed  his fathers mood.  As he watched,
Gehn grimaced, as if some hideous thought had crossed his mind, then pulled hard
on the oars, moving them along through the water.

Atrus turned, staring across at the  city once again. Tiny islands littered  the
surrounding waters, each straddled by  its own dark and sprawling  mansion, each
of those ancient buildings uniquely and distinctly shaped, and every last one of
them in rums.

On one of the larger islands, a strange, angular fortress had been built high up
into the face of a massive cliff, embedded, it seemed, into the rock-a thing  of
spikes and  towers and  heavily buttressed  walls. Beneath  it the cliff dropped
five hundred feet, sheer into the motionless sea.

Atrus  let  out  a  long  breath,  conscious  more  than  ever  of  the desolate
magnificence of this place.

As they  steered through  the last  narrow channel,  out into  the open  sea, he
looked to his right, his eyes drawn by a disturbance on the water a quarter of a
mile away. There was  a kind of haze  over the water, like  windblown sand, that
cast an erratic  shadow on the  orange surface. As  he watched, it  came nearer,
attracted, perhaps, by the boat's slow passage through the plankton-rich water.

When it got to within fifty  yards, he stood, open-mouthed, staring at  it, then
looked to Gehn, but his father seemed not to have noticed.

"What's that?"  he asked,  intrigued, seeing  tiny glittering  shapes within the
cloud.

Gehn glanced across. "Ah,  those ...They are a  kind of damselfly. They  feed on
tiny insects that live within the plankton."

Atrus nodded,  then turned  back, watching  in wonder  as the  cloud of  insects
drifted just aft of their boat's  trail, unable to keep up with  their progress.
He was  about to  look away  when suddenly  the water  beneath the cloud rippled
violently and a long, thin snout poked out, stabbing the air. A moment later and
the  water  beneath the  damselflies  began to  thrash  and boil  as  a host  of
brilliantly colored fish went into a feeding frenzy.

In less than thirty seconds the cloud was gone, the water calm again.

"And those?" Arms asked, his voice almost a whisper.

"Fish," Gehn answered, with what seemed like aversion. "The water's much  deeper
out here beyond the islands. Usually  they live deep down, but they  surface now
and then to feed."

"I see," Atrus said quietly, suddenly wary of the placid waters that  surrounded
them, noting, through the clear yet glowing water, the presence of much  larger,
fleeting shadows in the depths.

Disturbed, he looked away, trying to focus his mind on something else.

Books ... His father had said they  were going to find some books. But  Gehn had
plenty of books. So what did he want with more of them?

"How long will it take us to get there?" he asked.

"Not  long,"   Gehn  answered   patiently,  pulling   on  the   oars  regularly,
inexhaustibly, it seemed.

Atrus nodded. For a while he fiddled  with his knapsack, then he looked back  at
his father.

Gehn was watching him, his large eyes half hooded. "What is it now, Atrus?"

Atrus swallowed, then asked  what he'd been chinking.  "The books ... What's  so
special  about  the  books? You  said  they  can't make  them  anymore.  I don't
understand."

Gehn's face was  blank, expressionless. "All  in good time.  Right now, all  you
have to do is find them for me."

*   *   *

Atrus dozed for a while, then woke with a start, surprised to find himself still
on the boat, still traveling. Yawning, he stretched his neck, then looked up  at
his father.

Gehn smiled tightly. "So you're awake at last. Look. Just behind you. You almost
missed it."

Atrus stood and turned  ... to find the  city looming over him,  seeming to fill
the whole of the  skyline, its ancient buildings  rising level after level  into
the great ceiling of the cavern.

And, directly in front of him, an  arch-bigger than any of those he had  seen on
his journey down. By comparison to  the other D'ni architecture Atrus had  seen,
it seemed crude, made  as it was of  undecorated blocks, yet each  block was the
size of a great  mansion, the whole thing  ten blocks tall, its  entrance so big
that you could quite easily have passed even the largest of the islands  through
that gap.

"Kerath's arch," Gehn said proudly, staring ahead at it.

"Kerath ..." Atrus whispered,  the merest mention of  his hero's name enough  to
send a thrill through him.

"All of the D'ni kings sailed through this arch," Gehn said. "They would be sent
to the southlands  to be tutored  in the arts  of kingship, then,  after a year,
they would come  here to be  crowned, on the  harbor front, before  the Stewards
House. A million citizens would watch  the ceremony, and after there would  be a
whole month of feasting."

And yet it was named after Kerath, Atrus thought. Because he was the greatest of
them.

As they slowly sailed beneath it, Atrus could see how the stone was blotched and
pitted, aged, not as the  rocks of the desert were  aged, by sand and wind,  but
like a skin that has grown tight and dry.

For  countless  thousands  of  years  this  arch  has  stood,  he  told himself,
remembering, even as he did, the story  of Kerath returning to D'ni on the  back
on the great lizard, Now, of course, he was forced to change the picture in  his
head-to imagine Kerath returning not across a desert, but across this vast  open
sea, the lizard, perhaps, resting peacefully beneath him on the boat.

The thought made  him frown and  wonder how much  else he had  imagined wrongly.
Tre'Merktee, for instance, the Place  of Poisoned Waters, did that  still exist?
He turned, looking  to his father,  but before he  could ask the  question, Gehn
spoke to him again.

"You must stay close to me this first time, Atrus, and not wander off. Today  we
must confine our explorations to a single sector of the city."

Gehn pointed past Atrus and to the right, indicating a part of the city not  far
from the main harbor.

"That is where we shall make our  search, in the J'Taeri district. With luck  we
shall find what we are looking for in the Common Library there."

Atrus nodded, then  stepped up onto  the prow, watching  the city slowly  appear
from beneath the  arch. Directly ahead  of them massive  walls of cracked  white
marble were arranged in three tiers, like giant steps, about the harbor.

At intervals along the front, a number of massive statues-each one several times
the size of a  man-had once stood, facing  the arch, but only  two were standing
now, and  even they  were cracked  and damaged.  The rest  had been toppled from
their pedestals and now  lay, either in pieces  on the marbled flagstones  or on
the floor of the harbor itself, broken limbs the size of pillars protruding from
the glowing surface.

Beyond the statues,  on the far  side of an  impressively huge square,  was what
looked like a  huge, porti-coed temple,  fifteen white stone  pillars holding up
what remained of a massive dome. Beyond that, the city climbed, tier after  tier
of streets and buildings, covered walkways and delicate arches, no single  level
the same as another.

From  afar the  city had  seemed an  amorphous mass  of stone.  From close   up,
however, it  revealed an  intricacy and  variety that  was astonishing. Even the
color of  the stone  changed as  the eye  traveled up  that vast bowl of jumbled
architecture,  the lowest  levels slate  gray or  a dull  red-brown, the  higher
levels the same black  streaked with red that  was used for the  island mansions
and the Inner Gate.

What could also be  seen from close up  was the sheer extent  of the devastation
the D'ni capital had  suffered. Wherever Atrus looked,  he saw evidence of  ruin
and collapse. Indeed, there was barely a structure that was not damaged in  some
way or another.

He lowered his eyes, staring down through the pellucid water. Far down, so  deep
they seemed more shadows than actualities, he could see the remains of the great
fleet of merchants' barges that had once anchored here.

"Was it  the quake  that killed  the people?"  Atrus asked,  looking back at his
father.

Gehn ignored him, concentrating on the  task of bringing the boat alongside  one
of the great stone pillars that supported the jetty. He brought the small  craft
to a  halt alongside  the pillar.  A rope  ladder dangled  from the jetty above,
trailing against the side of the cracked stone.

He glanced at Atrus, then signaled  that he should climb the ladder,  holding it
taut from below while Atrus climbed the rungs. Then, as Atrus neared the top, he
tied the mooring rope to the bottom of the ladder and began his own ascent.

Atrus stepped  up onto  the jetty,  more awed  by his  surroundings now  that he
actually stood among them than he'd been while sailing into that massive harbor.
He looked back at the brutal shape of Kerath's arch, which dominated the natural
bowl of the harbor, then slowly turned full circle.

Gehn climbed  up beside  him. "Come,  Atrus, let  us make  up time."  He pointed
across the square toward the shattered dome. "Our destination is over there."

The great square might once have been immaculately kept, but now it was littered
with huge chunks of  stone that had fallen  from the city above.  In places huge
cracks ran  in zigzags  through the  marble paving,  while in  others the ground
simply vanished into tiny craters.

The Stewards House  itself was  a study  in desolation.  The great  dome was two
thirds gone, only three of the fifteen great curving spans of roof still intact,
and the great  doors had fallen  from their hinges.  Inside, there was  evidence
that the rooms and corridors had been put to the torch, possibly long before the
final tragedy had  struck. Overhead, charred  beams stood out  against the stony
skyline.

Atrus stared at his father's back,  wondering what they were doing there  inside
that ruined place, but Gehn barely  glanced at his surroundings, making his  way
directly down the main  corridor before turning right  into a small room  at the
back of the building.

It looked like a kind of pantry kitchen.

Atrus watched as  Gehn walked over  to one of  the shelves and,  reaching to the
back of it, seem to pull something  toward him. There was a low clunking  sound,
as if something were sliding back beneath their feet.

Gehn turned, a brief smile flickering across his features, then crossed the room
and, edging behind  a long stone  workbench, placed his  hands flat against  the
wall, moving them back and forth as if searching for something.

With a little grunt of satisfaction, he flexed his shoulders and pushed. At once
a whole section of the  wall swung back and tilted  to the side, sliding into  a
niche in the rock behind.

An unlit passage was revealed, leading up into the rock.

It was all done  so effortlessly, so quietly,  that Atrus stood there  a moment,
staring in disbelief.

Gehn turned, beckoning to him. "Come on then, boy! What are you waiting for?"

Atrus went across and ducked inside, then stopped, unable to see more than a few
feet in front of him.

"Here," Gehn said, pressing a lantern  into one hand and a fire-marble  into the
other.

Atrus crouched, balancing  the lantern  on his  knee, while  he fitted  the fire
marble, then,  as it  began to  glow, he  straightened up.  Turning, he  saw his
father light his own lantern, then look to him.

In that fierce  blue glow Gehn's  eyes seemed huge  and unnatural. Looking  into
them, Arrus realized  how much a  stranger his father  remained, even after  all
these weeks. He still knew so little about him.

"I shall go ahead," Gehn said, unaware, it seemed, of his son's close  scrutiny.
"But keep up with me, Atrus. These  tunnels are like a maze. If you  fall behind
and lose sight of me, you are likely never to find your way out."

Atrus nodded nervously, then, as his father squeezed past him and began to  make
his way down the sloping curve of the tunnel, hurried to keep up.

Behind Atrus  there was  the gracing  of the  stone as  the wall  slid back into
place. A dull, resounding thud echoed up the tunnel after him.

Passages led off to  either side, some leading  up^ others down into  the earth,
but Gehn  kept striding  straight ahead.  It was  a good  ten minutes  before he
stopped and, turning, making sure Amis  was still with him, pointed up  a narrow
flight of steps.

"Its a  long climb,"  he said,  "but quicker  than trying  to get  there by  the
lanes."

Up and up the steps went, twisting first to the right and then back to the left,
as if following  some natural fault  in the rock.  Briefly it opened  out into a
narrow chamber with a balcony overhead and stone benches cut into the rock, then
it went on again, climbing more steeply.

"Not far now"  Gehn said finally,  as the steps  ended and they  came out into a
relatively flat piece of tunnel.

"Who made these paths?" Atrus asked,  noting the words and patterns carved  into
this final stretch of wall.

"That," Gehn answered, "is a mystery. For when people have been in a location as
long as the D'ni have been here, then many things are done the reasons for which
are either  unknown or  lost in  the haze  of time.  That said, I should imagine
there have been tunnels here  since the very beginning. Some  scholars-the great
Jevasi among them-claim  that the wall  of the cavern  is so riddled  with them,
that were any  more to be  cut then the  whole great edifice  would cave in upon
itself!"

Atrus narrowed his eyes, imagining it.

Just ahead there was a glimpse of orange light. It grew, until he could see  the
tunnel's exit outlined up ahead.

They came out into a narrow, unfurnished room. Above them the ceiling gaped. One
could look straight up  at the roof of  the great cavern. This,  Atrus knew, was
the D'ni style. Only a very few of their buildings-official residences, like the
Steward's House-had roofs, the rest were  open to the air. After all,  what need
was there for roofing when the rain never fell and there was never any variation
in the temperature? At most a typical D'ni dwelling would have a thick awning of
some kind stretched over its topmost story, and some of the two-and  three-story
buildings didn't even bother with that, their occupants sleeping and bathing  in
the lower floors.

The room led out onto a small balcony. To the right a set of steps led down into
a narrow  lane. Atrus  went to  the rail,  looking down  the empty thoroughfare,
fascinated  by  the  jumble of  gray  stone  buildings that  met  his  gaze, the
labyrinth of walkways and stairways and covered paths.

They went on, their heels clicking on the worn stone. The narrow lane curved  to
the left, climbing slowly between high  walls that, in places, were cracked  and
fallen.  Behind  those  walls   lay  a  number  of   imposing-looking  mansions,
surprisingly few of which  had collapsed, leading Atrus  to think that they  had
been built to survive such shocks.                    *

It was a strange and fascinating place to be, and as he walked, a familiar voice
sounded in his head, asking the question it always asked.

Atrus? What do you sec?

He hesitated, then:

I see faded paint on  the walls. I sec boards  at windows and piles of  rubbish,
untended thirty  years. I  see ...  disrepair and  dereliction. Signs  of shared
habitation. Abandoned sedans and ragged washing hung on threadbare lines.

Good. And what do you make of it?

He looked about him once more, then answered Anna in his head:

The  mansions  are  old  and  grand, from  a  time  when  this  was, perhaps,  a
respectable, even fashionable place to live, yet in more recent times this  must
have been  a poor  district: a  place of  considerable squalor,  even before the
great quake did its worst.

Good. Then why has your father come here? What could he possibly want in a place
like this?

Books, he  answered silently,  yet it  hardly seemed  a good  enough reaspn. Why
should his father want more books?



CHAPTER 9

At the end of a broad, once tree-lined avenue bordered by massive houses,  stood
the D'ni gatehouse. It was a huge,  squat, square thing with twin turrets and  a
pair of massive studded doors that  were closed against them. On the  great slab
of a lintel above the doors, two  D'ni words had been cut deep into  the ancient
stone. Looking up at it, Atrus translated it in his head.

District of J'Taeri.

Stepping up to the left-hand door, Gehn braced himself, then leaned against  it,
straining against it, but despite his  efforts it did not move even  the tiniest
amount. Gehn turned, looking about  him, then walked across, venturing  into the
garden of one  of the  nearby houses,  to emerge  a moment  later with  a  heavy
looking piece of metal, dearly the ornamental spout of a fountain.

Standing before the doors  again, Gehn lifted the  thick rod of metal  high then
swung it against the wood, aiming for  the lock. There was a cracking sound  and
splinters flew, but the door held  firm. Grunting loudly, Gehn raised the  spout
time and again, smashing it against the door, the wood splintering more and more
each time. Finally, on the seventh or eighth blow, the lock fell away.

Gehn threw the spout down, then, leaning against the door, he heaved, his  whole
body straining, his neck muscles taut. Slowly but surely the massive door  eased
back.

They went through, into J'Taeri.

The buildings here were smaller but much better maintained than in the  district
they  had left,  yet both  had that  same feeling  of immense  age, of   ancient
histories piled up layer upon layer like geological strata. In places, where  it
had not been replaced, the stone floor  of the lanes was so worn by  the passage
of millions of feet  over the millennia that  it dipped markedly in  the center,
its appearance  fluid, like  wax that  had melted  and re-formed,  that likeness
reinforced by the dark red of the stone.

Coming  to  a massive  crossroads-a  place where  covered  walkways crisscrossed
overhead, and  tunnels dipped  darkly into  the earth-Gehn  stopped and took the
small tanned leather notebook from his pocket, studying it closely.

Atrus  had often  noticed Gehn  consulting the  book, which  seemed to   contain
information on all manner of things,  yet strangely he had never seen  him write
in it.

Maybe he does it  at nifht, when I'm  not there, Atrus thought,  thinking of his
own journal. Or maybe  he doesn't need to.  Maybe he's already mapped  out where
everything is in this city.

To be  honest, he  was in  awe of  his father's  knowledge of  the capital. Gehn
seemed to know every street, every important building in D'ni. And even when  he
didn't, he was sure to have it in his book.

Closing the notebook, Gehn pointed up the avenue to his left.

"We need to go this way. The main square is ten minutes' walk from here."

Atrus  waited  as  Gehn tucked  the  book  away, then  set  off  again, silently
following his father, staring about him as he walked.

The houses in J'Taeri were richly furnished; not only that, but there were  huge
pentagonal stone shields on many of the houses, decorated with symbols identical
to those on Gehn's tunic, the night he'd come to the deft to claim Atrus.

Curious, Atrus had asked Gehn what  they were and had discovered that  they were
Guild badges, and that  those who lived in  the houses that displayed  them were
senior Guild members.

J'Taeri, it  transpired, had  been a  Guild district,  and thus  something of an
anomaly  in that  the families  who had  once stayed  there were  not from   the
locality,  but  were  drafted  in  to  oversee  Guild  activities  in  the lower
districts.

The houses were very different in J'Taeri; more elaborate in their design.  Some
of them reminded Atrus of the forms he had glimpsed in the caverns traveling  to
D'ni-seeming to mimic the form of dripstone and flowstone, narrow towers pushing
up from their  walls like great  stalagmites, while large  draperies of lacelike
stone  decorated  their  front   arches.  Others,  much  more   prevalent,  were
constructed to resemble great slabs of  rock, three or four stories resting  one
atop another  like layers  of smoothed  slate, no  sign of  any doors or windows
evident to the casual eye.

Two of the bigger  houses stood out, not  just because of their  imposing design
but also  because they  were made  of the  jet black,  red-streaked stone he had
noticed was used mainly in the uppermost levels of the city, and again he  asked
Gehn what, if anything, this signified.

"Those were the houses of important men," Gehn had answered distractedly.  "Only
the very rich could afford to build with such materials."

The avenue opened out onto a massive square enclosed by high stone walls, on the
far side of which  was a building that  resembled the Stewards House.  Six broad
white marble steps led up into the shadowed portico. Remarkably, its facade  had
survived the quake almost intact.

On the  top step  Atrus turned,  looking out  across the  labyrinth of walls and
rooftops toward the harbor far below, the great arch dominating the skyline, its
top almost level with them. Then,  turning back, he stepped up into  the shadows
of the Common Library.

Inside, beyond a  row of five  cracked pillars, was  a small entrance  hall, its
floor covered in a  mosaic. A dark, jagged  crack ran through the  center of it,
but the picture was still clear. It  showed a man standing beside a lectern,  on
which lay an open book, exactly like  the books which stood on the pedestals  in
his fathers library back on K'veer. The man's hand hovered just above the  image
on the page.

On the  far side  of the  hall were  two doorways,  one to  the left, one on the
right. Cut  into the  plinth over  the left-hand  door was  the D'ni  symbol for
"Enter," while on the plinth to the right the same symbol had a circle about it,
from  which jutted  seven short,  wedge-shaped rays,  like a  star. From  Anna's
lessons he recognized it as the D'ni negative. That sign read "Do Not Enter."

He went  to the  left-hand door.  It opened  onto a  long, caged passageway with
ornately latticed sides  of interwoven bronze  and iron that  went directly down
the middle of a  much bigger sloping corridor,  the cracked walls of  which were
covered  in carvings  of open  fields and  blazing suns,  and of  men and  women
standing in  those fields  wearing strange  glasses-his glasses,  Atrus realized
with a  start of  surprise!-as they  looked up  into those limitless, unfamiliar
heavens.

At the end  of the caged  walk was a  barrier. Gehn vaulted  it effortlessly and
walked on, into a  big, high-ceilinged gallery, on  the far side of  which was a
massive stone screen. Behind that could be seen three tall, black-painted doors.

Atrus clambered over the barrier, then went across, joining his father.

"Over there, through those doors, is the Book Room," Gehn said. "From there  the
common people of D'ni would have the opportunity of traveling to an Age."

He looked to Atrus, clearly proud of his race's achievements.

"Did everybody use these places?"

Gehn shook  his head.  "No. That  is why  they are  called the Common Libraries.
These places  were for  the common,  workingmen and  -women of  D'ni. The  great
families had their own books, their own Ages. They were rigidly administered  by
the  Guilds,  just as  these  Ages were,  yet  they were  exclusive.  Only those
permitted by the families could enter them."

Atrus frowned. "And the harvest worlds?"

"Those were Guild worlds. The books they used were specialized books, much  less
restrictive than the ordinary books. They had to be to take the great loads that
were regularly brought back from those Ages."

Gehn gestured toward the doors. "Anyway, let us go inside."

Following  his father,  Atrus went  around the  screen and  through the  central
doorway, into a  big, long chamber  filled with pedestals,  divided in two  by a
central walkway, the whole  thing mounted on a  huge, white marble dais.  Barely
half the pedestals now stood, and  the great dais itself was riven  with cracks.
There was no ceiling  to the chamber, but  overlooking it was a  railed balcony,
parts of which had fallen away. Even  so, looking up at it, Atrus could  imagine
the  cloaked Guild  members standing  there like  gods, calmly  supervising  the
comings and goings down below.

Atrus stepped up beside  his father. On the  nearest pedestal lay an  open book,
its thick leather cover secured to the lectern by a heavy gold chain.

"Here they are," Atrus said.

Gehn looked to him. "No. Those are of no use to us."

Atrus frowned, not  understanding, but Gehn  had crouched and  was examining the
top of one of the  elaborately decorated pedestals, his fingers  feeling beneath
the  beveled edge.  With a  huff of  disappointment he  straightened up,  moving
quickly on to the next, examining that, again with the same response.

While he was doing so, Atrus stepped  up to the pedestal and looked down  at the
image on the right-hand page.

He frowned. It was dark, only  the vaguest outline visible. Then he  understood.
There was thick layer of dust over the "window," suspended there just a fraction
above the page.

He went to touch it, to brush it aside, but Gehn, who had seen what he was about
to do, grabbed his hand and pulled  it away, gripping it tightly and shaking  it
as he spoke.

"You must never do  that, Atrus! Never! You  understand? For all you  knew, that
Age  might be  dead, destroyed  by some  calamity. You  would be  drawn into  an
airless void."

"I'm sorry," Atrus said, his voice very small.

Gehn sighed, then released his hand.

"The Arc  can be  a dangerous  thing, Atrus.  That is  why the  D'ni took  great
precautions to protect these books and ensure they were not misused."

"Misused?"

But Gehn had already moved away, searching again. He was crouched down, studying
the edge of one of the pedestals in the second row.

"Atrus. Come over here."

Atrus frowned, but did as he was told, stepping up beside his father.

"I want  you to  search all  of these  pedestals for  a catch  or switch of some
kind."

"Father?"

Gehn pointed to the door at the far  end of the chamber. "We need to go  inside.
Somewhere here there is a switch or lever that will let us in."

Atrus set to  work, examining the  pedestals, one after  another, until, with  a
little cry of excitement, he found a tiny brass hemisphere set into the back  of
one of the great stone lecterns.

He pressed it. At once the door on the far side of the room slid open.

"Good," Gehn said, straightening, then making his way across.

"Is this it?" Atrus said,  standing in the doorway, staring  with disappointment
into what seemed like an unfurnished corridor from which no doors led out.

"No," Gehn said, turning to look back  into the main gallery. "The Book Room  is
below. I hoped the trapdoor  would be open, but it  looks like we shall have  to
force our way in."

As his father stepped  out again, Atrus moved  past him, noticing for  the first
time the big square  slab of stone  that hung like  a painting against  the left
hand wall.

Standing before it, Atrus frowned. From its smooth surface protruded a number of
geometric symbols-  stars and  semicircles, triangles  and squares,  and several
others-arranged in what appeared to be a haphazard fashion.

Atrus squinted at it, trying to make out what it was he had noticed. There was a
pattern. No ...  not a pattern,  a progression. Each  symbol had a  mathematical
value, and if you took those values ...

A map. It was a map!

Gehn came back into the room, carrying one of the fallen pedestals, his  muscles
straining as he kept the massive piece of marble balanced against his chest  and
shoulder.

"Out of  the way!"  he gasped,  then, lifting  the huge  stone with  both hands,
heaved it right through the middle of the slab, embedding it in the wall.

"But father ..."

"Mind back, boy," Gehn said, ignoring him, grasping the pedestal once again, and
beginning to extricate it from the wall,  heaving at it and rocking it back  and
forth until it came free.

But I could have solved the puzzle, Atrus said silently, as his father threw the
pedestal aside, revealing, behind the slab, a matrix of metal pullies and wires.

He watched  as his  father pulled  and pushed  at the  wires, trying to work the
mechanism that activated the trapdoor. For a moment there was nothing, and  then
there was a resounding click as something slotted into place.

"Stand over by the door, Atrus," Gehn said, gesturing to him with one hand,  the
other buried deep inside the workings of the mechanism.

Atrus  did as  he was  told, then  watched as  his father  made a  small  little
movement of his shoulder.

There was the hiss of hydraulics and then a low grating sound. A moment later  a
two-by-three rectangle of  the floor beside  them began to  sink into the  earth
with a loud hissing noise, revealing a stairway.

Atrus followed his father down, into  a large, well-lit space, filled with  long
workbenches piled high  with all manner  of clutter. Shelves  crowded the walls.
Eight cloaked skeletons  sat in their  chairs, slumped forward  over their work.
Another-their supervisor?-lay where he had fallen against the far wall.

"What is  this place?"  Atrus asked,  sniffing the  musty air,  noting that  the
seated skeletons were chained to their desks.

"This is the main Book Room," Gehn answered. But there was no sign of any  books
in that chamber. The  shelves were crowded with  all manner of things-boxes  and
bottles, papers and files, tools for writing and carving-but no books. Of books,
at least of  the kind that  Gehn seemed to  want, there was  no sign. There were
only those upstairs, and it was dear that Gehn did not want them.

Atrus stared at his father,  confused. But Gehn was looking  about purposefully,
searching the nearest shelves as if he might unearth real treasures here.

"What should I look for?" he asked, after a moment.

Gehn turned, staring at him, as if he had forgotten he was there, then  gestured
to a door at the back of the room, behind the stairway they'd come down.

"Have a look in there, Atrus. There  should be a narrow passageway with four  or
five rooms off it. One of them will be the bookstore. If it is locked, call  me.
But it should be open. They would not have had time to lock it."

No, Atrus thought,  beginning to understand  how quickly catastrophe  had fallen
upon D'ni.  At night,  so his  father had  said, while  most decent folk were in
their beds.

Gehn turned away, rummaging among  the shelves, stopping to  take out a  strange
looking glass vial and shake it, then throwing it aside.

Atrus watched him a moment longer then went through, finding it exactly as  Gehn
had described. The  passageway was eight  paces long. Two  doors led off  to the
left, two to the right; one lay directly ahead. He tried that first, noting  the
D'ni "Book" symbol cut  into the center of  the elaborate carved pattern  on its
polished wooden surface.

The door swung back silently on its hinges at his touch. Inside was the  tiniest
of rooms-almost  a cupboard  it was  so small-with  broad shelves  on all  three
sides, reaching up into the ceiling space well above his head.

Most of those were empty, but on one of the higher shelves there were seven,  no
eight, of the big, leather-bound books.

Amis reached up and pulled one down, a red-covered book, surprised by how  heavy
it was,  as if  it were  made of  something more  than paper. Then, kneeling, he
placed it on the floor in front of him and opened it.

Nothing! The pages were blank. Disappointed,  he closed the book and slipped  it
back into  its place,  then took  another, this  time with  a pale green leather
cover. That, too, proved blank. One by one he took the books down, certain  that
he would find at least one that had something written in it, but they were  all,
as far as he could see, the same.

Defeated, he placed one of the  books beneath his arm and went  outside, walking
back down the passageway despondently.

Gehn had cleared a space on one of the workbenches and was bent over what looked
like a wooden tray filled with a dozen or so large amber-colored inkpots.  After
a moment, he  straightened, holding up  one of the  big, five-sided crystals  to
examine it, its rich amber color reflected in Gehn's pallid face. Then, noticing
Atrus standing there, he looked across.

"Well? Did you find any?"

"It's  no  good,"  Atrus  said, steeling  himself  against  his  father's anger.
"There's nothing in them."

Putting the inkpot  back in the  case, Gehn came  and took the  book from Atrus.
"Here, let me see that."

He opened it and flicked through a number of pages, then looked up again.  "This
is fine. This is just what I was looking for. Are there others?"

Atrus  went  to  shake his  head,  then  nodded, utterly  confused  now.  "But I
thought... I thought you wanted ones with Ages in them. These ... these are just
books."

Gehn laughed. "No, Atrus. These are not just books, these are Kortee'nea.  Blank
books, waiting to be written."

Written ... Atrus stared at his father.

Gehn unslung  his knapsack  and slid  the book  inside it,  then looked to Atrus
again. "How many books are there in the store?"

"Eight."

"Good. Then  bring them  back in  here. There  is ink  here," he said, gesturing
toward the case of amber-colored pots, "and pens, too, so we have everything  we
need. Come then. Quick now, boy. We can be home by supper!"



CHAPTER 10

"Atrus?"

Atrus  looked up  from his  desk to  where Gehn  stood on  the far  side of  the
library.

"Yes, father?"  he said,  setting his  pen aside,  careful not  to drip  any ink
across the copy paper.

"Come with me."

Atrus stood  uncertainly, then,  skirting the  dais at  the center  of the room,
joined his father at the foot of the steps.

Two weeks had passed since the expedition into the city, and Atrus had begun  to
think that his father had forgotten his promise, but Gehn was smiling now.

"Are you ready, Atrus?"

"Ready, father?"

"To begin your work. It is time you learned how to Write."

He followed Gehn up into a large, yet strangely claustrophobic room. At first he
didn't understand why, then he realized  that it had been cut directly  from the
surrounding rock, which was why, perhaps, the ceiling was so low-a cave within a
cave.

Books crowded the undecorated stone walls and were heaped up on the floor on all
sides, while in  the center of  the room was  a large desk,  lit by a  curiously
shaped lamp-the only source of illumination in that dim and musty place.  Facing
that massive desk was another smaller one that had been cleared.

Gehn led him across, standing Atrus to  one side while he sat in his  chair and,
reaching into one of the drawers, drew  out a shallow metal tray on which  was a
large quill pen  and a number  of the amber-colored  ink pots they  had found on
their first book hunt.

Setting the  tray to  one side,  Gehn leaned  across and  pulled one of the big,
leather-bound books toward him-its brown cover flecked with white-opening it  to
the first page.

It was blank.

He looked up at Atrus, his pale  eyes fixing his son. "You have spent  six weeks
now, learning how to copy a number of basic D'ni words and have discovered  just
how  complex  and beautiful  a  script it  is.  But those  characters  also mean
something, Atrus. Something much more than you've previously understood. And not
just in this world.  They were developed over  tens of thousands of  years for a
specific task-that of describing Ages ... of creating other worlds. They are not
like the words you and I speak casually,  nor can they be used so in the  books.
Writing-D'ni Writing-is  not merely  an Art,  it is  a science.  The science  of
precise description."

He turned, looking to  the blank page. "When  we begin, there is  nothing. It is
... uncreated. But  as soon as  die first word  is written-just as  soon as that
first character is completed, the last stroke set down upon the page-dien a link
is set up to that newly created world, a bridge established."

Atrus frowned. "But where does it lead, this bridge?"

"Anywhere," Gehn answered, glancing at  him as he removed  the lid of the  amber
colored crystal ink pot.  "The D'ni called it  Terokh Jeruth, the great  tree of
possibility."

Atrus laughed. "It sounds like magic!"

"And so it is. But you and I are  D'ni, and so I shall share a secret with  you.
We are not ordinary men, Atrus, we are gods!"

"Gods?" Atrus stared back at his father, bewildered.

"Yes," Gehn went on fervently, his eyes lit with a passion Atrus had never  seen
in him before. "Common men but dream and wake. We, however, can live our dreams.
Within limits-limits that the finest D'ni  minds took great care to define  over
the millennia-we can create whatever we  can visualize. We use words to  conjure
worlds."

Alms's mouth had fallen open.

"Why, I could show you worlds so rich, so vivid in their detail, that they would
make you want to burst with admiration for their makers. Worlds of such splendor
and magnificence that they make this marvelous world of ours seem ordinary!"

Gehn laughed,  then held  the ink  pot up  for Atrus  to see.  Within the thick,
yellow, glasslike walls of the container, was a fine black liquid.

"What do you see, Atrus?"

Atrus looked up, meeting his fathers eyes, momentarily startled by that echo  of
Anna's customary words. tn i k,f

"Ink?"

"Yes ... but not just any ink. It has special powers that ordinary ink does  not
possess. So, too, with the pages of the book. They are made of a special  paper,
the formula for which was kept secret by the Guild."

"And the pen?" Atrus asked, pointing to it. "Is that special, too?"

Gehn smiled. "No. The pen is but a pen. However, if anyone else tried to do what
we are about to do- anyone, that is, without D'ni blood-then they would fail. It
would be impossible."

Turning to face the page, Gehn set the ink pot down, then, dipping the  metallic
tip of the quill into it, lifted the pen above the page and began to write.

Slowly  a  D'ni character-the  word  "island," Atrus  noted-began  to form,  its
intense blackness burned almost into the pure white surface by the pen.

Gehn wrote  another dozen  characters onto  the page,  then lifted  the pen  and
looked to Atrus.

"Is  it done?"  Atrus asked,  surprised that  there had  not been  more. He  had
expected fireworks or the heavens to open. "Have you made a new Age?"

Gehn laughed. "It exists, yes ... but as yet it is very crude. It takes a  great
deal of work to  create an Age. There  are special formulas you  have to follow,
precise laws to obey. As  I said, it is not  simply an Art, it is  a science-the
science of precise description."

He gestured toward the open book. "As  yet, I have merely sketched out the  most
basic elements of my new world. Ahead lies an immense amount of hard work. Every
aspect of the Age must be described, each new element fitted in. But that is not
all."

Reaching across, Gehn took  another, much smaller book  from a pile at  the side
and held it  out to  Atrus. "Once  the Age  is complete,  one must always-always
make a Linking Book."

Atrus took the small book  and opened it, noting at  once how few pages were  in
it. All of them were blank.

"Yes," Gehn  continued. "Whenever  you travel  to a  newly written  Age you must
always carry  a Linking  Book with  you. If  you did  not, you  would be trapped
there, without any way of traveling back."

Atrus looked back at his father, wide-eyed. "But what's actually in one of these
Linking Books?"

Gehn  took  the book  back.  "Each Linking  Book  refers to  one  of the  larger
descriptive  books-to one  specific book.  You might  say that  it contains  the
essence of the larger book-certain phrases and words that fuses it to that  book
and no other.  But that is  not all. For  a Linking Book  to work, it  must also
include an  accurate description  of the  place one  wishes to  link to  on that
particular Age, which  is recorded  by writing  a special  D'ni symbol,  a  Garo
hertee. Yes, and a Linking  Book must be written in  the Age and location it  is
meant to link to. And so a Linking Book is, in a sense, a working substitute for
a descriptive book."

Atrus thought a moment, then. "And can  there be only one Linking Book for  each
descriptive book?"

"Not at all," Gehn answered, delighted by his son's understanding. Then, setting
the slender book back on the pile, he added. "You can make as many Linking Books
as you want. But you must always make at least one. That is the first rule.  One
you must not forget."

Atrus nodded, then, "But what if you change the Age? What if you decide to write
more in the descriptive book? Would the Linking Book cease to work?"

"No. If the descriptive book is changed, then all Linking Books associated  with
it will link to the changed world."

Atrus s eyes lit, imagining it, only now realizing just how complex and powerful
this Writing was. "It sounds ... astonishing!"

"Yes," Gehn said, his  eyes looking back at  Atrus, godlike and wise  beyond all
human years. "Oh, it is, Atrus. It is."

*   *   *

That night, Atrus decided  he would speak to  his father, to remind  him that it
was almost time for them to go back and visit Anna.

Encouraged by Gehn's high spirits over supper, Atrus waited until he had lit his
pipe and  settled back  in his  chair in  the corner  of the  kitchen before  he
broached the subject.

"Father?"

Gehn stretched his legs and stared at his boots, the gently-glowing pipe cradled
in his lap. "Yes?"

"When are we going back?"

Gehn looked to him languidly. "Back? Back where?"

"To the cleft."

Surprisingly, Gehn laughed. "ThtfeP'You want to go back there?"

"Yes," Atrus said quietly. "You said ..."

"I said I would try. I said ..."

Gehn sat up and,  setting the pipe aside,  leaned toward Atrus. "I  said that to
keep your grandmother quiet. I never meant..." He shrugged, then started  again.
"Look, Atrus, it would take us the best  part of four or five days to get  there
and another three or four to return here. And for what?"

"Well, couldn't you write a book to the deft and bring her here?"

"And how would you  set about writing such  a book? This world  has already been
created."

"Then can't you write a Linking Book?"

Atrus stopped, realizing that,  of course, he couldn't.  He would have to  be at
the cleft in order to write that Linking Book.

Gehn  watched him,  seeing that  he understood,  then spoke  softly. "I  should,
perhaps, have said you cannot link to another location in the Age you are in. It
is impossible."

Atrus was silent a moment, then. "But you told me you would take me back."

"Oh, Atrus, grow up! There's nothing there."

Atrus looked down. "But you promised. You said ..."

Gehn stood. "I simply do not have the time, and even if I did, I would  scarcely
waste it going  there. The place  is a pit,  Atrus. Literally so.  Besides, that
woman is poisonous. Don't you understand that  yet? I had to take you away  from
there."

"You're wrong," Atrus said quietly.

But Gehn simply shook his head and pointed at the chair. "Sit down. I shall tell
you a story. Then you can tell me if I am wrong or not."

Atrus sat, angry still and resentful, refusing to meet his father's eyes.

"Close to thirty years ago, when I was  but a child of four, there was a  war. A
young man named Veovis started  it. He was the son  of a nobleman, and the  sole
heir to  a powerful  estate. In  time he  would have  become one  of the  ruling
Council, a  lawmaker. But  he was  not content  with what  he had.  nor with the
promise  of what  would be.  Veovis broke  D'ni law.  He abused  his  privileged
position."

"In what way?"

"His crimes were heinous, unmentionable. He  was a cancer that needed to  be cut
from  the D'ni  culture. Eventually  he was  caught and,  despite his   father's
intercession, he  was tried  before the  Five Lords.  For more  than twenty days
witnesses gave evidence. Finally, the Five gave their decision. Veovis was to be
imprisoned. To be kept in a place  from which he would never escape. But  before
the decision of the Five could be implemented, several ofVeovis's young  friends
helped him to flee D'ni.

"For  six months,  nothing was  heard of  Veovis, and  it was  assumed that  the
problem had taken  care of itself.  But then rumors  began to circulate.  Rumors
that Veovis had taken a new name and  was to be found in the drinking houses  of
the lower city, stirring up discontent against the ruling faction.

"At first, nothing was done. Rumors were only rumors, it was argued. But then  a
number of  incidents occurred.  A stabbing  of a  senior official  in one of the
guilds. A bomb in one of the main ink works. The desecration of a book."

Atrus  frowned, not  understanding, but  his father  was staring  off into   the
distance, caught up in his recollections.

"After this last incident, a Council  meeting was called. At last, they  decided
to take action. But already it was  too late. Veovis had indeed been staying  in
the lower  city. Furthermore,  he had  been fermenting  trouble among  the lower
classes. What none of the ruling Council could have known, however, was just how
deep that discontent ran, nor how raw a nerve Veovis had touched. Only two  days
after  the Council  met, serious  rioting broke  out in  one of  the lower  city
districts. Before curfew that evening, the whole of the lower city was in  chaos
as the mob roamed the streets, maiming or killing whoever dared to stand against
them."

Gehn stopped, turning to face Atrus.

"As I said, I  was but a child  at the time. I  was staying in one  of the great
Guild houses in the upper precincts. My home was several miles away, on a  great
bluff of  rock that  I could  see from  one of  the windows  in the refectory. I
remember standing there all that afternoon, as the roar of the mob and the awful
cries of the dying came up to us from below, and wondering if it was the end. It
was a terrible time, made worse by my  fears for my own family. We were safe  in
the Guild  houses, of  course. At  the first  sign of  trouble, the  Council had
barred the  gates to  the upper  city and  trebled the  guard. But  many on  the
outlying estates died that day, victims of their own servants-men and women they
had trusted all their lives.

"It was fully  six weeks before  the last of  the rebels was  subdued and Veovis
himself captured, trying to make his escape through the lower tunnels."

"This time, when the Five met, their decision was unanimous. Veovis was to  die.
He was to be executed, there on the steps of the Great Library."

Gehn looked away, clearly pained by what came next, then spoke again. "It was  a
wise  decision. Yet  before it  could be  sealed and  passed as  law, one  final
witness stepped forward,  begging their leave  to speak out  on the young  man's
behalf."

Ti'ana, Atrus thought, recalling what Anna had told him.

Gehn  slowed once  more, staring  out past  Atrus. "That  witness was  a  woman,
Ti'ana."

Atrus opened his mouth,  aching to finish the  tale- to show his  father what he
knew-but Gehn seemed not  to be aware of  him. He spoke on,  in the grip of  the
tale, a sudden bitterness in his voice.

"Ti'ana was much respected by the Five  and so they let her speak. In  her view,
the  danger  had  passed. Veovis  had  done  his worst  and  D'ni  had survived.
Furthermore, she  argued, if  it had  not been  Veovis, some other rabble-rouser
would have stirred the mob to action, for the discontent had not been that of  a
single man, but of a whole class. In the circumstances, she said, her  eloquence
swaying those  venerable lords,  should not  the Council's  original decision be
carried out."

Coming to the bottom of the steps,  Gehn stepped out onto the second ledge  and,
looking to his son, sighed deeply. "And so it was done, Atrus. Veovis was placed
inside his prison. The prison from which he could not escape."

Gehn paused, his eyes on Atrus. "It was three days later when it happened.  They
had checked on him, of course, morning  and evening, but on the evening of  that
third day, the guard who was sent  did not return. Two more were sent,  and when
they returned, it was with the news that the prison was empty. There was no sign
of either Veovis or the guard.

"They should have  known that something  was seriously wrong,  but they had  not
learned their lessons. And when Veovis  did not reappear, they assumed that  all
was well,  that he  had fled-who  knew where?-and  would not  be seen again. But
Veovis was a vengeful young man who had seen his hopes dashed twice in the space
of a year. Only a fool would think he'd simply go away and lick his wounds. Only
a fool..."

Atrus blinked, surprised by the sudden anger in his father's voice.

"And so it was that Veovis did return.  And this time it was not in the  company
of an unwashed and uncontrollable  rabble, but at the  head of a small  but well
trained force of fanatics who had but one thing in their minds: to destroy D'ni.
Ti'ana was wrong, you  see. The danger had  not passed, nor had  Veovis done his
worst."

"But she was not to know, surely?"

"No?" Gehn shook his head, a profound disappointment in his face. "The woman was
a foolish meddler. And my father no less a fool for listening to her."

"Your father?"

"Yes," Gehn said,  walking across to  the edge and  standing there, looking  out
across the ruined landscape. "Or is that something else she hasn't told you?"

"She?"

"Anna. Your grandmother."

"I ... I don't understand. What has she got to do with it?"

Gehn laughed bleakly. "You still do not know?"

"Know what?"

And now  Gehn turned  and looked  at him  again, his  face hard.  "That she  was
Ti'ana. Anna, I  mean. That was  her D'ni name,  given to her  by my father-your
grandfather-when he married her."

Amis stared,  shock in  his face.  "No. No.  It isn't  possible. She  would have
said."

"It's true," Gehn said  bitterly. "Her words destroyed  it ... her meddling.  It
would all have been over, finished with. Veovis would have been dead, the threat
dealt with, but no ... she had  to interfere. She could not help herself.  As if
she knew best all the while.' She would never listen. Never!"

Atrus shook his head, unable to believe it.

"Did she ever  tell you about  me, Atrus? Did  she? No! Of  course not.' So  ask
yourself, what else did she fail to tell you?"

"But she couldn't have!" he blurted, unable to help himself. "She couldn't!"

"No?" For  a moment  Gehn stared  at him,  as if  studying an  exhibit beneath a
microscope. "You should not let sentiment blind you, Atrus. The world we inhabit
is a harsh one, and sentiment can kill just as surely as a falling rock. It  was
a lesson your  grandmother never learned.  And that is  why I cannot  let you go
back to her. For your own good."

Atrus was silent a moment, staring down at his hands where they were clasped  in
his  lap.  Then  he  spoke  again, his  voice  quiet  now,  lacking  the defiant
conviction it had had only minutes before.

"Anna was good to me. She looked  after me, made sure I never starved.  Yes, and
she taught me, too."

"Taught you?" Gehn's laughter was scathing. "Taught you what? How to survive  in
a crack? How to eat dust and dream of rain, I bet!"

"No!" Atrus yelled, hurt now and confused and angry-angrier than he'd ever  been
though at who it was hard to  tell. "She taught me more than you've  ever taught
me!"

Gehn's laughter died. He  stepped across and stood  over Atrus, looking down  at
him coldly, threateningly. "What did you say?"

Atrus lowered his  eyes, intimidated by  his fathers physical  presence. "I said
she taught me more than you."

Gehn reached down with  his right hand, gripped  Alms's chin, and forced  him to
look at him. "Tell me, boy. What did that woman ever teach you that was any  use
at all?"

He shrugged off Gehn's hand and moved his head back. "She taught me D'ni, that's
what!"

Gehn laughed and shook his head. "Taught you to lie, more like!"

Atrus met his father's eyes squarely, then spoke slowly, calmly, in fluent D'ni.

"She taught me what is good and what is to be valued, those truths which  cannot
be shaken or changed."

Slowly,  like the  sunlight bleeding  from the  horizon at  the day's  end,  the
mocking smile faded from Gehn's lips.

"You mean, you knew?" Gehn said coldly. "All this while?" His face was hard now,
his  eyes   cold.  Once   again  there   seemed  something   dangerous-something
frightening-about him.  "You sat  there all  that time,  pretending not to know?
Mocking me?"

"No," Atrus  began, wanting  to explain,  but Gehn  was not  listening. Grasping
Atrus with both hands he pulled him up out of his chair and shook him.

"Why, you deceitful, ungrateful little boy!  It would serve you right if  I took
you back and let you rot there  in that pathetic little hole! Ah, but  she would
like that, wouldn't  she? And that  is why we  are not going  back. Not now, not
ever!"

"But you must!" Atrus  cried out, appalled at  the thought. "She'll be  worried!
When she doesn't hear ..."

Taking Atrus by the scruff of the  neck, Gehn half marched, half dragged him  to
his room and threw him inside, then slammed the door and locked it.

"Wait!"  Atrus cried,  picking himself  up and  throwing himself  at the   door.
"Father! Please... you've got to listen!"

*   *   *

For three whole  days, Gehn did  not return. When  he finally did,  he announced
himself by rapping loudly on the door to Atrus's room.

"Atrus?"

Atrus was in his sleeping niche in the big wardrobe, a spot that felt more  like
his bed at home, reading a D'ni book, a half-eaten apple in one hand. The sudden
knocking made him  jump. Hiding the  apple and the  book, he quickly  closed the
wardrobe door and hurried across to the bed, slipping beneath the silken sheets.

"Atrus?" Gehn's  voice came  again. Significantly,  he spoke  D'ni now. "Are you
awake? I need to talk with fi you.

He ought to  have told him  to go away,  but the anger  he'd first felt  had now
evaporated. Besides,  he wanted  to know  just what  his father  had to  say for
himself."

"All right..." he called back, feigning indifference.

He heard the key turn in the lock. A moment later Gehn stepped into the room. He
looked immensely weary,  his pale eyes  ringed from lack  of sleep, his  clothes
unwashed-the same clothes  he had been  wearing the evening  he had argued  with
Atrus.

Atrus sat up, his back against the massive, carved headboard, looking across  at
Gehn, who was outlined in the half-light by the door.

"I've been thinking," Atrus began.

Gehn raised a hand. "We speak only D'ni henceforth."

Atrus started again, this  time in D'ni. "I've  been thinking. Trying to  see it
from your point of view. And I think I understand."

Gehn came closer, intrigued. "And what conclusion did you come to?"

Atrus hesitated, then. "I  think I understand why  you feel what you  feel about
Anna. Why you hate her so much."

Gehn laughed, surprised, yet his face was strangely pained. "No, Atrus. I do not
hate her. It would be easy if it  were that simple. But I do blame her.  I blame
her for what she did to D'ni.  And for leaving my father here, knowing  he would
die."

"I don't see the difference."

"No?" Gehn came closer,  standing over him. "It  is hard to explain  just what I
feel sometimes. She is my mother and so she has to love me. It is her duty. Why,
I even  saw it  in her  eyes that  last time.  But she  does not  like me. To be
honest, she never has." He shook his head, then continued. "It was the same with
Veovis. She  never liked  him. She  thought him  odious; ill-mannered  and  foul
tempered. Yet when it came down to it, she felt that her duty was to love him-to
save him from himself."

Gehn sighed heavily. "She was a hypocrite.  She did not act on what she  knew to
be the truth. It was a weakness that destroyed a race of gods!"

"And yet you two survived," Atrus said quietly. "She saved you. Brought you  out
of D'ni."

"Yes," Gehn said,  staring away into  the shadows on  the far side  of the room.
"Some days  I wonder  why. Some  days I  ask myself  whether that,  too, was not
weakness of a kind. Whether  it would not have been  better for us both to  have
died back there and end it all cleanly. As it is ..."

Atrus stared at his father in the long silence that followed, seeing him clearly
for the first time. There was something quite admirable about the spirit  within
him; about the  determination to try  to restore and  recreate the D'ni  culture
single-handedly. Admirable but futile.

"So can I go and see Anna?"

Gehn did not even look at him. "No,  Atrus. My mind is made up. It would  be too
disruptive, and I cannot afford disruption."

"But she'll worry if I don't go back ..."

"Be quiet, boy! I said no, and I mean  no! Now let that be the last word on  the
matter! I shall send Rijus with a note, informing your grandmother that you  are
well and explaining why she cannot see you again. But beyond that, I can  permit
no further contact between you."

Atrus looked down. It  was as if his  father had physically struck  him. Not see
her again? The thought appalled him.

"As for the matter of your deception," Gehn went on, unaware, it seemed, of  the
great shadow that had fallen on the young man's spirit, "I have to tell you that
I was gravely disappointed  in you, Atrus. That  said, I shall overlook  it this
once. Indeed, it may prove a great  benefit in the long term. It will  certainly
save me a great  deal of time and  hard work, and it  will also mean that  I can
press on  more rapidly  than I  had anticipated.  It is  possible you might even
start a book of your own."

Atrus looked up. "A book?"

"Yes. But you must promise me something."

Gehn loomed over  him, his manner  fierce, uncompromising. "You  must promise me
never-and I mean never-to  question my word again  or to scheme behind  my back.
You must be  absolutely clear on  this, Atrus. I  am Master here  and my word is
law."

Atrus stared at his father, knowing him  at that moment better than he had  ever
known him; then, realizing he had no other choice, he bowed his head.

"I promise."

"Good. Then come and get something to eat. You must be starving."



CHAPTER 11

"Where are we?" Atrus asked, looking about  him at the cave into which they  had
"linked," his eyes taking a moment to adjust to the darkness.

Gehn edged past him. Standing on tiptoe, he reached into a narrow recess high up
at the back of the  cave. "This is one of  my more recent worlds," he  answered,
removing a slender box. Within was the Linking Book that would get them back  to
D'ni. Quickly checking that it had not been tampered with, he slid it back  into
the hole in the rock, then turned, looking to Atrus. "This is my  Thirty-seventh
Age."

"Ah ..." Atrus said, if only because he could think of nothing else. Personally,
he would have spent  a little time  and effort thinking  of a name  for the  Age
something mystical and romantic, perhaps-but Gehn was pragmatic when it came  to
his creations.

For three years now he had been accompanying his father to these Ages, and never
once had Gehn thought to give an Age a name. Numbers. It was always numbers with
his father.

At the  front of  the cave,  a narrow  tunnel curved  away to  the left, sloping
steadily  upward. Fastening  his cloak  at the  neck, Atrus  followed Gehn  out,
wondering what kind of world this was.

Up above it was night. They emerged into a rough circle of open grass surrounded
on three sides by the bare rock of the hillside. Below them, under a dark,  blue
black sky in which sat two small moons-one white, one red-lay an island. At  the
center of the island was an oval lake.

Atrus stood there,  taking in the  sight, impressed by  the circle of  low hills
that formed a natural bowl about the  lake. The lake itself was dark and  still,
reflecting the twin moons, the surrounding sea shimmeringly bright.

Looking at  it, Atrus  began to  question it,  as he  always did, wondering what
words, what phrases his father had used to get that soft, sculpted shape to  the
hills? Or was that a product of the underlying rock? Was it limestone? Or  clay,
perhaps? And those trees, over to the right-were they a natural variant, or  had
Gehn written them in specifically?

The air was sweet and cool, rich with the varied scents of living things.

"It's very beautiful," he said finally,  looking to his father, but Gehn  merely
grunted, surveying his work with what seemed a haughty disregard.

"I have done much better work than  this," he answered, climbing up onto one  of
the rocks, then  stepping down the  other side. "In  some ways this  is my least
successful experiment. I tried to keep it simple. Too simple, possibly."

Atrus climbed up onto the rock, hurrying to catch up. He had seen quite a few of
his fathers Ages these past three years-he  hadn't begun to try making ages  yet
but it had never ceased to astonish him that mere words could create such  vivid
and tangible realities.

There was a path leading down  between the scattered rocks. After a  dozen paces
it opened out onto a bare slope covered in thigh-high grass. Below them, maybe a
mile or so distant, huddled around the left-hand side of the lake, was a scatter
of low, rectangular  buildings, oddly shaped,  as if half  made of stone;  maybe
forty in all, lit by the lamps  which hung over doorways and on poles  along the
harbor's edge.  Suspended walkways  linked the  huts. Beneath  the eaves  of the
nearest huts a number of dark, upright figures could be glimpsed.

Atrus turned to stare at Gehn, surprised. "It's inhabited?"

"Yes, but don't expect too much, Atrus. The people of this Age are an  immensely
simple  folk. Crude,  one might  almost say.  They manage  to eke  out a  meager
existence by way of fishing and basic agriculture, but as for culture, well ..."

Gehns laugh  was dismissive.  Even so,  Atrus felt  a strange  excitement at the
thought of meeting them. Though Gehn had occasionally brought in working parties
from one or other of his Ages, he had never taken Atrus to an inhabited Age. Not
before today.

They walked  on, descending  the thickly  grassed slope.  At first Atrus thought
they would come upon the islanders  unobserved, but then, a hundred yards  or so
from the edge of the village, a shout went up. Someone had spotted them. At once
there was a buzz of voices down below and signs of sudden, frantic activity.

Gehn touched his arm, motioning that he should stop.

Atrus glanced at his father, alarmed. "Arc we in danger?"

Gehn shook his head. "Be patient, Atrus. You are here to observe, so observe."

Atrus fell silent, watching as a dozen  or so of the tall, manlike figures  came
up the slope toward them, carrying flaming torches.

Ten paces from them, the party stopped, dropping to their knees and bowing their
heads, abasing themselves before Gehn. One  of their number-the tallest of  them
stood,  then, coming  forward, his  head bowed,  held out  a garland  of  yellow
flowers, offering at the same time a few words of broken D'ni.

"You are welcome, Great Master. Your dwelling is prepared."

In the flickering light of the torches, Atrus saw what he was wearing. It was  a
crude, handwoven copy of a Guild cloak!

"Good," Gehn said,  lowering his head  so that the  man could place  the garland
over it. Then, straightening up, he gestured to the man, "Gather the  villagers.
I shall speak to them at once."

"Master!" the acolyte answered, glancing at Atrus, his dark eyes curious.

"Now lead on!" Gehn said, his voice stern, commanding.

They went  down, through  a narrow  lane flanked  by low  but spacious huts with
steeply sloping  roofs of  thatch, their  wooden walls  rising out  of a  bed of
large,*  shaped  boulders.  Suspended,  slatted  wooden  walkways  swayed gently
overhead as they walked through, and as they came out beside the lake, Atrus saw
how the earth there  had been covered with  boards; how steps had  been cut into
the face of  the rock, leading  down. Below was  a kind of  harbor, one wall  of
which had been created by sinking hundreds of long poles into the bottom of  the
lake to  form a  sunken barrier.  In the  harbor were  a dozen  or so  small but
sturdy-looking fishing boats, their masts laid flat, their cloth sails furled.

People were  gathering from  all over  now-men, women,  and children.  They were
pale-skinned, stocky, clearly human in  their dark-brown smocks. Their hair  was
uniformly light in color and spiky, reminding Atrus of straw.

Farther along, a channel had been cut through the rock, linking the lake to  the
open  sea.  It was  not  very broad-barely  wide  enough for  a  single boat  to
navigate-but a strong wooden bridge had been thrown across it.

On the other side,  the land began to  climb again, and on  the top of a  narrow
ridge, behind which was the more massive slope of the hill, was what looked like
a meeting hut of some kind, much larger than the hues that faced the harbor.  As
they crossed the  bridge and began  to climb the  slope, Atrus saw  lights being
hastily lit up ahead, garlands hung between the wooden posts at the front of the
building.

Behind  them, the  people of  the village  gathered, following  silently,  their
torches burning brightly in the moonlit darkness.

Coming to the front of the building, Gehn turned, facing the crowd, whose number
had grown to several hundred.

"People of  the Thirty-seventh  Age," he  began, speaking  loudly, the circle of
hills making his words echo back to him across the lake. "This is my son, Atrus.
I have decided that we shall stay with you for a time. While he is here you will
treat him with the same respect you accord me."

Atrus stared at his father, surprised. This was the first he had heard of any of
this. But Gehn spoke on, his voice booming now.

"Whatever he wants, you will give to  him. Whatever he asks, you will do.  Is it
understood?"

"It is understood," two hundred voices answered as one.

"Good!" Gehn said,  then raised his'left  hand imperiously, dismissing  them. He
turned to Atrus.

"Come, Atrus. Inside."

Atrus hesitated, looking back down the slope at the dispersing villagers,  then,
pulling his cloak about him, followed his father into the great hut.

The interior of the  hut was shockingly familiar.  It was just like  the Worship
Rooms  he  had seen  in  several of  the  great houses  back  in D'ni.  Symbolic
tapestries hung on three of the walls: elaborate and colorful silks which, Atrus
guessed, had been taken from D'ni and brought here. There were rugs and  screens
and, on  a low  table to  the right,  a number  of golden goblets and bowls-big,
jewel-encrusted things that,  once again, looked  to have been  taken from D'ni.
Dominating the room, however, was a  huge, wooden desk, like the desk  in Gehn's
study.

He looked to his father. Gehn was watching him, amused.

"You want to know why I brought you here?"

Atrus hesitated, then nodded.

Gehn walked over  to the desk  and took his  seat, then leaned  across, taking a
long, thin book from a pile to the side.

"The truth is, Atrus, I brought you here for a number of reasons, but mainly  so
that  I  might  answer a  few  of  those questions  you  are  forever asking  me
concerning  the  making  of an  Age.  I  wanted to  flesh  out  your theoretical
knowledge. To that end, you will keep  a notebook while you are here; in  it you
will write down all your observations about this Age."

He held the book out, letting Atrus take it.

"I also wanted you to experience things for yourself, without preconceptions.  I
wanted you  to see,  with your  own eyes,  the awe  in which  we are held in the
Ages."

"Awe, father?"

"Yes, Atrus, awe. And so they should, for are we not gods? Do they not owe their
lives, their very  breath, to us?  Would they be  here had I  not written on the
whiteness of the page?"

Gehn paused, then. "I want you to stay here a while and observe this Age, to see
just what is  possible. It will  help you with  your own writing.  You will stay
with one of the locals-an old woman whose husband died some years back. You will
be courteous to her but aloof, you understand?"

"I understand."

Gehn sat back. "Good. Then go now. My acolyte is just outside. He will take  you
to where you will be staying."

*   *   *

The  acolyte walked  silently before  Atrus, his  ceremonial torch,  its  shaft,
carved with tiny D'ni symbols, held  up before him. Curious villagers knelt  and
bowed their heads  as they passed,  a low whisper  going from one  to another in
their wake.

When they  came to  the path  through the  village, however,  the man did not go
straight on toward the  cave, but turned to  the left, climbing a  narrow set of
steps between two huts that climbed  up past their steeply sloping roofs.  Atrus
followed, coming out above  the village on a  path that seemed to  lead nowhere.
Ahead of them was only the dark, moonlit slope of the hill.

The  man  led on,  walking  slowly, solemnly,  as  if at  the  head of  a  great
procession.

Atrus looked back toward the harbor, his eyes finding the bridge and, beyond  it
in  the  darkness, the  meeting  hut. Beyond  that,  visible only  now  that the
lanterns had been lit inside, was a long, low tent. As Atrus watched, he saw his
father walk across and duck beneath the canvas flap.

He turned back. Ahead of him, to his left, just over the hump of the hill, there
was a hint of light.  As they climbed, it grew,  revealing the outline of a  hut
just over the brow of the slope. The light was from its open doorway.

As they  drew nearer,  a figure  stepped into  the light-outlined  for one brief
moment before it merged with the darkness.

The old woman.

As the light from the  acolyte's torch fell over the  front of the hut, she  was
revealed.  Like most  of her  people, she  wore a  simple, dark-brown  smock  of
coarsely woven cloth.  Her hair, likewise,  was unsophisticated, its  thick gray
strands framing her  deeply lined face  in an unkempt  halo. She was  the oldest
person Atrus had ever seen.

She looked away, bowing awkwardly, then stepped back, allowing him to enter  the
hut.

Atrus hesitated, then ducked under the low lintel, into a clean, warm space that
was filled with the strong, fresh scent of herbs. Looking about him, he saw them
at once, all  along the right-hand  wall, above two  narrow shelves of  pots and
pans: sprig after sprig of herbs, hung on tiny wooden hooks.

The floor was covered in planed wooden  boards, the low roof made of rafter  and
thatch. Halfway down its  length, a plain blue  curtain cut off his  view of the
rest of the hut.

"You want to eat?" the old woman asked, uncomfortable in his presence, her  D'ni
even more rudimentary than the acolyte's.

Atrus shook his head. "Thank you, I'm not really hungry."

"Ah ..." Her nod seemed more from nervousness than agreement. She looked at  him
anxiously, her brown eyes never leaving his face. "You want to sleep?"

"I ..." The truth was,  he wasn't really tired. After  all, back in D'ni it  was
barely suppertime. Yet  he could sense  how awkward he  was making her  feel and
felt awkward himself for doing so. "Yes," he said, after a moment. "If you would
show me my bed."

There was a slight movement in  her face which he didn't understand.  She seemed
... regretful?T\\en, with a tiny shrug, she went across and, pulling the curtain
aside a little way, looked back at him, pointing to what seemed a kind of stall.

He went  across and  looked, then  laughed; a  pleasant laugh  of surprise,  for
there, between the thin wooden walls of  his sleeping stall lay a simple,  straw
stuffed mattress.

"Like home," he said quietly.

The old woman was staring at him, curious now. "Beg pandon, Master?"

He looked to her, realizing  his eyes were moist. "When  I was a child, with  my
grandmother, I had a mattress similar to this."

"Is it no good?" she asked, as if he had been speaking a foreign language.

"No, no ... it's ... wonderful." He looked to her and smiled, strangely grateful
to her. Then,  on impulse, remembering  the pleasure his  grandmother had always
got from feeding him, he said, "Can I change my mind? I mean, about the food?"

"Of course!" the old woman said, a  smile lighting her face for the first  time.
"I bring you soup and bread, yes?"

He grinned. "It sounds marvelous!"

"Then you wait. Master. I bring you some."

Atrus watched her go, then looked about him, suddenly at ease, breathing in  the
pleasant scent of the herbs.

He knelt, setting his knapsack and the  notebook down in a corner of the  stall,
then removed his cloak and stowed it  in the sack. As he straightened up  again,
the old woman returned, carrying a wooden tray. On it was an earthenware bowl of
soup, a wooden spoon,  and half a small  loaf of brown bread.  Atrus accepted it
gratefully, then sat, the tray in his  lap. Smiling at her, he broke off  a hunk
of the bread and dipped it into the bowl.

For a while he ate in silence, enjoying that simple meal. Finished, he looked up
at the old woman.

"Was it okay?" she asked, a look of deep concern on her heavily lined face.

Atrus grinned. "It was wonderful! The best I've ever tasted!"

The truth was, he had no idea what it had been, but what he'd said wasn't a lie.
It had been wonderful. The best soup he had ever tasted, Annas notwithstanding.

His words brought a  ray of spring sunlight  to the old woman's  face. "You want
more?"

"Can I?"

It was as if, with those two little words, he had offered her all the riches  of
D'ni. She beamed, then  hurried away, returning in  a moment with a  second bowl
and the other half of the loaf.

"There," she said, standing over him  as he ate, grinning broadly. "You  growing
boy! You need your food, eh?"

*   *   *

Atrus woke in the darkness before  dawn, wondering for an instant where  he was,
the scent of herbs in that tiny, enclosed space oddly disturbing.

He sat up, listening to the silence, then stood, making his way quickly, quietly
outside.

Both moons had  set and the  land was dark  now, intensely dark,  the sky almost
bright by comparison, like  the desert sky at  night. Yet looking up  he knew he
was  not  on earth.  Where  was the  Hunter  now? Where  the  Dipper? Were  they
elsewhere in that vast, star-dusted sky,  or was he somewhere else entirely?  In
another universe, perhaps?

The thought was  one he had  had more and  more often these  past few months.  A
dangerous, unspoken thought.

And yet the more I discover about Writing, the mon I challenge my father's  view
that we are creating the worlds we travel in.

What if  they weren't  so much  making those  worlds as  linking to pre-existing
possibilities?

At first he had  dismissed the notion as  a foolish one. Of  course they created
these worlds.  They had  to be!  How else  would they  come into  being in  such
precise  and predictable  forms? Besides,  it was  simply not  possible that  an
infinite supply of different worlds existed out there, waiting to be tapped. Yet
the more he'd thought  about it, the more  he had come to  question his father's
simpler explanation.

He walked down the slope until he  came to a slab of rock overlooking  the lake.
There he bent down, squatting on his haunches, looking out across the dark  bowl
of the lake.

Now that the  moons had almost  set, it was  close to impossible  to distinguish
where the lake ended and the land began. It was like peering into the volcano on
a moonless night. You could see nothing, but you might imagine everything.  That
was the  thing about  darkness-the way  it refused  to remain  a simple absence.
Unlike snow, which he had seen on one of Gehn's other Ages, the darkness took on
forms-thousands of forms-for the dark was both fluid and potent.

Behind  him, over  the crest  of the  hill, the  day was  making an  appearance.
Slowly, very slowly,  light bled into  the bowl, etching  sharp-edged shadows on
the hillside facing  him. Atrus watched  it, fascinated, then  turned, squinting
against the bright arc that peeped above the curve of the hill.

Turning back, he noticed something just below him on the edge of the lake.

At first he thought it was  some kind of sea creature-a seal,  perhaps-but then,
as it straightened up, he saw it dearly, silhouetted in the half light.

A girl. It was a girl.

As he watched, she bent down  again, making a series of little  bobbing motions.
He frowned, puzzled. What  in Kerath's name was  she doing? Then, with  a little
jolt, he understood. Washing! She was washing! That little mound beside her  was
a basket full of sodden clothes!

He laughed, and  as he did,  he saw her  tense and look  around, like a startled
animal.

Gathering up her basket she scurried up the hillside, disappearing over the dark
hump of the hill, her tiny figure  briefly outlined against the arc of the  sun.
Atrus watched, astonished by  her reaction, then stood.  The sun was half  risen
now. In its  light he could  see the thatched  roof of the  hut, its long,  dark
shape embedded in the deeper darkness of the slope.

Atrus turned, making a slow circle, his arms outstretched as he breathed in  the
rich, clear  air. Then,  determined to  make an  early start,  he hurried up the
slope, making for the hut.



CHAPTER 12

"Young master?"

Atrus turned onto his  side, wondering for an  instant where he was.  Herbs. The
smell of herbs. Ah, yes. The old  woman's hut. He was on the Thirty-seventh  Age
of Gehn, and it was morning.

He sat up, rubbing his  eyes, then looked to the  old woman, who stood with  her
back half bent in the opening to the stall.

"Forgive me, young Master," she said  breathlessly, "but the Lord Gehn wants  to
see you at once."

Nodding his thanks, he stood and stretched.  What time was it? And how long  had
he slept? He  seemed to sleep  longer, deeper, while  he was here.  Maybe it had
something to do with the air.

He yawned, then, knowing how his father hated to be kept waiting, went outside.

Pulling on his glasses, he studied the scene'that met his eyes.

Beneath him the slope was a tawny brown, furred like an animal's back. Beyond it
the folds of land that surrounded the lake were revealed in browns and greens-so
many  different  shades  that he  caught  his  breath to  think  of  such subtle
variation. And the textures!  He walked out slowly,  onto the ridge. Tall,  dark
trees, their crowns explosions  of jet black leaves,  covered the left flank  of
the nearest hill, ending  abruptly in a smooth  covering of bright green  grass.
Atrus laughed.

"Why do you laugh, Master?"

Atrus turned, facing the acolyte, the smile gone from his face. He had not  seen
him when he'd stepped out.

"I laughed because of that hill there. It reminded me ... well, of a half-shaven
head. The way those trees end in a straight line ..."

The priest stepped up and looked,  then nodded; but there was not  the slightest
trace of amusement in his expression. He looked back at Atrus, then, with a bow,
said, "Your father awaits you. Master."

Atrus sighed inwardly.  It was his  fourth day on  the island and  still the man
retained his distance.

He walked slowly down the slope, silent now and thoughtful, looking about him at
the swell  and fold  of hills  surrounding the  lake. As  the village  came into
sight, he stared at it a while, then looked to the acolyte.

"What is your name?"

"My name?' The man seemed strangely intimidated by the query.

"Yes, your name. What is it?"

"My name is ... One."

"One?" Atrus gave a small laugh. "You mean, the number one?"

The man nodded, unable to meet Alms's eyes.

"And was that always your name?"

He hesitated, then shook his head. "My birth name was Koena."

"Koena," Atrus said, walking on, his  eyes Caking in the pleasant shapes  of the
thatched roofs just below him now, the covered walkways, the delightful contrast
of the  lake's vivid  blue against  the bright  greens and  russets of  the land
sloping down to it. "But One is the name my father gave you?"

Koena nodded.

A faint smile  appeared at the  corners of Atrus's  mouth. Of course.  He should
have known. He  turned his head,  studying the man  a moment, not  disliking his
long, rather severe features, noting in the unforgiving daylight just how coarse
the cloth of his cloak actually was, how crudely fashioned the symbols on it.

"Have you been my father's helper long?"

"A thousand days."

Then this Age was  indeed "recent." Gehn had  created it only a  matter of three
years ago at  most. But what  about before that?  Had it existed  in any form at
all? Did these people have any memories of a time before the Lord Gehn had  come
among them? And  if they did,  were those memories  true memories, or  were they
also •written in?

He knew  from his  studies that  you could  not actually  write such things: not
directly, anyway. Yet  when you created  an Age, with  all of its  complexities,
then a  great shadow  of cause  and effect  was thrown  back, such that the Age,
though new  created, still  had a  "history" of  a kind.  Not a real history, of
course. How  could it  have a  real history,  after all?  But in  the minds  and
memories of its inhabitants it would seem as if it had. To them, the past  would
seem as real as it did to him or Gehn.

Or so Gehn argued. For himself he was no longer quite so sure.

A strange, high-pitched cry  from somewhere to his  left made Atrus start,  then
turn to look for its source. There was a strange flapping noise in the air, then
a shadow wh'sked past  his feet. He  looked up in  time to see  a strange, plump
bodied animal shoot past, swimming, it seemed, through the air.

Koena was staring at him, astonished. "Master?" he asked. "Are you all right?"

"That!" Atrus said, pointing after it. "That... animal ... what is it?"

"That is a bird. Master."

Atrus stared openmouthed, watching the "bird" circle over the lake, the flapping
noise coming  from the  long arms  it used  to pull  itself through  the air. He
watched it swoop, then dive.

"Amazing!" Atrus said. "I've never seen its like!"

Koena was staring at him now.

Atrus shook his  head. In the  other Ages there  had been many  birds, but never
anything like this.  This was simply  bizarre. It was  more like a  small rodent
than a bird and seemed far too heavy to fly, and those strange, furred wings.

What did he write?  he wondered. Why would  Cehn create such a  creature? Or had
he? What if this wasn't deliberate? What ff it was an accident?

Atrus turned, looking to Koena.

"Come," he  said, intrigued  by the  thought that  his father might purposefully
have created such a creature. "Let's go  down. My father will be angry if  he is
kept waiting."

*   *   *

Gehn, who was  finishing his breakfast,  sat at a  table covered in  a thick red
cloth edged  with golden  tassels. He  was eating  from a  golden bowl, a golden
goblet at his side. Behind him, on a stand, was a silk pennant, the D'ni  symbol
of the book emblazoned in black on its pure white background. Atrus stepped into
the tent, looking about him, noting  the luxuries that were on display  on every
side. In  the far  corner of  the tent  was a  massive wooden bed, the headboard
clearly of local design. Beside it was a D'ni dressing screen, painted gold  and
blue and carmine.

He stepped forward. "You sent for me, father?"

"Ah, Atrus ..." Gehn said, wiping his  mouth with a silken cloth, then threw  it
aside. "I thought we should continue with your lessons, Atrus."

"Father?"

Gehn nodded, then took his arm and led  him across to a low table in the  corner
on which a large-scale map of the island had been spread out.

Atrus stretched  out a  hand and  touched the  bottom left-hand  corner with his
index finger. "Wheres that?"

"Gone," Gehn said, looking at him strangely.

"And that?" he said, noting another, smaller island just beyond the sea passage.

"Gone."

Atrus looked to his father and frowned. "How?"

Gehn shrugged.

"I..." Atrus  shook his  head. "Is  this what  you want  me to  look for? Things
disappearing?"

"No, Atrus. I want you simply to observe."

Atrus stared at his father a moment, then  looked back at the map. As far as  he
could see everything else was precisely  as he recalled it from his  preliminary
journeys around the island, down to the smallest detail.

Gehn went across to his desk and,  opening the leather case he had brought  with
him from D'ni this  time, took a slender  notebook from inside and  handed it to
Atrus. "Here."

Atrus opened it and scanned a few  lines, then looked back at his father.  "What
are these?"

"What you have there  are a number of  random phrases from the  Age Thirty-seven
book. What I want you to do, Atrus, is to try to ascertain what aspects of  this
Age they relate to, and how and why they create the effects they do."

"You want me to analyze them?"

"No, Atrus.  But I  do want  you to  begin to  grip the relationship between the
words that are written on the  page and the complex entity-the physical,  living
Age- that  results. You  see, while  our Art  is a  precise one, its effects are
often quite surprising, owing to the complexity of the web of relationships that
are created between things. The meaning  of an individual phrase can be  altered
by  the  addition  of other  phrases,  often  to the  extent  that  the original
description bears no relation whatsoever  to the resultant reality. That  is why
the D'ni  were so  adamant about  contradictions. Contradictions  can destroy an
Age. Too often  they simply make  it break apart  under the strain  of trying to
resolve the conflicting instructions."

Atrus  nodded. "Yet  if what  you say  is true,  how can  I tell  if what  I  am
observing relates directly to  the phrases in this  book? What if other  phrases
have distorted the end result?"

"That is for you to discover."

"But if I have only these few phrases ..."

Gehn stared at him, then raised an  eyebrow, as if to indicate that he  ought to
be able to work that one out for himself.

"You mean, you want me to guess?"

"Not guess, Atrus. Speculate.  I want you to  cry to unravel the  puzzle of this
world.  To look  back from  the world  to the  words and  attempt to  understand
exactly why certain things resulted. It is,  you will come to see, every bit  as
important as learning the D'ni words and phrases that purport to describe  these
things. Indeed, much  of my experimenting  over the years  has been along  these
very lines. I have learned a great deal from my observations, Atrus, and so will
you."

"Father."

"Then go now. And take the map, if you wish. I have no further need of it."

*   *   *

Atrus sat in  the long meadow  above the lake,  the folded map  in his lap,  his
father's notebook open at his side. Surrounded by the thigh-high grass he  could
not be seen,  unless by someone  working on the  slopes on the  far side of  the
lake, but right now it was midday and the villagers were in their huts, eating.

He had begun with the simplest of  the twenty phrases his father had copied  out
for him-one  which related  to the  composition of  the soil  here. From his own
studies he knew how  important the underlying rock  and soil was to  the kind of
Age that resulted, especially the soil. A good rich soil, full of nutrients  and
minerals, would produce good harvests, which  in turn would allow the people  of
that Age to spend less time  carrying out the backbreaking task of  cultivation.
That was  crucially important,  for a  people who  did not  have to  spend every
daylight hour providing food  for their tables was  a people that would  quickly
develop a culture. For culture, Atrus understood, was a product of excess.

Yes, he thought, recalling his days in the cleft. He understood it now. Had Anna
been born and raised  in the cleft, they  would not have survived.  Had she been
simply a cultivator and no more, they would never have had enough, for there had
never been enough growing space, enough  seeds, enough water-enough of  anything
to allow them to survive. What there had been was Anna's talent as a painter and
a  sculptor.  It was  that,  ironically, which  had  kept them  alive:  that had
provided them with the salt they needed, the seeds and flour and fuel, yes,  and
all of those tiny luxuries that had made life there bearable. Without them  they
would have died.

As it was,  he had grown  beyond the expectations  of such a  dry, uninhabitable
place. The rich soil of Anna's mind had nurtured him, bringing him to ripeness.

Only now did he understand that. After  years of blaming her, he saw it  clearly
once again.

The soil. It was all down to the  soil. Growth began not in the sunlight but  in
the darkness, in tiny cracks, deep down in the earth.

Atrus smiled, then looked to the side, reading the D'ni phrase again. By rights,
the soil here ought to have been rich and fertile, yet from his own observations
he saw that other factors had affected it somehow. There was a slight acidity to
it that was unhealthy.

He frowned, wishing that his father had given him the whole book to read and not
just random phrases. Yet he knew how protective his father was of his books.

He was about to lay back and think the problem through, when he heard a tiny cry
from somewhere  just behind  him. Setting  the map  aside, Atrus  stood, looking
about him at the meadow.

Nothing. At least nothing  he could see. He  took a few paces,  then frowned. He
couldn't have imagined it, surely?

It came again, this time a clear cry for help.

He ran toward the sound, then  stopped, astonished. Just ahead of him  the thick
grass ended in a narrow chasm about six  feet across and twelve or fifteen  long
a chasm that had not been there the last time he had looked.

He  stepped up  to its  edge, careful  not to  fall, and  peered down  into  its
darkness. It was the girl- the one he'd seen that first morning. She had  fallen
in and now seemed stuck up to her  knees in the dark earth at the bottom  of the
crack some eight or ten feet down.

"It's okay," he said. "Don't worry. I'll get you out."

He  turned, looking  about him.  He needed  a rope  or a  branch or   something.
Anything he could  throw down to  her, then haul  her up. Yet  even as he  stood
there, thinking about it, he heard the soft fall of earth and, looking back, saw
how it had fallen over her, making her position worse.

The edge of the nearest  copse was fifty yards away.  By the time he got  there,
broke off a branch and came back, she might quite easily be buried under it.

There was only one way.

He sat down on  the edge, then, testing  that it would take  his weight, turned,
and began to  lower himself down  into the crack,  searching the face  of it for
footholds as he went.

"Reach up!" he called to her. "Reach up and take hold of my right foot."

He felt something brush the  tip of his boot. Too  high. He was still too  high.
The earth  he was  clinging to  didn't feel  all that  secure, but  he could not
abandon her. He moved down a fraction  more and felt, as he did, her  hand close
about his ankle.

"Good!" he said, thankful that  she was only a waif  of a girl. "Now get  a grip
with your other hand."

Two seconds passed, and then he felt her other hand grip his ankle.

"Okay. Now hold on tight. And  don't struggle. If you struggle, we'll  both fall
in again!"

Slowly, painfully slowly, he hauled himself up and over the edge, turning at the
end, to reach down and grab her wrists, pulling her up the last few feet.

She sat there, beside him on the grass, trembling, her chest rising and  falling
as she tried to get her breath,  her frightened eyes staring at the black  wound
in the earth that had almost claimed her.

"Are you okay?" he asked, after a moment.

She went to nod, then shook her head.

He stared at her  a moment, then, standing,  went back across to  where hed left
the map and  notebook, and, picking  up his cloak,  took it back  and wrapped it
about her shoulders.

She looked to him,  grateful, then stared back  at die crack. "What  is it?" she
asked, her voice a whisper.

"I don't know," he answered, troubled suddenly, remembering the missing  islands
on the map. But perhaps my father dois.

*   *   *

Gehn reached across the desk and drew the case toward him, then, taking the tiny
key from the chain about his neck, unlocked the clasps.

"I shall be gone only a few hours," he said, glancing up at Atrus, who stood  on
the other side of the desk, the girl beside him. "She will remain here with  the
acolyte until I return. And you  shall say nothing. You understand, Atrus?  I do
not want the  islanders panicked by  this. There is  a simple explanation  and I
shall find it."

Atrus bowed his head.

"Good." Gehn nodded  decisively, then began  to pack away  all of his  books and
papers.

"Father?"

"Yes, Atrus?"

"I  had planned  to go  out to  the fishing  grounds this  afternoon. I'd   made
arrangements with one of the fishermen. Should I cancel that now?"

Gehn paused, considering, then, "No. You had best carry on as though nothing has
happened. But  try not  to be  out too  long. I  shall have  need of  you when I
return."

"Of course, father."

"Good. Now go  and fetch the  acolyte." He looked  to the girl.  "You ... take a
seat in  the corner  there. And  take that  cloak off.  Only those of D'ni blood
should wear such a cloak!"

*   *   *

Once his father had gone, Atrus went directly to the harbor. The boat he was  to
go out on was owned by an old fisherman named Tarkuk, a wizened little man  with
strangely long fingers. His son, Birili, was a short, heavily muscled young  man
of few words. He gave Atrus a  single glance as he stepped on board;  thereafter
he barely acknowledged him.

They sailed out through the sea channel into the open sea.

Out there, unprotected  by the bowl  of hills, a  breeze blew across  the waters
surface, making the boat rise and fall on the choppy surface. As Tarkuk  watched
from the  stern, one  long, sun-browned  hand on  the tiller,  a small clay pipe
clenched between his small yellow teeth, Birili raised the mast and unfurled the
sail.

Atrus watched, fascinated as the square  of cloth caught the wind and  seemed to
swell, tugging against the restraining rope in Birili's hand. As the boat  swung
around it slowly gathered  speed, gently rising and  falling as they made  their
way around the curve of the island.

He leaned  out, looking  down through  the dear,  almost translucent  water. The
seabed was still visible this close  to the island, flat and cluttered,  the odd
tangle of weeds giving it the appearance of scrubland.

Somewhere around here there  had been a second  tiny island. Nothing large,  but
significant enough to  have been marked  on Gehn's original  map. Now there  was
nothing.

So what did that mean? What was happening here on the Thirty-seventh Age?

He sniffed the air, conscious of  its strong salinity. The lake, too,  he'd been
told, was salty. The villagers got  their water from springs in the  surrounding
hills and from a single well just behind Gehn's tent.

Or did, when he wasn't in residence.

Behind him the island, which  still dominated the skyline, was  slowly receding.
He turned, looking out past Birili and the billowing sail. The sea stretched out
into the distance. There, where the horizon ought to be, it seemed hazed.

"What's that?" he asked, pointing toward it.

"What's what?" Tarkuk asked, leaning forward, trying to see past the sail, as if
something was actually on the water itself.

"That mist..."

The old man stared a moment, then turned his head and spat over the edge of  the
boat.

"It is the mist. It is where the sea ends."

Atrus frowned. "But surely there's something out there, beyond the mist?"

But Tarkuk merely looked away.

Atrus looked back.  Now that they  were closer, he  could see that  the mist was
like a solid barrier, forming a curving wall about the island.

Strany, he thought. It's as if it all really does ends there.

As they  came farther  around the  curve of  the island,  other boats  came into
sight, anchored a mile or so out  from the land-seven of them in all,  forming a
huge ellipse on the open water, gently rocking in the warm, pleasant breeze.

They  joined  the others,  lowering  the sail,  anchoring  at what  was  clearly
Tarkuk's position in that flattened circle.

Each in his place,  Atrus thought, conscious of  how docile, how amenable  these
people were.

The old man turned back, a coil of fine-meshed net between his hands. "Would you
like to fish. Master?"

"No. I'll watch, thanks."

With a nod to his son, Tarkuk  turned and, with a strange, looping motion,  cast
his net out onto the surface of the sea, keeping only the knotted end of a guide
string in his hand. Slowly the net drifted to the right, forming a great  figure
eight in the water. As the string grew taut, he began to haul it in. As he  did,
Birili  cast his  own net  from the  other side  of the  boat, his  stance,  his
movements so like his fathers that Atrus gave a little laugh of recognition.

The old man had hauled the net over to the side of the boat. Now he leaned  over
and, with a quick little movement of the wrist, began to loop the net up out  of
the water and onto the deck.

Atrus sac forward, his eyes wide. The  dull brown mesh of the net glistened  now
with shimmering, wriggling  silver. Hundreds and  hundreds of tiny  silver fish,
none longer than his hand, now filled the net. As Tarkuk threw the last coil  of
the net onto the deck, so Birili, on  the other side of the boat, began to  draw
his in.

So simple, Atrus thought, watching Tarkuk take one of the big rectangular  woven
baskets from near the bow and, crouching,  begin to pluck fish from the net  and
throw them into it.

Careful not to get in his way and mindful of the gentle sway of the boat,  Atrus
stepped across and, kneeling, looked into the basket. It was like looking into a
chest of silver-only this silver was alive.

Reaching out, he closed his hand about one of the wriggling shapes and tried  to
pick it  up, and  found he  was holding  nothing. The  fish had slipped from his
grasp.

Atrus raised his  fingers to his  nose and sniffed,  frowning at the  unfamiliar
smell, then rubbed his thumb across his fingertips. He had not known they  would
be so slippery, so slick with oil.

Tarkuk had stopped and was watching him, a deep curiosity in his eyes. Atrus met
those eyes and smiled, but the old man was not to be reached so easily. He  made
a small motion at the corner of his mouth, then looked down, getting on with his
work again.

He looked to Tarkuk. "It looks like  there are enough fish here in this  boat to
feed the whole village.'"

"You think so?" The old man shrugged. "Once you've lopped off the head and taken
the bones and skin into consideration,  there's not much meat on a  single fish.
It would take several dozen of them to make a half-decent meal. Besides, we  use
them for other things, too. For their fat, mainly. We make oil from it, for  our
lamps."

Atrus nodded. "And your clothes?"

"Those are made of linen."

"Linen?"

"There is a plant.  It grows on the  island. We harvest it  and dry it and  then
weave it into cloth."

He had seen it  but not known what  it was. And in  his head, Atrus put  another
piece of the puzzle into place. Fish that had an oily fat for fuel. A plant that
could be woven  into clothes. Such  things, when written  in, would allow  human
life to thrive in a place like this.

He felt a tinge  of admiration for Gehn.  It was simple, certainly,  but clever.
Very clever.

"Can we go out farther?"

"Farther?" The old man seemed puzzled by the question.

"Yes ... out there, where the mist is."

Tarkuk stared at him, his face  hard, his whole manner suddenly very  different.
"Why?"

"Because I'd like to see it," Atrus said, for the first time slightly  irritated
by the old man's response.

Birili, he noted, had stopped hauling in his net and had turned to stare at him.

"The currents are  too strong out  there," Tarkuk said,  as if that  settled the
matter.

"Nonsense," Atrus said, knowing  suddenly what it was.  They were afraid of  the
mist. They had a superstitious fear of it.

He watched as Tarkuk and his son tersely finished gathering in their nets. Then,
when the  baskets were  fastened and  the nets  furled beneath  the bow  seat, a
stony-faced Birili hauled up the anchor, then, hoisting the sail again, held the
rope taut as the canvas filled.

As they moved out between the boats, Atrus noted the startled looks on the faces
of the other fishermen.

Ignoring  Tarkuk s  piercing look,  he went  to the  side and  trailed his  hand
briefly in the water,  noting how warm it  was. The breeze had  dropped, but the
water was  still choppy.  Indeed, it  seemed to  get choppier  the farther  they
sailed from the island.

Ahead, the wall of mist came closer and closer.

Again  he  let  his hand  trail  lightly  in the  water,  then  jerked it  back,
surprised.

Cold ... the water was freezing cold!

Atrus stared down into the water. Out here the water was dark. One could not see
where  it ended-  if it  ended-beneath them.  He had  the sudden,  gut-wrenching
feeling that they had sailed out over  some kind of shelf and that beneath  them
was a mile or more of water.

Ridiculous, he  thought, then  turned, looking  to where  Birili stood, the rope
slack in his hand.

He looked to the sail, then frowned. The wind had dropped completely. By  rights
they ought to be slowing, but the boat was traveling faster than ever.

The currents, he thought, beginning to understand. He turned, looking to the old
man. Both he  and his son  had their eyes  closed now, and  were kneeling in the
bottom of the boat, as  if in prayer. As for  the boat, that was sailing  itself
now, in the grip of something that was drawing it along at a clipping pace.

Slowly the wall  of mist approached,  filling the sky  in front of  them. It was
cold now, bitterly cold, and as they raced along, the water beneath them  seemed
to boil  and bubble.  Then, suddenly,  they were  alongside that  great wall  of
whiteness, flying along on the surface parallel to it.

Atrus reached across and took the old man's arm. "Tarkuk! Listen to me! We  have
to do something!"

Tarkuk opened his eyes  and stared at Atrus  as if he didn't  recognize him. "Do
something?"

"Yes!" Atrus  yelled. He  looked around,  then spied  the oars  that lay  in the
bottom of the boat. "Come on! If we all row then we might pull free!"

Tarkuk shook his head  slowly, but Atrus would  not let him lapse  back into his
fear. Gripping his shoulders now, he shook him hard.

"Come on! I command you! Now row!"

Coming to himself,  Tarkuk met Atrus's  eyes and bowed  his head. "As  my Master
commands."

Tarkuk stood unsteadily, then, raising his  voice, barked orders at his son.  At
first Birili seemed reluctant, as if he had already consigned himself, body  and
soul, to the deep. Then, like a sleepwalker waking, he took up his oar and sat.

"Here," Atrus said, sitting beside him. "Let me help."

He had sculled his father  s boat often enough in  the past to know how  to row,
and he knew they would get nowhere unless they all pulled together.

"Come on!" he called, encouraging them now. "Row if you want to live!"

They heaved and heaved, fighting the  current, struggling to turn the boat  back
toward the island.  For a while  it seemed that  the current was  too strong and
that all their efforts were about to end in vain, but then, suddenly, they began
to pull away.

Sinews straining, they hauled their way, inch by inch across the dark surface of
the water, that massive wall of whiteness receding slowly at their back,  until,
breathless from the effort, they relaxed, staring back the way they had come.

Atrus stretched his neck and looked  up, straight into the sky. He  ached. Every
muscle in his body ached, yet he felt a great surge of triumph.

"Well done!" he  said, looking about  him and laughing.  But Tarkuk and  his son
were looking down, silent- strangely, eerily silent.

"What is it?" he asked after a moment, touching the old man's arm. At the touch,
Tarkuk jerked away.

Atrus  blinked. What  was going  on here?  What had  he missed?  He had  made  a
mistake, true, but they  had survived, hadn't they?  Why, he had forced  them to
survive! He had made them row when they had given up.

He reached out, shaking the old man by  the arm. "What is it? Answer me! I  have
to know!"

Tarkuk  glanced  at him,  then  dropped his  eyes  again. "We  have  cheated the
Whiteness."

"Cheated...?" Atrus laughed, astonished. "What do you mean?"

But the old man would say no more. Slowly Birili got to his feet and,  adjusting
the sail, turned the boat back toward the island.

In silence they sailed back.

As they  climbed from  the boat  and mounted  the steps,  Atrus made to speak to
Tarkuk again, but the old man seemed reluctant even to acknowledge him now.

Atrus shook his head, perplexed. What had happened out there? Just what  exactly
had he missed?

He didn't know. But he would. He would make it his business to find out,  before
his father returned.

*   *   *

Atrus hurried  across the  bridge, conscious  of the  gathering clouds overhead,
then ran up the slope toward his fathers tent.

Surprised by his sudden entrance, Koena got up hurriedly, making a little bowing
motion, still uncertain quite how to behave toward Gehn's son. "Young Master? Is
everything all right?"

The girl was sitting on the ground nearby, staring up at Atrus.

"No," Atrus answered, walking past Koena and sitting in his fathers chair.

"Master?" Koena came across and stood before him. "Are there more cracks?"

"No. But there is something I want an explanation for."

"Master?"

Atrus hesitated, then, "Something happened."

"Something?"

"Yes, when I was out on the boat. The old man said something about cheating  the
Whiteness."

Koena gasped. "You have been out there."

"Out where?" Atrus said, knowing where he meant, but wanting to hear it from his
lips.

"To the Mist Wall."

Atrus nodded. "We sailed the dark current. And then we rowed back."

Koena's mouth had fallen open. "No," he said quietly.

"What is it?" Atrus asked. "What am I missing? What don't I understand?"

Koena hesitated, his eyes pleading with Atrus now.

"Tell me," Atrus insisted, "or I shall have my father wring it from you!"

The man sighed, then answered  him, speaking reluctantly. "The Whiteness  ... it
was our Master. Before your father came."

He fell silent. There was the rumble of distant thunder.

Atrus, too, was silent for a time, taking in this new piece of information, then
he looked to Koena again. "And my father knows nothing of this?"

"Nothing."

"The old man and his son ... what will happen to them?"

Koena looked down. It was clear he  did not want to say another word,  but Atrus
needed to know.

"Please. You have to tell me. It's very important."

The man shrugged, then: "They will die.  Just as surely as if you had  left them
out there."

Atrus shook his head. Now that he understood it he felt a kind of dull anger  at
the superstitious nonsense that could dream up such a thing. He stood, his anger
giving him strength, making him see clearly what he had to do.

"Listen,"  he  said,  assuming the  manner  of  his father.  "Go  and  fetch the
villagers. Tell them to  gather outside my fathers  hut. It is time  I talked to
them."

*   *   *

The sky was darkening as Atrus mounted  the steps of the meeting hut and  turned
to face the  waiting crowd. A  light rain fell.  Everyone was there;  every last
man, woman, and child on the island, Tarkuk and Birili excepted. Atrus swallowed
nervously, then, raising  his hands the  way he'd seen  his father do,  began to
speak, trying to make his voice-not  so powerful or deep as his  fathers-boom in
the same sonorous way.

"This afternoon we  went out to  the Mist Wall.  We sailed the  dark current and
came back ..."

There was a strong  murmur of discontent at  that. People looked to  each other,
deeply troubled.

"I have heard  talk that we  have somehow cheated  the Whiteness, and  it is for
that reason that I have summoned you here."

He paused, looking about  him, hoping that what  he was about to  say next would
not prove too difficult for his father.

"I understand your  fears," he went  on, "but I  am proof that  the Power of the
Whiteness is waning.  For did I  not sail to  the Mist Wall  and return? Did the
Whiteness take me?  No. Nor shall  it. In fact,  when my father,  the Lord Gehn,
returns, he and I shall go out beyond the Mist Wall."

There was a gasp at that-a great gasp of disbelief and shock.

"It cannot be done," Koena said, speaking for all gathered there.

"You disbelieve?" Atrus asked, stepping down and confronting his fathers man.

Koena fell silent,  his head bowed.  Overhead there was  the faintest rumble  of
thunder. Great clouds had gathered, throwing  the bowl of hills into an  intense
shadow.

Atrus glanced up at  the ominous sky, then  spoke again. "All will  be well," he
said.

There was  a great  thunderclap. Lightning  leapt between  the clouds  overhead,
discharging itself in a  vivid blue-white bolt on  the crest of the  hill facing
them. Atrus stared at  its afterimage in wonder,  then looked about him,  seeing
how everyone else had fallen to the ground in terror.

"It's nothing," Atrus said, lifting his voice above the now-persistent  grumble.
"Only a thunderstorm!!"

There was a second, blinding flash and one  of the trees on the far side of  the
lake was struck, blossoming in a great sheet of sudden flame.

"The  Whiteness  is angry,"  someone  cried from  just  below him.  "See  how it
searches for you!"

Atrus turned, angry  now, knowing he  must squash this  at once. "Nonsense!"  he
cried. "It's only the storm!"

But no one was listening. The islanders were pulling at their hair and  wailing,
as if something horrible was about to descend among them.

Then, as a third lightning bolt ionized the air, sending its tendrils of  static
hissing through the rain-filled darkness as  it sought the earth, Atrus saw,  in
the brilliant flash, the  figure of his father,  striding down the path  between
the huts, heading for the bridge.



CHAPTER 13

Atrus stood, head bowed before his father in his tent as the rain hammered  down
on the canvas overhead. The terrified islanders had Hed back to their huts while
the storm raged, but Gehn was in no mood to placate or reassure them. Right  now
he was sitting forward in his chair, glaring at his son, his hands gripping  the
edge of his desk tightly.

"There was trouble, you say. What brought that on?"

"I wanted to see the Mist Wall. I sailed out to it."

"And you found the dark current?"

Atrus  looked  up, surprised  that  his father  knew  of that.  He  nodded, then
proceeded to tell his father all  that had transpired in his absence.  When he'd
finished, Gehn stared at him thoughtfully, then, loosening his grip, sat back.

"It is unfortunate, but it seems that the experiment here has failed. This world
is unstable."

"In what way?"

"The island is  on a kind  of pedestal. A  massive pedestal of  rock reaching up
from the ocean floor.  Surrounding it there is  an ocean-a deep, intensely  cold
ocean."

Atrus frowned. "But the water here is warm. And there's freshwater in the lake."

"That  comes up  from the  crust, far  below the  surface. There  is  geothermal
warming. That same warming creates the Mist Wall. It is where the hot water from
below  meets  and   reacts  with  the   cold  oceanic  currents,"   Gehn  nodded
thoughtfully. "As you can imagine, this  really is an island, in every  possible
sense. It is as cut off as a community can be and yet survive."

"But now it's going wrong."

"Precisely. Slowly but surely, this Age is deteriorating. I cannot make out why,
but it  is. I  have tried  my utmost  to find  solutions, yet  without a radical
rewriting of this Age, I fear it is fated to deteriorate still further."

"And the cracks, father? What causes those?"

Gehn shook his head.

"It must be some fault in the underlying structure. Perhaps the same fault  that
made the two tiny islands subside."

"Can you fix it?"

Gehn looked to him. "No doubt I could, but I am inclined to leave it. After all,
it is only a tiny  crack. If it gets any  worse, I shall reconsider. Right  now,
however,  we  have  other  problems,  like  this  business  with  the  so-called
Whiteness. Let us deal with that first, and then consider other matters."

*   *   *

Gehn  crouched  beside the  crack  in the  meadow  as the  rain  fell, his  eyes
narrowed.

He had spent hours  back in D'ni, finding  the right words in  the ancient book,
but for some quite incomprehensible reason they had made no difference.

Gehn stood, combing his fingers back through his rain-slicked hair, then  kicked
a lump of earth  into the crack, the  frustration he felt at  that moment making
him want  to hit  out at  something. The  problem was  a simple one-he knew that
instinctively.  It  had something  to  do with  the  underlying structures,  but
precisely what it  was he didn't  know. Yes, and  that was the  worst of it, for
whenever he thought, finally, that he understood it, something would come  along
to  prove  him  wrong-to  show  him that,  far  from  having  grasped  the solid
principles beneath it all,  he was as far  from understanding it as  he had ever
been.

If it had only been written down somewhere. Yes, but the Guild Masters had  been
too clever for  that. Such secrets  had been passed  down by word  of mouth from
generation to  generation. The  book did  not exist  wherein those formulas were
written. That  was why  he had  always to  search old  books, looking  for dues,
looking to unearth  those wonderful, delicate  phrases that would  best describe
this effect or that. But nothing ever said just why this phrase worked and  that
one did not.

Gehn huffed, exasperated with it all, then turned, realizing only then that  his
acolyte was standing there, ten paces off, his cloak drenched, the dyes run, his
dark hair plastered to his head.

"What is it, man?"

"I ... I wondered if you wanted anything to eat, Master."

Eat? He waved the man away impatiently. How could the fellow think of food at  a
time like this?

Gehn turned, staring out  toward the gap in  the hills. If only  he could remove
the Mist Wall ...

He laughed quietly. Of course! It had been staring him in the face all the time!
The ocean. He had only to make the ocean warm.

"One'"

The man turned, looking back up the slope at him. "Yes, Master?"

"Tell Atrus  I shall  return in  an hour.  In the  meantime, have  the villagers
prepare  a feast  on the  harbor front.  A feast  such as  they have  never  had
before!"

*   *   *

Atrus stood beside  the bridge, watching  the islanders go  sullenly about their
business, while he went over in his head what his father had said to him.

Gehn's decision not  to stabilize this  Age played heavily  on Atrus s  mind. He
felt somehow  nsponsiblf for  these people.  It was  not their  fault there were
flaws in the underlying  fabric of their Age.  And if there really  was a steady
deterioration, surely  it was  their duty,  as the  Masters of  this Age, to set
things right.

Atrus sighed, then walked across, conscious of how, in these last few hours,  so
much had  changed among  the islanders.  Before now  they had  been nothing  but
pleasant to him,  but now, as  they set up  the trestle tables  and prepared the
food, there was an air of  resentment, even of hostility, about them  which made
him feel uncomfortable.

If only he could do something ...

He stopped dead, then turned, staring  up the slope toward the old  woman's hut.
An idea had  suddenly come to  him: a way  both of salving  his conscience about
these people and of furthering his own first attempts at D'ni Writing.

What if he were to settle here, rather than K'veer? What if he were to  persuade
his father to let him continue to observe this world, not simply for a few  more
days but  over a  period of  months, maybe  even years?  Why, he could have them
build an extra room onto the hut for him to use as a laboratory.

Yes, but would Gehn agree?

Atrus took out the map and studied  it, tracing the circle of the lake  with his
fingertips. There was a  way of persuading his  father that it was  a good idea,
but it would  mean taking a  risk. It would  mean showing Gehn  what he had been
working on these past few months.

He let out  a long, shivering  breath. Yes, but  what if my  father doesn't like
what I've been doing? What  if it only goes to  prove to him that I'm  not ready
yet?

In truth, Atrus had wanted to wait a lot longer before he showed Gehn the Age he
had been  writing in  his practice  book. He  had wanted  to make  sure he'd got
things absolutely right before he attempted a proper book, but if doing so meant
abandoning this Age, abandoning Koena and the girl and the old woman who  looked
after him, then surely it wasn't worth it?

He slipped the map away again, then stood there, touching the tip of his  tongue
to his upper lip.

What would Anna have done?

He knew the answer  without thinking. She would  have stayed and tried  to help,
even if it meant sacrificing her own plans.

So be it, then. He had only to persuade his father.

*   *   *

Gehn returned that evening, just as  he had promised, appearing on the  crest of
the hill  just as  the sun  was setting  at his  back. Silhouetted  against that
bloodred orb, he raised his arm and called to the islanders gathered below,  his
voice booming out across the silent lake.

"Look!" he said,  pointing out beyond  the gap in  the hills. "The  Mist Wall is
down! The Whiteness is no more!"

The islanders crowded across to  gape, witnessing for themselves the  absence of
the Mist Wall. In the blazing orange light of sunset they had a vista of endless
ocean. They turned, a great murmur of awe running through them, then, almost  as
one, fell to their knees, staring back  up the slope as Gehn strode down  toward
them.

Watching from the steps  of the temple, Atrus  frowned. When his father  had not
returned  within  the  first  few  hours he  had  begun  to  worry,  but now  he
understood. Gehn  had  written a  new  entry in  the  Book of  Age  Thirty-seven
something unseen, unobserved, that had got rid of the Mist Wall.

Going down to join his father on the harbor front, where the feast had been  set
up, Atrus felt a tenseness in his stomach. He was determined to ask him  tonight
whether he  could stay  here, to  get the  matter settled  and done  with at the
earliest opportunity, but he  remembered the last time  he had asked his  father
for something-that  time when  he had  wanted to  go back  to the deft and visit
Anna-and was afraid lest Gehn said no again.

And if he does?

Atrus sighed, then made his way  across the bridge. If Gehn refused,  that would
be it. There was no way he could defy his father over such an important  matter.
Besides, all Gehn had to do was refuse him access to the book.

No one noticed him come out onto the harbor front. All eyes were focused up  the
hill, watching as Gehn came down among them, magnificently attired in velvet and
leather.

As Gehn stepped out into the open space, his acolyte, Koena, stepped forward  to
greet him.  He bowed  low, then  scattered a  handful of  tiny yellow  petals at
Gehn's feet.

Gehn  looked about  him, coldly  imperious at  that moment,  then, spying  Atrus
between the tables, gestured for him to come across.

"Father?" he asked quietly, noting the strange look in Gehn's eyes, but Gehn was
not to be interrupted. Turning to face the crowd, he raised his arm again.

"From henceforth, there will be no mention of Mist or Whiteness. From this  hour
the very  words are  forbidden! But  now let  us eat.  Let us celebrate this new
beginning!"

Atrus stared at his  father's back, wondering what  he meant by that-whether  it
was, truly, a "new beginning."

Yet as the islanders filed past to take their seats at the long tables and begin
the evenings feasting, Atrus  saw how their eyes  stared at Gehn in  awe, scarce
able to credit that such a wonder had come to pass.

*   *   *

It was late-very late-when they finally retired. Making his bed up in the corner
of the tent,  Atrus was conscious  of his father  pacing up and  down behind his
screen, the glowing pipe visible through the thick silk panels. They had  barely
spoken since Gehn's announcement, and Atrus had a good dozen questions he wanted
to ask his  father, but he  sensed that now  was not the  time. Besides, he  was
tired, and  if there  were things  to discuss,  nothing was  that urgent that it
could not wait until the morning. Not even his idea of staying here.

He was just settling, turning  on his side to face  the tent wall, when he  grew
aware of the  scent of Gehn's  pipe close by.  He turned, to  find Gehn standing
over him.

"We must be gone from here tomorrow."

"Gone?"

"I have things to do elsewhere. Important things."

Atrus hesitated, then  sat up, staring  at his father  in the half  dark. "I was
going to ask you something."

"Then ask."

"I thought I might be  able to help you ...  you know, if I made  some long-term
observations of the island. I thought maybe we could have the islanders build  a
hut for me. I could move my things here from K'veer and maybe have them make  me
an extra room for my experiments."

"No."

"No? But..."

Gehn turned away.  "No buts, Atrus.  The notion of  you being here  on your own,
unsupervised, is completely out of the question. It does not fit with my plans."

"But if we could understand why things are going wrong ..."

"You will not persist with this, Atrus. I have more important concerns than this
trifling Age."

"Then why did you give me the phrases to study? Why did you remove the Mist Wall
if you were thinking simply of abandoning this Age?"

"You presume to know my reasons, Atrus?"

"No,  it's  just  that I  feel  your  original instinct  was  right.  If we  can
understand what is going wrong here,  we can prevent such things from  happening
elsewhere."

He  heard  his fathers  sharply  indrawn breath,  but  instead of  the  expected
explosion of anger, Gehn was silent.

Atrus sat forward.  He could barely  see his father  in the darkness.  The white
moon was still up,  but its light barely  penetrated the thick canvas.  The only
real illumination in the tent was the gentle glow of Gehn's pipe, which cast its
faint blue light over his chin and mouth and nose.

"Father?"

Gehn turned his head slightly, but still there was no answer.

Atrus fell silent, waiting.  After a moment, his  father turned and came  across
again.

"What you say has some merit, Atrus,  and, as you say, accords with my  original
intentions. And even should this Age deteriorate further, it might prove  useful
to investigate  the manner  of that  deterioration. Likewise,  the building of a
special hut here-for experimental use-is a good one, provided, that is, no books
or journals are left  here which might fall  into the wrong hands.  That said, I
still cannot permit you to stay here alone, Atrus. It is too dangerous. Besides,
we must keep  up with your  lessons, and as  I have other  Ages to attend  to, I
cannot be  forever coming  here. No.  You shall  remain on  K'veer, but we shall
continue to visit  this Age from  time to time,  and while we  are here you will
continue with your detailed observations."

It was far less than Atrus had hoped for, yet it was something. He knew now that
his guess had been right. Gehn had been willing to abandon this Age and leave it
to its fate. Now, at  least, he had the chance  to do some good here.  And if he
could discover  what was  going wrong,  then perhaps  his father  would begin to
trust him and allow him greater liberty.

But that was for the  future. As he lay down,  the scent of Gehn's pipe  lulling
him  in the  darkness, he  recalled the  look of  astonishment and  awe on   the
islanders' faces as they stared out at the endless ocean. And as he drifted into
sleep one final insight came to him from the darkness.

He made the ocean warm ...



CHAPTER 14

Gehn stood  several paces  off, watching  as Atrus  dug the  spade deep into the
grassy surface of  the meadow, using  his booted heel,  then pushed down  on the
handle, turning back the turf, exposing the dark richness of the earth beneath.

Throwing the spade aside, Atrus knelt beside the hole. Taking a dark blue  cloth
from  inside his  pocket, he  lay it   beside him,  then began  to lay  out  the
instruments he needed-spatulas and droppers, scoops and pipettes, and four small
capped jars containing variously colored chemicals-removing them one by one from
the broad leather belt he wore about his waist.

Finally, he took a slender black case  from the inside pocket of his tunic  and,
opening it,  took out  four long  glass tubes  and lay  them next to the shining
silver  instruments.  That  accomplished,  he looked  up  at  Gehn,  his glasses
glinting in the afternoon sun.

"I'm ready, father."

Gehn lifted his chin slightly,  his own glasses opaqued against  the brightness.
"Then let us see what has resulted, eh?"

Atrus set to work, using one of the scoops to place a small amount of earth into
each of the tubes. That done, he  picked up the first of the jars,  uncapped it,
then set it down again.

Using one of the droppers, he drew  up a measure of the clear amber  liquid and,
taking the  first of  the tubes,  added it  to the  earth, swilling  the mixture
around at the bottom of the tube.

Lifting it up into the light, he  studied it a while, then, nodding to  himself,
threw the dropper aside and, taking a cork, sealed the tube.

He went through the  motions again, this time  taking a heaped spatula  of light
blue powder  to add  to the  earth in  the second  tube, mixing the two together
thoroughly.

Twice more he carried out the  procedure, until all four tubes lay  stoppered on
the cloth. Pleased with himself, Atrus looked to Gehn once more.

"I think it's worked."

"You think?'

Atrus looked down.  "I'm pretty sure  it has. The  reactions certainly correlate
with what I  expected, but I'd  like to make  absolutely sure. I'd  like to test
them again, back at the hut."

Gehn nodded, then turned away, drawing his cloak about him as he went. "I  shall
see you there then, in a while."

Atrus watched his father a moment, then set about packing away his equipment. He
had expected more from Gehn, a smile, perhaps, or some small indication, by word
or gesture, that he was pleased with what he had achieved, but as ever there was
nothing.

Glancing up, he noticed  that the young girl,  Salar, was watching from  the far
side of the meadow, and smiled to himself.  He was rather fond of her, in a  big
brotherly kind of way, but she was not the best of company. It was not as if  he
could really talk to her; at least not the way he had talked to Anna.

He pushed the thought away, determined not to be morose. Not today, anyway.  For
today, if his further tests did prove him right, he had achieved a great thing.

As he fastened the sample case, then slipped the instruments back into his belt,
he allowed himself a smile.

By rights Gehn should  have been inordinately proud  of him for finding  such an
elegant solution; but Gehn was Gehn,  his distance part of his intelligence.  It
had been a full week before Gehn  had even read the brief phrase he  had written
for the Age Thirty-seven  book. With a shrug,  Atrus stood, looking about  him a
moment, checking he had not left anything.  Then, with a brief wave and a  smile
to Salar, he started back.

They  had built  a new  hut close  to the  old woman's,  extending it,  as  he'd
suggested, to include  a separate room  where they could  carry out experiments.
Gehn was waiting for him there, his own equipment already set up.

"Here," he said, gesturing to Atrus. "Give me the samples. I shall carry out  my
own tests."

"Father ..." He bowed, hiding  his disappointment, then handed over  the slender
case.

But at least  Gehn was taking  him seriously. When  he had first  proposed this,
Gehn had ridiculed the idea:

"Why, I have been searching for dose to twenty years for such a phrase! And  you
say you have found one that will solve the problem^'

It was not strictly true.  He had not found it  in a book, he had  worked it out
for himself from  first principles, after  studying the matter  for nearly eight
months. But Gehn  had not wanted  to hear his  explanation. Gehn was  interested
only in whether it worked or not.

And now  it was  his turn  to watch  as Gehn  took a  little of each sample and,
placing each on a separate slide, began  to examine the first of them under  the
big, gold-cased instrument he had brought with him from D'ni.

For a tense  few minutes Gehn  barely moved, only  the faintest movement  of his
fingers on the calibrated knobs, then he removed his eye from the long tube  and
looked across at Atrus.

"The bacteria are different."

"Not all of them."

Gehn stared at him silently, as if expecting him to say something more; when  he
didn't, he looked away, taking the second of the slides and fitting it into  the
viewing slot.

Atrus watched him, smiling now. Adding to the mix of different bacteria had been
the final  touch- the  thing that  had finally  made it  work. Years ago, in the
cleft, he had tried a much simpler, purely chemical solution to the same kind of
problem, and had failed. Here he had tried to look at the whole picture-chemical
and bacteriological-and it had worked.

It wasn't the  solution to everything  that was wrong-and  he had been  careful,
when he'd first presented it to his  father, not to offer any form of  criticism
of the Age-but it was a start.  And maybe, if his father trusted him  more after
this, he could make further changes.

He longed to see the Age Thirty-seven book to confirm his hypotheses and discuss
it with his father, but he knew how sensitive Gehn was.

He let out a  long breath, remembering the  long hours he had  spent researching
the subject. Until  he had begun  to study the  composition of soil,  he had not
understood the  full complexity  of it.  But now  he saw  it clearly. One had to
build worlds from the bottom up, beginning with what was below the soil.

Gehn grunted, then looked across again, giving a terse nod.

"This is good. You must show me the book where you found this. It may have other
things we can use."

Atrus  looked  down.  Maybe  Gehn would  forget.  Maybe  he'd  be distracted  by
something else. Or, if the worst came  to the worst and he insisted, the  "book"
could have an accident somehow.

"All right," Gehn said, taking the slide from the viewer, then beginning to pack
away the microscope, "let us clear up and get back to D'ni. I think our work  is
done here for a time."

"Done?"

Gehn nodded, then clicked the lid shut  on the box that held the microscope.  "I
think we  should leave  this Age  alone for  a week  or two  and see  how things
develop. If there are any side effects, they should show up in that time."

"Side effects?"

But Gehn was impatient to return. "Come,  Atrus. Pack your things. I want to  be
back within the hour."

*   *   *

Two days had passed now since  their return from the Thirty-seventh Age,  and in
all that time Atrus had not seen hide nor hair of his father.

He knew where  Gehn was, of  course, for the  very moment they  had linked back,
Gehn had rushed up the stairs to his study and locked himself in.

Atrus had thought his  father might reappear at  mealtimes, but he had  not come
down even then.

And now the  darkness was falling  on another day,  and still he  had no idea of
what his father was up to.

Walking over to the desk in the corner of his room, Atrus picked up his  journal
and, stepping out onto  the balcony, opened it  at one of the  earliest entries;
one written when he was barely nine years old:

	Anna says that the cleft  is an "environment" and that  an "environment"
	is composed of many different elements, all of which have an effect upon
	each  other. She  says that  though some  of those  things-the sun,  for
	instance-are not actually in the cleft itself, they must still be  taken
	into account  when we  look at  how the  cleft works.  Too much  sun and
	plants die, too little and they never grow. I asked her-how do we manage
	to live here at all?

He sat  upon the  balustrade, looking  out toward  the great  rock and  the city
beyond, and sighed. Looking back across  the years, it was indeed a  wonder that
they had survived. How much of a wonder, he had not fully realized until now.

I have come a long way, he thought, but I have still not half the  understanding
that she had.

Atrus turned, meaning to go  back inside and write a  line or two, and saw  that
Rijus was standing in the middle of the room, looking across at him.

He had long ago got used to  the man's silence and to his sudden  appearances in
rooms, yet he found himself still curious about what the man knew, what  secrets
he had. Yes,  and what it  was like to  inhabit a world  of words one  could not
penetrate.

Walking through, he set his journal down, then looked across at the man.

"You have a message for me, Rijus?"

Rijus bowed his head, then held out the note.

At last, he thought, knowing it was a summons. What has the man been up to?

He unfolded it and cast his eyes quickly over the elaborate handwriting. It  was
terse and to the point.

"My study. Now."

He nodded to  Rijus, dismissing him,  then went across  and slipped the  journal
into the case  he kept it  in, locking the  clasp with the  key. Then, satisfied
that all was secure, he hurried out.

Gehn was waiting in  his study, ensconced behind  his desk. There was  a pile of
copy books at his elbow, another five spread out along the front of his desk.

With a jolt of surprise, Atrus recognized them. They were his!

"Ah, Atrus," Gehn said, glancing up,  then continuing to write in the  open book
in front of him, "come and sit down across from me."

Atrus took the seat, facing his  father, watching as Gehn finished the  sentence
he was writing, then put the pen back into the ink pot.

Gehn looked up at him,  then nodded toward the books.  "As you see, I have  been
reading your practice books, and I  have selected five which, I feel,  have some
small merit."

He waited, tensed now.

"I want you to choose one.'

"Father?"

Gehn passed his hand over the five  books. "At pre- sent these are but  words on
paper. But now I am giving you the chance to make one of these books real."

Atrus blinked.

"Yes. I am giving you a blank  book, a Kortee'nea. You will choose one  of these
five books and write it out properly into the Kortee'nea.

Here it was, the moment he had dreamed of, and he was unprepared for it.

"Well?" Gehn said, frowning at him. "Which one is it to be?"

Atrus  leaned forward,  looking to  see which  books his  father had   selected,
surprised by the choice of two of them. But his main book was there. He  reached
out and tapped it. "This one."

Gehn nodded. "A good choice." Turning in his seat, he reached down, then  lifted
a big, leather-bound book from the pile beside him, then held it out to Atrus.

Atrus took it, his  mouth suddenly dry, his  heart pounding. A book!  His father
had given him a book!

"You must be very careful, Atrus. Any  mistakes you make in copying will be  set
into the Age. You must check every word, every phrase after you have copied  it.
Yes, and recheck it.  And if you do  make a mistake, then  be sure to bring  the
book to me."

He bowed his head. "Father."

"Good. Now take your copybook and go. And Atrus?"

"Yes, father?"

"You might add that phrase you  recently discovered. The phrase about the  soil.
It will do your Age no harm, after all."

*   *   *

Gehn lay the book flat  on the desk before Atrus,  then opened it to reveal  the
empty descriptive  box on  the right-hand  page. Until  he linked,  it would  be
blank-or  almost  so,  for  there  was a  chaotic  swirl  of  particles,  like a
snowstorm-yet as soon as he emerged into the new Age, the image would appear, as
if by magic, on the page.

"Shall I go first?" Gehn asked, looking to him, "or would you like that honor?"

Though he had linked many times now-so  often that it had almost become a  thing
of routine-this once he was afraid: afraid because he had made this Age.

"Well?" Gehn insisted when he did not answer.

"I'll go," he  said, then, taking  a long, calming  breath, he placed  his right
hand on the empty page.

There was a crackle of static,  as though a faint electrical current  had passed
through his hand. It seemed drawn into the very fabric of the page, then, with a
sudden, sickening lurch,  Atrus felt himself  sucked into the  rapidly expanding
whiteness of the page.

In that instant he felt the familiar "shifting" sensation of the link. For  that
brief  moment it  felt as  though he  were melting.  And then,  with a  shocking
suddenness that never diminished, the  blackness seeped through until there  was
nothing but the blackness.

And as he finally surrendered to that blackness, so he found himself back in his
body, standing on the cold damp earth inside a low-ceilinged cavern.

Relieved, Atrus shook himself, then stepped aside, conscious that his father was
linking after him.

He waited, expecting Gehn to appear at  any moment, for the air to take  on that
strangely fluid quality it had when someone was linking through-a quality  that,
looking at it, was like a flaw, an occlusion, in the eye itself.

Strange. Atrus frowned and made to step toward the space he'd just left, even as
the air changed and, like a  bubble squeezed out of the nothingness,  his father
appeared.

Gehn looked  about him,  eyeing the  walls critically.  "Good," he said quietly,
taking in a deep breath. "The air smells very fresh."

Atrus watched his father,  conscious that he was  being judged, that this  was a
test of sorts.

"You have the Linking Book on you, I assume?"

Slowly, Atrus  s mouth  fell open.  The Linking  Book! In  his excitement he had
completely forgotten about the Linking Book! He was so used to traveling in Ages
where the Linking Books were already in place, that he had overlooked it!

He groaned, the blood draining from his face.

Gehn held out a Linking Book before his eyes. You forgot. But fortunately I  did
not."

Atrus closed his eyes, the thought that he might have trapped them there forever
making him tremble.

"I'm sorry ..." he began, but Gehn cut him short with a terse little gesture  of
his hand. His fathers eyes were livid with rage.

"Do not tell me how sorry you are, Atrus. Sorry is utterly inadequate. Sorry  is
for fools and  idiots who cannot  think straight. I  considered you better  than
that, but your gross carelessness in this instance is a sign of your immaturity.
There was but one  single, crucial thing you  had to remember, and  you forgot!"
Gehn huffed out a great sigh of exasperation, then smacked the book against  the
top of Atrus's head, his voice rising with controlled anger. "What if I had  not
thought to bring your Linking Book? What then? Where would we be?"

Here, Atrus thought. Forever here.

Gehn thrust the book into his hands, then turned away, making for the entrance.

Atrus stood uncertainly, then followed his father across.

"Well," Gehn said, slowing down to let  Atrus catch up, but refusing to look  at
him. "I suppose you had better show me what you have written."

He led his father  out, through a narrow  stone passage that was  very different
from how he'd  imagined it- how  he thought hed  written it-and into  a cavelike
depression that was open to the  sky, bright sunlight pouring down into  it from
the  clear blue  heavens. There  was a  pool to  one side,  surrounded by   lush
vegetation and  a few  light-colored rocks,  while on  the far  side a flight of
tiered rocks climbed the rock face.

Gehn pulled his glasses down over  his eyes then stepped out into  the sunlight.
For a long while he was silent, almost as if he disapproved of what he saw,  but
when he spoke, it was with an air of surprise.

"This is good,  Atrus. You appear  to have chosen  the different elements  well.
They complement each other perfectly." He turned, looking directly at Atrus, who
still stood in the shadow. "Which books did you use/

As ever, Gehn thought that he had derived the different elements of his Age from
various ancient  books, the  way Gehn  himself did.  But Atrus  hadn't done that
here. This  was all  his, uniquely  his. The  greatest trouble  he'd had  was in
finding the right D'ni words to express what he wanted.

That was why it had taken him so long. Why he had had to be so patient.

"I... I cant remember," he said finally. "There were so many."

"No matter," Gehn said. He glanced at Atrus briefly, then walked on.

Skirting the pool, Gehn paused to look about him, then began to climb the steps.
Pulling down his glasses, Atrus hurried  after, surprised that Gehn had made  no
other comment. Didn't all this remind  him of something? Couldn't Gehn see  what
he'd tried to do here?

It was  the cleft.  Simplified, admittedly,  and without  the buildings that had
been in the original, but the shape  of it, the physical materials were, as  far
as he could make it, precisely as he remembered them.

Halfway up the steps he stopped and  turned, scanning the floor of the cleft  to
see whether the one specific he had written in had taken as he'd hoped. His eyes
searched a moment,  seeing nothing, then,  with a jolt  of pure delight,  he saw
them, just there  in the deep  shadow on the  far side. Flowers.  Tiny, delicate
blue flowers.

He grinned, then began to climb again. It had taken him a lot of time and effort
choosing the precise soil type and the  balance of minerals in the soil, but  it
had worked!

Gehn was waiting for him up above, one hand stroking his chin as he surveyed the
view.

Joining  him, Atrus  looked out,  seeing, for  the first  time, the  Age he  had
created.

It was a rolling  landscape of hills and  valleys, with lush pasture  and thick,
dark  green  forests. Rivers  threaded  their silver  way  through that  verdant
paradise, winking now and then into the  blue of lakes. To the far left,  in the
distance, there  were mountains-  snowcapped and  majestic, and  beneath them  a
blue-green stretch of sea.

And over all a  rich blue cloudless sky,  dominated by a large  yellow sun, like
the sun of Earth. Atrus stood there, entranced, listening to the peaceful  sound
of birdsong. For a moment he  didn't even notice, then he half-turned,  his eyes
widening.

Birds? I didn't write birds!

His father stepped up beside him. "You should have experimented more."

Atrus looked to his  father, surprised by his  comment, which seemed a  complete
contradiction of his own style of writing.

"You might have tried a different sun, for instance," Gehn said, pointing to it,
"or chosen a different kind of rock to make those mountains."

"But..."

"Next time you should use a  few less conventional touches, Atrus. It  would not
do to make your worlds too staid."

Atrus looked  down, dismayed  by his  fathers words.  But what  about that view?
Wasn't that spectacular? And the air and the soil here-wasn't it good that  they
were so healthy? Oh, he knew this Age was simple, but he had planned to take one
step at a time. And this world wouldn't fall apart ...

"Still," Gehn added, "you need not keep this Age. Now that I know you can write,
I shall give you  other books. You can  experiment in them. Then,  once you have
finally made an Age that I am happy with, you can call that your First Age."

"But I've named this world."

"Named it?"  Gehn laughed  dismissively. "That  was a  trifle premature. I could
understand, perhaps, if there were people here, but..."

"I called it Inception."

Gehn stared at him a moment, then turned away. Walking across, he pulled a  leaf
from a bush, rolling it between his  gloved fingers, then lifted it to his  nose
to sniff it before he threw it away.

"All right. I think we had better go back now."

Atrus, who had been about to walk  on down the slope, turned to face  his father
again. "Go back?"

Gehn barely glanced at him. "Yes."

"But I thought..." Atrus swallowed. "I thought we could see more of this Age.  I
wanted to take samples of the soil, and catch one of the creatures for study.  I
wanted ..."

"You heard me, Atrus. Now come! If you must, you can come back another time, but
right now I  must get back.  I have a  great deal to  arrange before the  Korfah
V'ja."

Atrus had never heard the term before. "Korfah V'ja?"

Gehn looked to him. "Tomorrow, at noon on the Thirty-seventh Age." And with that
he walked on.

*   *   *

Back in the library  on D'ni, Gehn closed  Atruss book and, slipping  it beneath
his arm, headed for the steps that led up to his study.

"Quickly now," he said, gesturing for Atrus to follow. "We need to prepare you."

The room seemed unaltered since Atrus had last seen it. If anything, it was even
more untidy  than before,  with even  more books  piled about  the walls. Gehn's
cloak  lay,  carelessly  discarded,  over  the  back  of  the  chair  beside the
fireplace, the grate filled with the ashes of a recent fire.

Atrus  blinked, imagining  his father  working here  late into  the night,   the
flickering firelight making the shadows in the room dance.

"Sit down," Gehn said, pointing to the chair across the desk from him. "We  have
much to do before the morning."

Atrus sat, watching as  Gehn put his book  down on the pile  at the side of  his
desk, then peeled the glasses from the top of his head and stuffed them into the
drawer beside him.

"Father?"

"Yes, Atrus?"

"What is the Korfah V'ja?"

Gehn barely glanced at him. He took a book from the side, then set out a Writing
pen and an ink pot on the desk beside  it. "It is a ceremony for a new god,"  he
answered, sitting down and opening the book.

The book  was not  blank. It  was already  written in.  From where he sat, Atrus
could see that the last two entries had been added to the page only recently.

"I don't know ..."

Gehn looked at him. "Of course you know."

He took the ink pot and unscrewed  the top, then looked across at his  son. "You
are a true D'ni now, Atrus. A Writer.  You have made an Age. That fact ought  to
be recognized. Besides, it does not  do to become too familiar with  the peoples
of our  worlds. They  must be  reminded of  our godhood  now and  then, and what
better way than a ceremony?"

"Yes, but ..."

"I am arranging something special for the occasion."

Gehn hesitated a moment, his eyes half-dosed, thinking, then dipped the pen into
the pot.

"What are you doing, father?"

"Making changes."

"Changes?"

Gehn nodded. "Small ones. Things you cannot see."

"Then that..." Atrus pointed, "is the Age Thirty-seven book?"

"Yes."

Atrus felt himself go cold. He thought Gehn had finished with making changes. He
thought that Age was "fixed"

"Father?"

Gehn glanced at him distractedly. "What is it, Atrus?"

"What you said,  about me being  less conventional in  my writing. What  did you
mean exactly? Did you mean I ought to take more risks?"

Gehn looked up, then set his pen aside. "Not risks, so much, as ... Well, let me
be blunt with  you, Atrus: you  take too long  about things. Far,  far too long.
These copybooks,"  he gestured  toward the  stack beside  him, "there's barely a
thing in most of them! When I gave you the choice of five, I knew which one  you
would pick,  because it  was the  only one  that was  even vaguely like a proper
Age!"

Gehn stood, leaning over his desk.  "Dammit, boy, you should have made  a dozen,
twenty Ages  by now!  You should  have experimented  a little,  tried out  a few
things to  see what  worked and  what didn't.  Sticking to the tried-and-tested,
that is all well and good for scribes, but not for us, Atrus! Not for us!"

Atrus stared  at Gehn,  bewildered by  the patent  contradiction in his father's
words. Did  his father  want quick  worlds or  stable worlds?  Or something else
entirely?

Gehn huffed, exasperated. "You are  no good to me if  you work at this pace  all
the time.  I need  Ages. Dozens  of them.  Hundreds of  them! That  is our task,
Atrus, don't you see? Our sacred task.  To make Ages and populate them. To  fill
up the nothingness with worlds. Worlds we  can own and govern, so that the  D'ni
will be great again. So that my grandsons will be lords of a million worlds!"

Gehn stood there a moment longer, his eyes piercing Atrus, then he sat,  shaking
his head slowly, as if disappointed.

"You had best go to your room now.  I shall send Rijus down to see you.  He will
bring you the special clothes you are to wear for the ceremony."

*   *   *

Something was wrong.  They knew it  even as they  stepped out beneath  the dark,
cloud-dominated sky  of the  Thirty-seventh Age.  As they  stood there,  a warm,
unsavory wind  blew into  their faces,  gusting as  if from  a vent,  its normal
strong salinity tainted by other, more bitter presences.

Atrus looked to  his father and  saw how Gehn  grimaced then touched  his tongue
against his upper palate, as if to get a better taste of that unwholesome air.

"What is it?"

Gehn concentrated a moment longer,  then, ignoring Atrus's question, strode  on.
But he had not gone  more than a dozen paces  before he stopped dead, his  whole
face drained of expression, his lips parting the merest fraction.

Atrus walked across and stood beside  his father on the ridge, looking  out over
the village and the lake, shocked by what he saw.

The lake was dry, its exposed surface filled with dark cracks. Two dozen fishing
boats lay on their sides in the bone-dry mud.

Atrus turned, looking toward the sea. There, through the gap in the hills, where
the channel ended  and the sea  had once begun,  was a ledge  of solid rock. Dry
rock, crusted with dried up seaweed and barnacled rocks.

Like a desert  scrubland, he thought,  recalling the first  time he had  had the
thought, in the boat with Tarkuk and his son.

And beyond that ledge ... nothing. Only air.

A great sound of wailing and groaning came up to them on the wind. Atrus looked,
trying to locate its source in the village, but the village was deserted.  Then,
suddenly, he saw them, on the other side of the bridge, in front of the  meeting
hut. They  were all  there, huddled  together in  fear, staring  out across  the
gouged eye of the lake or looking woefully up at the black and hostile sky. Only
Koena stood, moving among them, bending down to talk to this one or lay his hand
upon that one's arm.

"What's happened here?" he asked, turning to Gehn once more.

Gehn slowly shook his head. There was  a look of disbelief in his face.  "It was
all right," he said quietly. "We  fixed it. Those phrases ... there  was nothing
wrong with them."

And yet something was wrong. Something had drained the lake and left the  island
stranded above the level of the surrounding ocean. Something had caused that. It
must have. Because things like this did not happen on their own.

A phrase swam into Atrus's mind. He made the ocean •warm ...

Was that it? Had that seemingly small alteration set up a contradiction? Or,  to
achieve it, had Gehn tampered with  some other crucial element in this  Age? Had
he tilted the axis of the planet, perhaps, to bring it closer to the sun so that
the water was warmer? Or was it  something else? What if he'd tampered with  the
plates beneath the ocean? What if Gehn had set up a weakness in the ocean  floor
that  had finally  succumbed to  the great  pressures down  there, causing  this
lowering of the ocean's level? Or what  if he had simply picked a phrase  from a
D'ni book that referred to a warm ocean without understanding where it came from
or what its context was?

He would never know. Not without consulting the Age Thirty-seven book, and  Gehn
was quite adamant that he was not to read his books.

Great black-fisted thunderclouds were gathering overhead now. There was the  low
grumble of thunder.

Looking about him, his  face much harder than  it had been only  moments before,
Gehn began to walk slowly down the hill toward the village.

*   *   *

"But Great Master, you have to help us. You must!"

"Must?' Gehn turned his head and  stared at the kneeling man disdainfully.  "Who
says I must?"

An hour had passed since they had come and Gehn sat in his chair, at his desk in
the great tent, the glowing pipe cradled in his hands.

The first  thing Gehn  had done  was to  send the  islanders back to their huts,
forbidding them to set a foot outside,  then he had come here and lit  his pipe.
Since then he  had not moved,  but had sat  there, silently brooding,  his brows
heavily knitted.

And now Koena had come to petition  his Master; afraid to defy his command,  yet
equally afraid to leave  things be. His world  was dying and there  was only one
person who could save it-the Lord Gehn.

Atrus, standing just behind Koena, felt  a great wave of respect and  admiration
for the man swell up in him.

"Forgive me. Master,"  Koena began again,  his eyes not  daring to meet  Gehn's,
"but have we angered you somehow? Is this our punishment? If so, tell us how  we
might make amends. But please, I beg  you, save us. Bring back the sea  and fill
the lake for us. Master, I implore you!"

Gehn slammed the pipe down on the desk and stood. "Enough!"

He seemed to take a long,  indrawn breath, then slowly stepped around  the table
until he stood over the cowering Koena.

"You are right," Gehn said, his voice cold and imperious. "This is a punishment.
A demonstration of my awesome powers."

Gehn paused,  then, turning  his back  on the  man, began  to pace the floor. "I
thought it necessary to show you what would happen should you ever think to defy
me. I felt it... appropriate."

Atrus stared at his father, openmouthed, in the silence that followed.

Gehn made a slow circuit of the tent, moving behind Atrus as if he wasn't there.
Then, as if the thought followed on from the last, he threw a question at Koena.
"Are the preparations complete?"

"Master?" The kneeling man dared the smallest glance.

"The  preparations,"  Gehn  repeated,  as  if  speaking  to  a  child,  "for the
ceremony."

Koena blinked, then nodded; then, realizing what he had done, he hastily dropped
his head again and said, "Yes, Master. Everything is ready."

"Then we shall hold  the ceremony in an  hour. You will gather  the islanders on
the slope in front of the temple."

"The temple?" Then  Koena understood. Gehn  meant the meeting  hut. Even so,  he
seemed rooted to the spot.

"Well?" Gehn said, turning around so  that he faced his servant again.  "Had you
not better go and arrange things?"

"Master?" Koena's face was suddenly a blank. He seemed bemused, in shock.

"I said go. Gather the villagers and prepare for the ceremony. I do not wish  to
be kept waiting."

Koena backed away  a little. "But  Master ... aren't  you going to  help us? The
lake ..."

"Go!" Gehn yelled, his face dark with fury. His hand had gone down to his  waist
and produced a long <lagger from beneath his cloak. "Now! Before I slit you open
like a fish!"

Koena's head  jerked up,  his eyes  staring fearfully  at the razor-sharp blade;
then, with a tiny bow, he turned and almost ran from the tent.

Atrus took a step toward him. "Father?"

But Gehn wasn't listening.  He stared blackly at  the tent flap where  Koena had
just departed, then made a sour movement  of his mouth. He glanced at Atrus,  as
if looking at a book or some other object he had forgotten he had placed  there,
then, sheathing the knife, turned and went back to his desk.

Picking up  his pipe,  he drew  deeply on  it, then  sat back,  resting his neck
against the back of the chair and closing his eyes.

"Father?"

But Gehn was  impervious to words.  Pursing his lips,  he blew a  long stream of
smoke into the air.

An hour. The Korfah V'ja-the god-crowning ceremony-was in an hour.

*   *   *

Koena had gathered the islanders, all two hundred of them, and made them  kneel,
heads bowed, on the slope before  the meeting hut. Five great torches  burned on
the top of tall poles that were  set into the ground between the people  and the
hut, their flames  gusting and flickering  in the wind.  Deep shadows danced  in
that mesmeric light, like an evil spirit searching among that gathered mass  for
one specific soul to torment.

They  were mainly  silent, cowering  beneath the  mass of  dark and  threatening
clouds,  yet  each  growl  or   rumble  of  that  heavenly  chorus   provoked  a
corresponding moan from those frightened souls.

At the prearranged signal,  Koena turned and raised  his arms, calling upon  the
god to come  down. At once,  Gehn stepped from  the darkness between  the wooden
pillars, resplendent in  a long, flowing  cloak of pure  gold thread lined  with
black silk, his  white hair framed  by a strange,  pentagonal halo of  gold that
flashed in the flickering torchlight.

"People of  the Thirty-seventh  Age," he  commanded, his  voice booming over the
noises of  the storm,  "prostrate yourselves  before your  new Master, the Great
Lord Atrus."

Reluctantly, Atrus came down the steps until he stood beside his father. He  was
wearing a cloak and  halo much like Gehn's,  only his were a  brilliant red, the
material shining transparently, as though it were made of a million tiny rubies.

In genuine awe, the people pressed  their foreheads to the earth, murmuring  the
words the acolyte had had them prepare.

"The Lord Atrus is our Master. He blesses us with his presence."

Gehn beamed, then called  to the two men  still inside the temple.  "Attendants!
Come!"

Slowly,  with  great ceremony,  the  two attendants-  recruited  from among  the
fishermen-came from within the temple, carrying between them on a velvet cushion
an  astonishing pendant  of precious  metals and  bloodred jewels  and  delicate
porcelain.

Stepping forward, Koena  stood before the  two men, passing  his hands over  the
great pendant in blessing in the way  Gehn had shown him. Then, moving back,  he
looked to Atrus, who had turned to face him.

"And now," Gehn said, his voice echoing across the black and empty lake, "behold
the Great Lord Atrus!"

And as Koena lifted the pendant  and placed it around Atrus's neck,  careful not
to knock the halo, so Gehn pointed up toward the sky.

There was a great  clash of thunder and  a flash. For the  briefest moment Atrus
saw the surprise in his fathers face and knew the moment was sheer  coincidence.
Yet in an  instant Gehn's face  changed, swelling with  pride, his eyes  blazing
with a fierce intelligence.

"Behold, the rain!"

And then, as if he really had  commanded it, the heavens opened, the torrent  so
heavy that each drop  seemed to rebound from  the earth, drenching things  in an
instant.

The earth trembled like a beaten drum.

Atrus stared, astonished. Before him on the slope, two hundred faces were turned
up in awe as the precious water fell on them like a solid weight.

Koena looked to his Master, as if to ask whether or not he should continue,  but
Gehn seemed undaunted by the downpour. It was almost as if he had planned it.

"The handmaiden ... where is the handmaiden?"

Koena turned, then gestured toward the  girl Salar, who was clutching a  garland
of woven flowers, like the one they  had presented to Gehn when Atrus had  first
come to the Age. But Salar could not move. Salar was petrified. She stared up at
the sky, her eyes like tiny, startled beads.

Seeing how it was, Gehn  strode down and grasped her  by the arm, then began  to
drag  her across  the muddy  slope toward  the hissing  torches and  the  temple
beyond.

Appalled by his father's treatment of the girl, Atrus started forward.  "Father!
Let her go!"

Coming closer, Gehn glared  at him, the fierceness  in that look enough  to make
Atrus lower his gaze.

Gehn threw the girl  down at Atrus s  feet. "The garland!" he  growled. "Present
the Lord Atrus with the garland!"

Atrus wanted to reach down and pick  the girl up, but his father's eyes  were on
him, defying him to help her.

And still the rain beat down relentlessly.

Slowly Salar got up onto her knees. The garland, which she still held loosely in
one hand, was ruined now-mud-spattered and ripped in several places. She glanced
up at him, frightened now and tearful.

"Lord Atrus ..." she began,, her voice almost inaudible beneath the noise of the
storm.

"Speak up, girl!" Gehn bellowed. "Let's hear you now!"

"Lord Atrus ..." she began again, her voice struggling to keep an even tone.

There was a great flash, a huge thunderclap. The young girl shrieked and dropped
the garland.

"Kerath help  us!" Gehn  said impatiently,  then, placing  the heel  of his boot
against her  shoulder, pushed  her roughly  aside and  bent down  to pick up the
ruined  garland.  He studied  it  a moment,  then,  with a  grimace  of disgust,
discarded it.

Gehn turned, looking to Koena. "Dismiss them," he said. "The ceremony is over!"

But Koena wasn't listening. Koena was staring at the lake, watching the precious
water drain away into the cracks. The rain fell and fell, but it did no good. It
would have to rain for a thousand years to fill that lake, for the lake  drained
into the sea and the sea into the  ocean, and the ocean ... the ocean now  lay a
hundred yards  or more  below that  great ledge  of rock  that once  had been  a
seabed.

Koena turned, looking to Gehn. "Master,  you have to save us! Please,  Master, I
beg you!"

But Gehn, who had seen what Koena had seen, simply turned away. Throwing off his
crown, he unfastened his cloak at the neck and let it fall, then, going over  to
the tent, ducked inside, emerging a  moment later with his knapsack, into  which
he quickly stowed his pipe.

"Come," he said, gesturing to Atrus. "The ceremony's over."

Atrus stared a moment, then, casting aside the pendant, ran after Gehn, catching
up with him and grasping his arm, turned him so that he faced him, shouting into
his face over the sound of the storm.

"We must get back and change things! Now, before its too late!"

"Too late? It is already too late! Look at it! I said it was unstable!"

"No!" Atrus yelled, desperate now. "You can change it. You can erase the changes
you made and put things right. You can. You told me you can! After all, you  are
a god, aren't you?"

That last seemed to hit home. Gehn gave the briefest nod, then, pushing past his
son, hurried across the  bridge, making his way  back up the rain-churned  slope
toward the cave, leaving Atrus to run after him.



CHAPTER 15

For an hour  now Gehn had  sat at his  desk in silence,  deaf to Atrus  s pleas,
staring into the air blankly as he sucked on his pipe.

"You have to do something," Atrus said, taking up the cause again. "You have to!
They're dying back there!"

Nothing. Not even the flicker of an eyebrow.

Atrus grimaced, trying not to imagine their  suffering back there on the  Thirty
seventh Age,  trying not  to think  of the  old woman  and the  girl, but it was
impossible.

He stared at Gehn. It  was the first time he  had seen this side of  his father;
this indecisiventss. This hideous indifference.

"Won't you help them, father? Wont you?"

Nothing.

Something snapped in him. Stepping up to the desk, Atrus leaned across,  meaning
to take the book.

"If you won't, then let me ..."

Gehn's hand gripped his  like a vice. He  looked up into Atrus's  face, his eyes
hard. "You?"

It was the first thing Gehn had said for ages.

Atrus pulled his hand  free. "They're dying," he  said for what seemed  like the
thousandth time. "We have to help them. We could make changes."

Gehn laughed bleakly. "Changes?"

"To fix things."

Gehn's eyes held his a moment, then looked away.

In his mind  Atrus saw it  again, the water  pouring from the  edge of the great
rock table as it rose and rose on a cushion of red hot lava.

"So that's it, is it?" he said, glaring at his father. "You can't fix it?"

Gehn straightened up, looking  at Atrus, something of  the old arrogance in  his
eyes. "Did I say that?"

For a moment longer Gehn glared back  at his son, then, opening the Book  of the
Thirty-seventh Age, he  reached across and,  dipping the pen  into the ink  pot,
proceeded to cross out the last few entries in the book, using the D'ni negating
symbol.

"There," he said, handing the book to Atrus. "I have fixed it."

Atrus stared at it, stunned.

Gehn nodded at the book. "Well? You want to check for yourself?"

He had been almost too afraid to ask. "Can I?"

"That is what you wanted, no?"

Atrus nodded.

"Then go. But try not to be too long. I have wasted enough time already on those
ingrates!"

*   *   *

The air in the cave was musty, but no more so than on the other occasions he had
gone there. It was-and this was  the important point-free of the hideous  stench
of sulfur. The very normality of it raised his spirits.

There, he heard his father say, handing him the book, I've fixed it.

Well, now he'd know.

Atrus climbed up  out of the  cave, then stood  on the boulder,  overlooking the
slope, breathing in the dear, sweet air.

It was true! Gehn had  fixed it! There was water  in the lake and rich  grass on
the slopes. He could hear bird-song  and the sound of the wind  rustling through
the nearby trees.  Down below the  village seemed peaceful,  the islanders going
about their lives quite normally.

He laughed, then jumped down, hurrying now, keen to ask Salar just what  exactly
had happened in  his absence, what  changes she had  witnessed-but coming around
the hump, he stopped dead, perturbed by the sight that met his eyes.

He ran  to the  ridge, then  stood there,  breathing shallowly  as he looked out
across the harbor. The boats were  there, moored in a tight semicircle,  just as
before, and there was the bridge ... but beyond?

He gasped, his theory confirmed in a  moment. The meeting hut was gone, and  the
tent. In  their place  was a  cluster of  huts, like  those on  this side of the
bridge.

Hearing a noise behind  him he turned, facing  Koena, surprised to see  that the
man was in ordinary village clothes.

"Koena?"

The man tensed at the word, the thick wooden club he held gripped tightly. There
was fear in his face.

"What is it?" Amis asked, surprised

"Usshua umma mmmm?' Koena asked, his hostility unmistakable now.

Amis blinked. What was that language?  Then, realizing he was in danger,  he put
his hands up, signaling that he meant no harm. "It's me, Koena. Atrus. Don't you
recognize me?"

"Usshua illila unwwa?' the frightened native demanded, waving his dub.

Atrus shook his head, as if to dear it. What was wrong here? Why was  everything
so different?  Out of  instinct he  turned back  toward the  cave, then stopped,
realizing that  there would  be no  Linking Book  there. He  felt in  his pocket
anxiously, then relaxed. His copy Linking Book was there.

Koena was  still watching  him, his  eyes narrowed.  But, of  course, he  wasn't
Koena, or not the Koena  he knew anyway, for his  father had never been here  to
make him his  acolyte. No, Atrus  thought, and nw  have L For  this was not  the
Thirty-seventh Age-or, at least, not that same Age his father had "created"  and
he, Atrus, had lived in; this was another world entirely, like it- so like it as
to be frighteningly familiar-and yet somewhere else.

His head swam, as if the solid  ground had fallen away from him. lam  in another
universe entirely, in another Ay, one that my father tampered into existence.

No, he told himself, chinking it through; that's wrong. My father didn't  create
this-this was hen all along, merely waiting for us to link to it.

An  Age  where  he knew  everyone  and  was not  known.  He  nodded to  himself,
understanding what had happened. His fathers erasures in the Book had taken them
back down the central trunk of  the great tree of possibility and  along another
branch entirely.

Atrus took  one last  long look  at the  Age, then,  knowing he  was not wanted,
turned and  fled toward  the cave,  where, after  he was  gone, his Linking Book
would never be found.

*   *   *

In Atrus's absence Gehn had lit the fire and had sunk into the chair beside  it.
That was where Atrus  found him, slumped back,  his pipe discarded on  the floor
beside him, his mouth open in a stupor.

Gehn was not  sleeping, or if  he was, it  was a fitful  kind of sleep,  for his
eyelids fluttered and from time to time he would mutter then give a tiny groan.

Looking at him, Atrus felt angry and  betrayed. Gehn had said that he was  going
to fix it,  but he hadn't.  That other world,  the real Thirty-seventh  Age, had
been destroyed, or,  at least, his  link to it.  And that was  all Gehn's fault,
because he  hadn't understood  what he  was doing.  Amis stood  over his father,
feeling a profound contempt for him.

"Wake up.'" he  shouted, leaning over  Gehn and giving  him a shake.  "I need to
talk to you!"

For a moment he thought he hadn't managed to wake Gehn. Yet as he went to  shake
him again, Gehn reached up and pushed his hand aside.

"Leave me be!" he  grumbled. "Go on ...  go to your room,  boy, and leave me  in
peace!

"No!" Atrus said defiantly. "I won't! Not until this is settled."

Gehn's left eye pried open. A kind  of snarling smile appeared at one corner  of
his mouth. "Settled?"

"We need to talk,"  Atrus said, keeping firm  to his purpose, determined  not to
let his father browbeat or belittle him this time.

"Talk?" Gehn's slow laughter  had an edge of  mockery to it now.  "What could we
possibly have to talk about, you and I?"

"I want to talk about the Art. About what it is. What it really is."

Gehn stared at him disdainfully, then, sitting up, reached beside his chair  for
his pipe.

"Go and get some  sleep, boy, and stop  talking such nonsense. What  do you know
about the Art?"

"Enough to know that you're wrong,  father. That your Ages are unstable  because
you don't understand what you've been doing all this while!"

Atrus had only guessed about most of Gehn's worlds being unstable, but it seemed
he'd hit the bulls-eye with that comment, for Gehn sat forward, his pallid  face
suddenly ash white.

"You're wrong!" Gehn hissed. "You're just a boy. What do yw know?"

"I know that you don't understand the Whole!"

Gehn roared with amusement. "And you think you have all the answers, eh, boy?"

Atrus leaned over the  table, determined to outface  his father. "Some of  them.
But  they're not  ones you  want to  hear. You'd  rather carry  on as  you  are,
stumbling blindly through  the Ages, copying  this phrase out  of that book  and
that one out of another, as if you could somehow chance upon it that way."

Gehn's hands  had slowly  tightened their  grip on  the arms  of the chair; now,
pulling himself up out of the  chair, his anger exploded. As Atrus  reeled back,
Gehn shouted into his face, spitting with fury.

"How dare  you think  to criticize  me! Me,  who taught  you all  you know!  Who
brought you here out  of that godforsaken crack  and educated you! How  dare you
even begin to think you have the answers!"

He poked Atrus hard in  the chest. "How long have  you been doing this now,  eh,
boy? Three years? Three and a half?  And how long have I been studying  the Art?
Thirty years now! Thirty years! Since I was four."

Gehn made a small noise of disgust.  "You think because you managed to make  one
measly Age that you know  it all, but you don't,  boy! You do not even  know the
start of it. Here ..."

Gehn turned and went over  to the desk. To Atrus  s dismay he picked up  Atrus's
book and leafed it open. For a moment or two he read in silence.

"This phrase  here ...  look how  unnecessarily ornate  it is  ... that's  how a
novice writes,  boy. It  lacks strength.  It lacks  economy of expression." And,
reaching across, he took the pen and dipped it in the ink pot.

Atrus watched, horrified, knowing what was to come, yet still unable to  believe
that his father would actually dare to tamper with his Age.

But Gehn  seemed oblivious  of him  now. Sitting  at his  desk, he drew the book
toward  him,  then  began to  delete  symbols  here and  there,  using  the D'ni
negative, simplifying  the phrases  Atrus had  spent so  long perfecting-phrases
which Atrus knew, from long reading in the ancient D'ni texts, were the  perfect
way of describing the things he wanted in his world.

"Please ..." Atrus pleaded. "There is a reason for all those words. They have to
be there!"

"In what book did  you find this?" Gehn  asked, tapping another of  his phrases.
"This nonsense about the blue flowers?"

"It wasn't in a book ..."

"Ridiculous!"  Gehn  said,  barely masking  his  contempt.  "Frivolous nonsense,
that's  all it  is! This  is overwritten,  that's all!  There is  far too   much
unnecessary detail!"

And, without another  word, Gehn proceeded  to score out  the section about  the
flowers.

"No!" Atrus cried out, taking a step toward the desk.

Gehn glared at him, his voice stern. "Be quiet, boy, and let me concentrate!"

Atrus dropped his head and groaned, but  Gehn seemed not to notice the pain  his
son was in. He turned the page and gave a tiny laugh, as if he'd found something
so silly, so ludicrous, that it was worthy only of contempt.

"And this  ..." he  said, dipping  the pen  into the  ink pot  once again,  then
scoring out one after another  of the carefully-written symbols. "It's  no good,
boy. This description ... it's superfluous!"

"Please .. '.' Atrus said, taking a  step toward him. "Leave it be now.  Please,
father. I beg you ..."

But Gehn was unstoppable. "Oh no, and  this won't do, either. This will have  to
go. I mean ..."

Gehn looked up suddenly, the laughter  fading from his face. "You understand  me
clearly now?"

Atrus swallowed. "Father?"

Gehn's eyes  were cold  now; colder  than Atrus  had ever  seen them.  "You must
understand one thing, Atrus,  and that is that  you do not understand.  Not yet,
anyway. And you  don't have the  answers. You might  think you have,  but you're
mistaken. You can't learn the D'ni secrets overnight. It's simply not possible."

Atrus fell silent under his fathers stern gaze.

Gehn sighed,  then spoke  again. "I  misjudged you,  Atrus, didn't  I? There  is
something of your grandmother in you ... something headstrong ... something that
likes to meddle."

Atrus opened his mouth to speak, but Gehn raised his hand. "Let me finish!"

Atrus swallowed  deeply, then  said what  he'd been  meaning to  say all  along,
whether it angered Gehn or not; because he had to say it now or burst.

"You said that you had fixed the Thirty-seventh Age."

Gehn smiled. "I did."

Atrus shook his head.

Gehn met his eyes calmly. "Yes ...?"

"I mean, it's not the  same. Oh, the lake's the  same and the village, even  the
appearance of the people. But it's not the same. They didn't know me."

Gehn shook his head. "It's fixed."

"But my friends. Salar, Koena ..."

Gehn stared  at the  cover of  the book  a while,  then picked  it up and turned
toward the fire.

Atrus took a step toward him. "Let mi fix it. Let me help them."

Gehn glanced at him contemptuously, then took another step toward the flickering
grate.

"Father?

The muscle beneath Gehn's right eye twitched. "The book is defective."

"No!" Atrus made to cross the room and stop him, to wrestle the book from him if
necessary, but the desk was between them. Besides, it was already too late. With
a tiny little movement,  Gehn cast the book  into the flames, then  stood there,
watching, as its pages slowly crackled  and curled at the edges, turning  black,
the symbols burning up one by one, dissolving slowly into ash and nothingness.

Atrus stood there looking on, horrified. But it was too late. The bridge between
the Ages was destroyed.

*   *   *

In the blue light of the lantern each object in that quiet chamber seemed glazed
in ice-each chair and cupboard, the  massive wooden bed, the desk. In  contrast,
the shadows in the room were black, but not just any black, these were intensely
black-the empty blackness of nonexistence.

To a casual  eye it might  have seemed that  nothing there was  real; that every
object  trapped  within  that   cold,  unfeeling  glare  was   insubstantial-the
projection of some dark, malicious deity who, on a moments whim, might tear  the
pages  from  the  book  in  which  all  this  was  written  and,  with  a  god's
indifference, banish this all into the shadow.

All, that is, but for die young man  seated on a chair at the center of  it all,
the light reflected in his sad, pale eyes.

Slowly Atrus returned to himself, then looked about him. The last few hours were
a blank; where he'd been and what he'd done were a complete mystery. All he knew
was that he was sitting in his room once more, the lantern lit, his journal open
on the desk beside  him. He looked,  then read what  he had written  on the left
hand page.

My father is mad.

Remembering, he shuddered, unable to believe  what his father had done. And  yet
the memory was burned into the whiteness of his mind. If he closed his eyes,  he
could see the pages slowly charring, each one lifted delicately by the flame, as
if the fire had read each phrase before consuming it.

Unless,  of course,  that memory  isfalst, and  I, too,  am one  of my  father's
"creations"...

But he knew beyond question  that that wasn't so.  The experience on the  Thirty
seventh Age had proved that to him beyond all doubt. Gehn was no god. No. He was
simply a man-a weak  and foolish man, irresponsible  and vain. Yes, and  for all
his bluster about making  D'ni great again, he  had forgotten precisely what  it
was that had made the D'ni extraordinary. The reason why their empire had lasted
for so long. It  was not their power,  nor the fact that  they had once ruled  a
million worlds, it was their restraint, their astonishing humility.

Gehn claimed  that he.  Amis, knew  nothing, but  it wasn't  so. He had read the
'histories of D'ni, and had seen, in those pages, the long struggle of the  D'ni
elders to suppress the  baser side of their  nature; to instill in  their people
the virtues of patience,  service, and humility. Yes,  and for the best  part of
sixty thousand years they had succeeded. Until Veovis.

So where did he go from here? What  were his options? Should he try to get  back
to Anna and the deft? Or should he, perhaps, find a hiding place in the city?

Whatever, he had to go and see Gehn  one last time, to say goodbye. And to  tell
him, face-to-face, just why he had to leave.

The thought of it disturbed  him. He had grown a  great deal this last year  and
was almost the physical equal of his father, yet Gehn still intimidated him.

Even so, it had to be done. He could not simply run away, with his tail  between
his legs. For if he did, he would be forever in his fathers shadow.

He went out, climbing the levels of that dark and twisting house, until he stood
there in the library, at the foot of the steps that led up to his fathers study.
Up there, on  the landing, the  lantern was still  lit, the door  still open, as
he'd left them.

He went  up, steeling  himself against  his fathers  anger, against that mocking
laugh that made him feel a little boy again.

But he was no "boy" anymore. He  had grown beyond mere boyishness. And now  Gehn
must be made  to recognize that  fact-must be forced  to acknowledge it  once at
least before he left his house.

Atrus paused in the doorway, surprised to  find the room so dimly lit. The  fire
had gone out,  the lantern on  the table faded  to the faintest  glimmer. As for
Gehn, there was no sign.

He turned, taking the landing lantern from its hook, then stepped inside.

Books had  been scattered  here, there,  and everywhere,  as if  in some fearful
rage. And the desk ...

Atrus hurried across, setting the  lantern down beside the other,  then searched
among the books stacked on the desk, but  there was no sign of his own book.  He
turned, looking  to the  fire anxiously,  fearing the  worst, and almost tripped
over his father.

Gehn lay on  the floor just  behind the desk,  sprawled out before  the guttered
fire.

For a moment  Atrus thought his  father dead, he  was so still.  Then he noted a
slight movement of Gehn's right hand  and knew that this wasn't death,  only its
counterfeit-a kind of stupor brought on by overindul-gence with his pipe.

The pipe itself lay to one  side, the fire-marble glowing dimly in  its chamber.
Atrus crouched and picked it up,  sniffing the spout then wrinkling up  his nose
in disgust.

He was about  to leave, to  turn away and  go, when he  noticed, just beyond his
father's outstretched hand,  the notebook with  the tanned leather  cover he was
always consulting.

For a second or two, he held back, the feeling of •wrongness strong in him;  but
then the compulsion to know what was inside the book overcame him and,  reaching
out, he grasped the notebook then moved back into the lantern's light.

Taking a long, calming breath, he opened it to the first page, reading what  was
written there:

The Book of Atrus...

He frowned. Surely that was wrong?  Surely it meant...? And then he  understood.
It didn't mean him. The handwriting wasn't his, nor was it Gehn's. No, this  was
his grandfathers book. Not Atrus, son of Gehn, but Atrus, father of Gehn.

He read on, then stopped, the last  thread that had connected him to his  father
broken in that instant. Slowly he sat down in Gehn's chair, nodding to  himself,
a bitter laughter escaping him.

There he'd been, admiring his father, exalting him almost, for his courage,  his
patience in finding a path through the darkness of the tunnels back to D'ni. And
all  the  while the  path  had been  clearly  marked, here  in  his grandfathers
notebook. It wasn't Gehn who had taken the risks, but Gehn's father.

Atrus closed the book and pushed it  away from him, then turned, staring at  the
shadowy figure stretched out on the floor beside his feet.

"Why weren't you what I wanted you to be?" he asked quietly, pained by the great
weight of disillusion he was feeling at that moment. "Why did you have to be  so
... so small a man?"

Gehn groaned and stirred slightly, but did not wake.

Atrus sat back, a  long, shivering breath escaping  him. For a moment  longer he
stared at Gehn's prone figure, then,  his eyes drawn to the lantern,  he reached
across and picked the notebook up again. i6



CHAPTER 16

Gehn woke with a pounding head and so many aches that he wondered briefly if  he
had not perhaps blacked out and fallen.  It would not be the first time.  Yet it
was the first time he had allowed himself such license while Atrus was on Kveer,
and he cursed himself for not locking the door before succumbing to that  second
pipe.

He got up, groaning softly. Aches, yes, but nothing broken.

"No damage done," he said, walking  slowly to the door. Then, steadying  himself
against the landing wall,  he looked down the  steps, squinting now, his  pupils
tight, painful.

"Atrus? Atrus, where are you?"

But the library  was empty. He  went down, then  out through the  empty chamber,
feeling a vague misgiving.

Something had happened. Something ...

He stopped, remembering. The boy. He had argued with the boy.

Crossing the open space between the  library and the upper cabin, he  threw open
the door and  hurried across the  unlit chamber, until  he stood in  the shadowy
opening on the far side.

"Atrus?" He waited a moment, then called again. "A-trus!"

Nothing. The great mansion was empty.

Unless the boy's asleep ...

He hurried down, bursting into Atrus s room without knocking.

"Atrus?"

The  bed was  empty. He  turned, looking  to the  great carved  wardrobe in  the
corner, then strode across and pulled it open. No. Atrus was not there, and none
of his things were there either.

The thought made Gehn blink.

He hurried back to his study  and searched the cluttered desk, but  the notebook
was not there. Reaching down to his  right, he pulled out the second drawer  and
took out the metal box he kept  there, placing it on the desk. Then,  taking the
key from the tiny bunch about his neck, he unlocked it.

He took the single page  from the box and, folding  it in half, slipped it  into
his pocket.

Leaving the box  where it was,  he went over  to the door  and shouted down  the
unlit steps. "Rijus! Rijus.' Where are you, man?"

Not waiting  for the  mute, Gehn  hurried down  through the  house. On the final
twist of steps, he slowed, then stopped, his suspicions confirmed. The jetty was
empty, the boat gone from its mooring.

Gehn slumped down onto the bare stone wall, letting his head fall forward.

"Curse the boy! Curse his ingratitude!"

Gehn lifted his head, the pounding at his temples momentarily making his  vision
swim. As it  cleared, he saw  that Rijus was  standing on the  turn of the steps
just above him.

"The boy has gone," Gehn said. "He took the boat. We need to follow him."

The big mute hesitated a moment, taking  in what his master had said, then  came
down the steps and, moving past Gehn,  went over to the far side of  the cavern.
There, in the shadows, a number  of boxes were stacked against a  wall. Removing
them, Rijus exposed an old, unpainted doorway. He looked about him, then stepped
over and took down an old boat hook  from the wall. Placing the tip of the  hook
under the bottom edge of the door, he heaved. The door splintered and fell away.

Gehn stood, then went across.

Inside, in the musty darkness, Rijus was removing an old canvas cover from  over
something. Gehn blinked, then discerned what it was. It was a boat. An old  D'ni
craft.

How did you know? he wondered, looking to the mute.

Ignoring the stabbing pains  in his head, Gehn  stepped inside and helped  Rijus
haul the ancient boat out onto the jetty.

It was  a strangely  long and  elegant craft,  more a  canoe than  a raft,  and,
handling it, he realized that it was made of a durable but curiously lightweight
stone.

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  fathers 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?"



CHAPTER 17

Atrus 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. Tw.-3 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!

He coughed again, trying to clear his throat, then moved farther away, his  eyes
watering now.

Trapped, yes, but at least  there was one advantage to  it. If he could not  get
out, then Gehn could not get in.

Atrus  turned,  looking to  the  Age Five  book,  and blinked,  reassessing  the
situation.

So just what did Gehn want? And why,  if this was a prison, had he provided  him
with the means to escape-  the book? Why give him  pen and ink? And why  provide
him with a Linking Book from the Fifth Age back to this chamber?

A trap, he thought again. But now he wasn't quite so sure. Maybe his father  had
given him the book simply so he wouldn't starve.

That thought intrigued him.  He went over to  the desk and stood  there, staring
down at the Age Five book. At the very center of its cover was a circular  metal
medallion, fixed  to the  leather by  five tiny  tacks. The  D'ni number  five-a
square halved by a narrow bar- was raised in metal above the porcelain base,  on
which was engraved an intricate floral pattern.

Atrus opened the book and looked at the descriptive panel.

From the distant image it seemed a pleasant, peaceful place, the island  heavily
wooded.

Yes. But what's the catch?

For there had  to be a  catch. He knew  that now. If  he had learned  one single
thing today it was that Gehn never-never-did anything without some  self-serving
reason.

*   *   *

It was many  hours before he  finally decided to  venture into Gehns  Fifth Age,
deciding, before he  did, that he  would read it  first, for if  it really was a
prison, he should at least  know beforehand what kind of  Age he was to end  his
days in.

For several hours he sat there, slowly leafing through the pages, noting all the
flaws, all the possible contradictions that Gehns particular writing style threw
up. More than ever, he could see his fathers limited vision on every page,  like
a hideous tapestry quilted together  from exquisite patches of silk.  The entire
work was shortsighted and disjointed  and yet it was also,  paradoxically, quite
clever. Surprisingly so.

Even so, it was one single thing which, in the end, caught Atrus's  imagination;
one element which made him catch his breath and make him want to go and see.

The tree.

Atrus sat back, amazed by the  elegance, the sheer economy, of the  D'ni phrases
that had described it, then leaned  forward again, tracing each symbol with  his
finger, a thrill of pure aesthetic delight passing through him.

A tree. A giant tree, whose topmost branches speared the sky!

Atrus smiled at the thought, then read on, memorizing the details of the  world,
fixing them in his mind like the symbols on a map.

And if it was a trap?

He looked about him at  the huge and gloomy chamber.  Even if it was a  trap, at
least he would get to  see the sun again. At  least he would feel the  wind upon
his skin, the rain falling on his  arms and upturned face, the sweet and  gentle
pleasure of birdsong.

For a moment he looked down, his  face creased with pain at the memory  of Salar
and the old woman, recalling what had happened to their world.

Never again, he swore,  picking up the Linking  Book, then opening the  Age Five
book to its descriptive page.

Hesitating no longer, Atrus  placed his hand against  the image on the  page. At
once he felt the page expand...

*   *   *

He had  linked into  a dense  copse of  tall, bearded  grass which grew beside a
circular pool  that bulged  strangely. He  had stared  at it,  fascinated by the
apparent motion of  its convex surface,  then, hearing voices,  had hurried from
the spot quickly, making his way over a lightly wooded hill, then along a narrow
dirt path that led steeply down a sheer cliff wall, dropping beneath an overhang
of rock and down  onto a rocky beach.  An azure ocean lapped  gently against the
shore, washing over a line of smooth tapered rocks that edged the beach like the
teeth of some great submerged creature.

There he paused, getting his breath,  listening to the gentle slush and  hiss of
the sea.

Turning, he looked about him, searching  for somewhere safe to hide the  Linking
Book hed brought. Almost  at once his gaze  fell on the sandstone  cliff beneath
the overhang, the face of which was pocked with hundreds of tiny holes.

Atrus walked  across and,  choosing from  among a  number of  likely candidates,
picked one  of the  larger ones,  some way  up, well  above what  he saw was the
normal tidal level. He glanced about  him, then, convinced no one was  watching,
climbed up, using the lips of other holes as footholds. Squeezing his whole body
into that narrow space, he crawled a little way along then set the Linking  Book
down on the dry ledge-wedging it with a loose rock so that it wouldn't slide.

Satisfied, he backed out, then jumped down onto the sand again, wiping his hands
against his sides.

He had noticed a sloping path around  the edge of the enclosed bay, over  to his
left, and headed there now, picking his way slowly up the jumble of rock. For  a
moment he was in shadow, the rock  ledge blocking his view of the sky,  then, as
the path turned slightly, there was a break  in the rock and he came out into  a
sloping meadow.

It was surprisingly windy. A strong,  gusting breeze bent the heads of  the long
grass stalks and tugged at his  cloak. Pulling it tight about him,  Atrus walked
on, head down, then, noticing how the  shadow ended in a jagged line just  ahead
of him, he looked up.

Slowly, very slowly, he turned to his  right, until he was facing it, his  mouth
fallen open in astonishment, his head going back to try to take it all in.

The tree.

It seemed to  rest on a  peninsula of rock,  its roots like  the pillars of some
huge stone temple, reaching down the cliff face to pierce the rocky beach, great
humps of root, like the slick backs of a dozen massive sea serpents,  stretching
out into the ocean.

Its trunk, likewise, was  monumental. It was not  by any means as  tall as Atrus
had imagined, yet the sheer breadth of it was enough to make him feel not simply
small in its presence but insignificant.

Like Time  itself, Atrus  thought, letting  his eyes  slowly climb its branches.
Then, realizing how exposed he was  to watchful eyes, he hurried on,  making for
the rock face just ahead.

A set of steps were cut into rock, leading up through the trees. And there, in a
clearing, the sunlight filtering down upon it through the treetops, was a  large
wooden hut.

Atrus walked up to it, his heart hammering in his chest, recognizing it at once.
It was  like the  meeting hut-Gehn's  temple-on the  Thirty-seventh Age.  Almost
identical, in fact.

Seeing it, Atrus knew suddenly exactly where he was on the island, picturing  it
in his mind as on a map.

He stepped up, into the cool interior, passing between the painted wooden  poles
and into a  space that was  furnished in the  most luxurious manner  imaginable,
with  marvelous  tapestries and  statuary  and silver-poled  banners  lining the
walls.

At the far side of that shadowed space was a throne-a massive thing that  looked
as though it had been cast from  a single piece of glowing gold. Coming  closer,
however, Atrus saw that it wasn't gold but a beautiful, tawny stone, the like of
which  he'd  never seen,  even  in D'm.  Atrus  stopped briefly  to  examine it,
brushing his fingertips over the smooth,  cool surface of the arm, wondering  in
which  ancient book  Gehn had  found the  formula or  phrase to  produce such  a
wondrous material.

Behind the throne was  a large free-standing screen,  on the pale lemon  silk of
which was embroidered the  silhouette of a man  That silhouette, with its  high,
domed head and its familiar lenses, was unmistakable It was Gehn.

Atrus nodded to himself  at this evidence of  Gehn's presence On how  many other
worlds had his father built such temples7 In how many Ages was that man a "god"?

Knowing now what he would find-recalling  all of this vividly from the  Age Five
book-he went over to the screen and looked around it. There was a shadowy  space
beyond, a narrow set of steps leading down

He went down, into the darkness.

A low door, cut crudely from the rock, led to a long but narrow cave. From  what
he'd read, he knew that farther back, the walls were pocked with thousands  upon
thousands of tiny holes in much the same manner as the diff face

It's there' he realized, peering through  the half light Cehn's Linking Book  is
there'

He was about to turn  away, to go back through  the temple and explore the  wood
surrounding it,  when he  remembered that  the cave  actually led  somewhere. He
couldn't recall exactly what it led  to-there had been several areas in  the Age
Five book where Gehn's phrasing was unclear, and this was one of them-but he had
a definite recollection that it was important somehow.

He walked on. The warm stuffiness of the cave was making him sweat, yet the cave
was definitely leading somewhere. He might be imagining it, but just as the  air
grew constantly warmer, so there seemed to be a faint, shimmering blue light  in
the tunnel now, enough to allow him to see a couple of feet in front of him.  As
he went on, the  light grew, until he  found himself in a  second, smaller cave,
filled with that same shimmering blue light.

It was hot in the second cave, unbearably hot, steam rising from a great vent in
the floor, but Atrus s eyes were drawn upward, into the roof of the cave. There,
the most astonishing sight met his gaze.  The flat gray rock of the ceiling  was
pierced at its center  by a large, roughly  circular hole, perhaps eight  or ten
feet in  diameter. Within  that hole,  suspended above  the cave,  was a pool of
water, its gently shimmering surface flush with the rock surrounding it.  Beside
it stood a metal ladder, leading up into the pool.

Atrus stared, openmouthed. It  was an illusion. It  had to be. Yet  if that were
so,  what power  sustained it?  He frowned,  willing himself  to understand.  He
walked across and stared. The massive, natural vent glowed redly far below.

He looked up into the pool.  Sunlight was filtering down through the  water, the
curved walls  of which  seemed to  form a  kind of  well. He  narrowed his eyes,
trying to estimate its length, but it  was difficult to tell. He knew, from  his
reading,  that  the  refractive  quality of  water  could  distort  such things.
Besides, who knew even if this was water, for when had he ever seen water behave
in such a fashion? Up there, on the far side of that unnatural barrier, however,
there was something. There had to be. Or why the ladder?

Atrus stepped over to the ladder, taking hold of it determinedly.

How far is it? he wondered, pausing, his head only inches beneath that strangely
quivering surface. Twenty jeet? Thirty?

Raising his right hand, he tentatively immersed it in the pool.

It was extremely  warm and felt  like water, except  that, when he  withdrew his
hand, the drips flew upward, merging with the pellucid surface of the pool.

Atrus closed his  eyes, then pushed  up, immersing his  head and shoulders.  For
five full seconds he held himself there, then ducked down again, sputtering.

There, he told himself,  opening his eyes wide  and drawing a hand  back through
his sodden hair, grinning to himself.

He closed his eyes again and counted, taking slow, calming breaths. At twenty he
thrust upward,  dragging himself  up the  last few  feet of  the ladder with his
hands. And then, suddenly, he was fully immersed!

Opening his eyes, he let go of the ladder and kicked, reaching up instinctively,
trying to claw his way to the surface.

Slowly, very slowly it came toward  him, the walls sliding past. His  lungs were
aching now, but he was very nearly there.

And then, suddenly, there was a shadow on the sunlit surface just above him, the
outline of a human figure. He tried  to hold back, putting out his arms,  trying
to slow his upward drift, fighting to stay where he was, but it was  impossible,
and in the struggle something gave.

The sudden choking  pain was awful.  It was like  swallowing hot tar.  His lungs
were suddenly on fire, his mind flaring like a bonfire with the pain. He spasmed
and threw his  arms out, trying  to grasp the  edges of that  strange, unnatural
well,  yet  even as  he  did, the  blackness  leaked in  again,  robbing him  of
consciousness.

Slowly, arms out,  he floated to  the surface of  the circular pool  he had seen
when he first arrived.

*   *   *

The hut was dark after the bright sunlight of the bay, and as Katran sat herself
in  the corner,  out of  the way  of her  two cousins  who were  tending to  the
stranger, it took a while for her eyes to adjust to the shadows.

At first they had thought he was dead. It was the strangest thing they had  ever
seen. They were  reluctant to take  him from the  water. His flesh  was pale and
corpse-like and  there had  been no  pulse at  his neck.  The old man, Hrea, had
advocated throwing him back  into the water, but  her eldest cousin, Carel,  had
persevered, pushing the water from out of the stranger's chest and breathing his
own air into the youths blue mouth until, with a choking sound and the expulsion
of a plentiful amount of water, the corpse had begun to breath again.

They had wrapped the stranger in a blanket then carried him back to the hut.

That had  been this  morning. In  the hours  between the  stranger had slept, at
first lightly, feverishly, but then peacefully. For the last few hours Carel and
his younger brother, Erlar, waited for the stranger to wake.

"How long?"  she asked  impatiently, the  D'ni she  spoke clearer, less accented
than theirs.

Carel, who was standing beside the bed, looked to her across the full length  of
the room and shrugged, but Erlar, who was at the stove, preparing a pot of soup,
smiled and said gently, "Not long now, Katran. Let him sleep a little longer. If
he doesn't come around soon, we'll wake him."

"Is there any ... damage?'

At that Erlar looked to Carel.

"It's hard to say," Carel answered.

"Who is he?" she asked, posing the question that all of them had asked in  their
minds. "Do you think he belongs to Gehn?"

"One of his servants, you mean?" Carel sighed, then shrugged. "I don't know.  He
has a pair of eye instruments like Gehn's."

"Eye instruments^' She sat forward slightly. "I didn't see them."

"No ... they  were in the  pocket of his  cloak." Carel reached  across and took
them from a table beside the bed. "Here."

She took them and studied them,  remembering what shed been told by  Erlar about
the stranger's first appearance among  them-unearthly white, his arms spread  as
if to embrace them as they knelt there looking down.

Katran  studied  the lenses  a  moment longer,  then  handed them  back.  "Is he
marked?"

Carel shook his head. "There's nothing on his neck."

Unconscious  of the  gesture, she  put her  hand to  her own  neck, her  ringers
tracing the boxlike symbol imprinted in the flesh.

"Then maybe ..."

Both cousins looked to her, waiting for  her to go on, but she merely  shook her
head.

Erlar smiled, then looked  back at the pot  he was stirring. "He  was talking in
his sleep earlier ..."

"Talking?" Katran stared at her cousin, her deeply green eyes intent.

"He was murmuring something about flowers."

Her narrow  mouth opened,  the lips  barely parting,  then she  turned her head,
anxiously looking across  to where the  stranger lay on  his back on  the wooden
bed.

There was a  faint groan, a  movement of the  body. Katran half  stood, then sat
again. Carel,  beside the  body, reached  down and,  dipping the  flannel in the
bucket by his side, wrung it out, then began to wipe the strangers brow, as he'd
done now many  times. Yet even  as he did,  the youth's hand  came up and firmly
held his wrist.

Carel swallowed nervously as the young man opened his eyes.

There was surprise in those pale yet clearly human eyes; fear and curiosity.

"Where am I?"

Carel made no attempt to free his hand. "You are on Riven. In the village."

"Riven?"

"Yes, Riven," Carel repeated, that  one word sounding strange among  the heavily
accented D'ni words. "We found you in the pool. You were in a bad way. The water
had got inside you."

The young man's eyes opened wide, suddenly remembering. "The pool ..."

"Are you hungry?"

"Hungry?" The stranger nodded. "Famished!"

"Good ..." Carel looked  to his younger brother  and gave a nod.  At the signal,
Erlar poured soup into a large wooden vessel and, after sprinkling a measure  of
dark powder into it, carried it across.

"Here,"  Erlar said,  holding it  out, as  Carel helped  the young  man sit  up,
placing two pillows behind his back, between him and the wooden headboard.

"Thank you," the stranger said, taking the bowl. After sniffing it, he began  to
spoon it into his  mouth, slowly at first,  then with an appetite  that made the
brothers look to each other and smile.

"Would you like some more?" Erlar asked, taking the empty bowl back from him.

"Please."

They watched, astonished, as he ate a second bowl and then a third. Then, drowsy
once more, the effort, it seemed, too much for him, he slept again.

And all the while Katran sat there in the comer, her green eyes watching.

*   *   *

Atrus  woke with  a start,  as if  hed fallen  in his  sleep, conscious  of  the
unfamiliar yet  not unpleasant  smell of  the shadowed  place in  which he found
himself.

Turning  onto  his side,  he  stretched, then  lay  still, hearing  voices  from
outside. He  remembered now:  the two  young men  who'd sat  there while he ate,
smiling kindly at him.  He smiled himself at  the thought. What had  they called
this place? Riven, that was it. Gehn's Fifth Age.

He yawned, then lay still  again, staring at the far  wall. It was a simple  mud
and  daub hut,  not so  dissimilar from  those on  the Thirty-seventh  Age,  but
bigger, and with a finish to the  walls that spoke of a high level  of technical
skill. And they  had stoves, too-cast  metal stoves on  which they cooked.  That
spoke of complexities to this Age that Age Thirty-seven did not have. They would
have to have a supply of metal, yes, and the skills to use it.

His eyes went to the stove, noting its simple, unadorned shape, so unlike all of
the D'ni artifacts he was used to. Such simplicity appealed to him.

Idly, his eyes traveled upward, searching the shadows of the ceiling, curious to
see what kind of structure this was,  what materials they used here. So much  of
this, as ever, had  not been in the  descriptive book. Only the  building blocks
were  there  in  Gehn's  Age  Five  book:  the  basic  elements  from  which the
complexities of such  cultures developed. That  thought fascinated him.  It made
him think of subtle ways he himself might have influenced the mix, what  factors
he personally would have built into the equation of this Age.

His eyes traveled  down from the  shadows, noting the  simple square-cut window,
the undecorated plainness  of the whitewashed  wall, then stopped,  surprised to
find the eyes of a young woman staring back at him.

Green eyes. Startlingly green eyes.

For a moment he simply stared, his lips slightly parted, taking in the  strange,
almost  delicate beauty  of her  face; then,  realizing what  he was  doing,  he
averted his eyes, suddenly, acutely embarrassed.

How long has she been there? he wondered. How long has she been watching me?

He heard her soft footsteps on the bare earth floor.

"You almost died," she said. "What were you doing in the pool?"

Atrus turned to  find her kneeling  beside the bed,  her face almost  on a level
with his own. He found that strangely disconcerting, as if she were some kind of
threat to  him. Unlike  the young  men who  had nursed  him, her face was tense,
almost ill-humored.

"I don't know," he answered.

She blinked,  then looked  away, allowing  Atrus the  chance to  study her.  The
others had been  tanned, and so  was she, but  he noticed that  the skin of  her
lower arms was strangely  "banded"-pale and tanned-as if  she had at some  point
placed strips  of cloth  about them  to create  that pattern.  She was wearing a
simple dark green dress.  There were tiny white  feathers braided into her  hair
and about her neck was a  wide, embroidered choker, but his gaze  kept returning
to her eyes, which were deep and mysterious, so deep and dark ...

"Where did you come from?" she asked, her face still turned from his.

"Another place," he said,  thinking that it could  do no harm, but  he could see
that his answer didn't satisfy her. There was a flash of irritation in her eyes.

Atrus sensed as much, as  she stood and turned away  from him. He risked a  tiny
glance.  There was  something tense  about the  way she  stood there,  her  head
slightly tilted forward, her hands up to her mouth.

She turned back, focusing those dark eyes on him once again. "What's your name?"

"Atrus. What's yours?"

"Katran"

He nodded. "Catherine, That's ..."

"Ka-tran,"  she said  again, placing  the emphasis  on the  final syllable.   "I
dreamed of you."

"You dreamed...?"

Then, without another  word, she turned  and quickly left  the hut, leaving  the
door wide open, the sunlight spilling in in a wide bar of gold that climbed  the
far wall.

Atrus lifted his head, staring at the doorway, wondering what all that had  been
about, then, swallowing, his throat strangely dry, he let his head fall back. i8



CHAPTER 18

Atrus  sta cross-legged  beside the  shallow bowl,  his eyes  closed, his   fist
clenched tightly, counting.

"Atrus?"

He turned, looking up at her. "Yes, Catherine?"

There was a slight flicker of  annoyance in her face at the  mispronunciation of
her name, but she had given up trying to correct him. "What are you doing?"

At the count  of sixty he  relaxed his hand,  letting the fingers  unfold. As he
did, a small bubble  of water, its surface  fluid and reflective like  a drop of
mercury, floated up out of his palm.

Atrus looked to her. She had a slightly quizzical look on her face.

"Water shouldn't do that when it gets warm."

"No? Then what should water do?""

Atrus shrugged. "Well, it  shouldn't float and it  shouldn't give me a  stomache
ache."

She laughed, then quickly grew serious again.

Atrus stared at her, surprised. It was  the first rime she had laughed since  he
had met her, and the change it made to her face was quite remarkable.

"I'll get you some of the powder."

"Powder?"

Catherine gave a  single nod. For  a moment she  simply stared, as  if trying to
fathom  something about  him, then,  without even  the slightest  movement,  she
seemed to shrug and look away.

Her eyes were still on him, but she was no longer there. Not looking out at him,
anyway. It was as if, briefly, she had gone into a trance.

Atrus reached  out and  picked up  the brass  cooking pot  he had been examining
earlier, pleased  by its  symmetry, by  the way  the double  pans-top and bottom
linked by  four strong  brass spindles-like  all the  cooking implements  in Age
Five, were designed to  cope with water which,  when heated, rose into  the air.
Everything here had special "catchment  lids" and spouts with tiny  valves which
did not open unless you tilted the thing a certain way.

He looked to Catherine again, and saw she was still distracted.

"What are you thinking?"

She turned to face  him. "I'll tell you  what I'm thinking. You  have those pale
eyes and  wear those  strange eye  instruments. What  have you  to do  with Lord
Gehn?"

"I am Atrus, his son."

There was a brief look of triumph in her eyes. Then, as if she suddenly saw what
it meant, she took a step backward. "So what do you want?"

He paused as he considered the question-sweeping away the cloud of Gehn and  all
he'd witnessed over the last few years.

What do I want?

"I want to go home," he said softly.

"Home?"

"To the cleft."

"The cleft?"

"It's where I was born," he said. "Where I grew up. It was just a crack, a  hole
in the earth surrounded by desert," he added, thinking of what Gehn had said  of
it, "yet it was like ... well, like paradise."

"And your father lived there with you?"

Atrus shook his  head, looking away  as he answered  her. "No. I  didn't know my
father. Not until I was fourteen. I  grew up with my grandmother, Anna. She  fed
me, clothed me, taught me. She gave me everything"

Catherine stared at him intensely.

"And then your father came?"

Atrus nodded. Standing, he brushed himself  down, then looked past her down  the
grassy slope. The village was in the  crater behind him, just the other side  of
the slope-literally in the crater, the  mud and daub huts fixed into  the crater
wall using great wooden stakes, like the rooms in the cleft had been.

He smiled, remembering. The first time he had seen it had almost been his  last.
Feigning sleep, he had let the elder of the two brothers, Carel, leave the  hut,
then had slipped  out of bed,  intending to go  outside and look  around. It had
only been his natural  caution that had stopped  him falling into the  bay fifty
feet below.

It also explained why the sounds changed in the evening. He had thought that the
sea came in to a beach close by the hut; he had not understood that it  actually
came in  beneath the  hut, let  in through  a tunnel  inlet to  the left  of the
cliffside village.

He turned, looking about him. To the left, no more than half a mile distant, lay
the forest, its  strange, golden-leaved trees  dominating the view  there, their
massive branches flattened, as if under enormous pressure from the sky.

Directly south, on a raised promontory, was the copse in which the temple stood,
while over to the right, clearly visible from wherever one stood on the  island,
was the tree.

Catherine stepped up beside him, her eyes on him all the while, almost as if she
knew him. Her tone was different now ... Steady.

"I had a dream of you."

He turned to face her, recalling the first  time she had said it to him, in  the
hut. "A dream?"

"Yes," she said, slowly  walking down the slope  away from him, her  green dress
flowing about  her, her  bare feet  seeming almost  to float  upon the grass. "I
dreamed of a dead man floating in the pool, and now you're here!"

*   *   *

"Well?" Gehn asked, sitting down in fi-ont of the young woman. "Has anything ...
unusual been happening?"

Katran  looked up  from the  copybook and  met her  Masters gaze,  her own  eyes
innocent. "Nothing unusual."

"Good," he said,  turning away, sucking  deeply on his  pipe. "Shall we  pick up
where we left off?"

The lesson went well,  but then they always  did. Katran was a  good student-his
best-and he never  had to tell  her anything more  than once. Some  of the other
Guild members  were good  at copying,  but none  of them,  with the exception of
Katran, had begun to  grasp the true meaning  of the symbols they  were copying.
She,  by  contrast, had  understood  at once.  And  now, after  only  two years'
tuition, she  was almost  fluent. Almost,  he thought,  thinking of  all the key
words he had kept from her; certain garo-hertee words, without which it would be
impossible to write. But soon he would begin to give her those keys. One by one.
If she was good.

He had formulated his plan long before he had imprisoned Atrus. Furious with his
son, but determined to rulnll his dream of a great D'ni resurgence, he had found
himself wondering  if it  were not  possible to  go about  things in a different
manner. He still needed Atrus-there was no doubt of that, for such talent should
not be squandered-yet it seemed impossible to work with him.

But did  it have  to be  Atrus at  his side?  Wouldn't another  do just as well?
Someone not quite as talented,  perhaps-yet certainly more docile than  his son?
Someone he could control much easier than Atrus?

At once he had thought of Katran.

Gehn smiled and turned to face her, setting his pipe down on the desk.  "There's
something I have to tell you, Katran. Something important."

"Master?" She stared back at him, intent yet obedient, her eyes the eyes of  the
perfect acolyte, the perfect servant.

"I want  you to  prepare yourself.  There is  to be  a wedding,  you understand?
Thirty days from now. I will give instructions to the other Guild members as  to
the ceremony, but you must make special preparations."

"You are to take a bride. Master?"

"Yes, Katran," he said, looking at her  fondly now. "You are to be my  wife. You
will sit at my right hand and rule a thousand worlds with me."

"But Master," she said, bowing her head, "I am not deserving of this honor."

Gehn laughed softly, pleased by her humility. "Maybe not. But I have chosen you,
Katran, and you will  prepare yourself. Thirty days,  you have. Thirty days  ...
and then the ceremony will take place."

*   *   *

Atrus had been looking for Catherine all over the main island, surprised that no
one knew where she had gone. Then, suddenly, she was there again, standing among
the trees at the edge of the forest.

He almost called to  her, almost shouted out  her name, yet something  about the
way she was  standing there-distracted-made him  stop and then  double back into
the wood, coming out behind her, one of the massive spongy boles hiding him from
her sight.

In the mottled shade of the massive branches, her slender figure seemed unreal-a
thing of earth and grass,  the green of her cloak,  the raven black of her  hair
blending with the surrounding shadows.

Even from where he  was standing, Atrus could  see that something had  disturbed
her. Her eyes, which were normally  so bright and inquisitive, were now  deep in
thought, while her hands were clasped tightly in front of her.

What is it? he asked silently, feeling a natural sympathy for her.

Slowly, his feet carefully finding their  way over the thick leaf cover  between
the trees, he moved toward her, until he stood less than a dozen feet away.

"Catherine?"

She did not turn, merely looked up.

"Catherine ... are you all right?"

She nodded.

"Shall I walk you back to the village?"

"All right," she said quietly, turning and walking beside him as they moved  out
from beneath the great overhang of branches into the sloping meadow.

*   *   *

Atrus found his  Linking Book where  he'd left it  in the cliff  face and linked
back.

The chamber was as  he'd left it, the  Age Five book open  on the desk, the  ink
pots and pen undisturbed.

Returning to the desk, Atrus settled in the chair, then drew the book toward him
and began to  read it, more  carefully this time,  seeing how each  phrase, each
small description, contributed to the totality of what he'd seen.

Now that he had been there, he understood just how good it really was. The Fifth
Age of Gehn was quite remarkable. Yet there were clear flaws in the way the book
had been  put together,  particularly in  the structure  of the writing. Elegant
passages lay side by side on the page, each uniquely beautiful, yet disturbingly
unrelated to each other. It was the trademark of his fathers style. The boldness
of  Gehn's  eclecticism-his  drawing  from  such  disparate  sources-was  indeed
astonishing, close to brilliant.

Had  Gehn  built his  Ages  from structural  principles,  they might  have  been
different, for it  was possible that  in so doing  he might have  reconciled the
gaps. As it was,  his method was piecemeal  and the flaws that  resulted quickly
compounded into a complex network  of interrelated faults-faults that could  not
be tackled by simple solutions.

Atrus turned the final page, nodding to himself as he read the last few  entries
seeing there his father's crude attempts  to make small changes to the  Age Five
world, to stabilize its inherent faults.

"All  wrong," he  said quietly,  wishing he  could just  score out  those  final
entries, but, remembering what had happened on the Thirty-seventh Age, feanng to
do so. No, if he  was to make changes, he  would do so only with  great care and
after long and patient deliberation. One could not meddle with an Age. At least,
not with an Age as complex as Gehn's Fifth Age.

Riven, he thought.  She called it  Riven. And as  he looked up,  it was to  find
Catherine standing there, looking down at him, a large blue book clutched to her
chest.



CHAPTER 19

Atrus stood there, staring at Catherine, stunned by her sudden appearance.

She quickly looked around her, then set the book down on the table. "I  followed
you," she said, before he could speak. "Saw where you hid your Linking Book."

He glanced at the big, blue-covered book where it lay on the table between them,
then pointed to it.

"I got it," she said, "from your father."

"Got it? How? He doesn't allow books out of his library."

She looked directly at him. "I stole it from his study, while he was asleep."

He stared at her openmouthed. "But why?"

Things were moving far too fast for him. He stood, putting his hands out, as  if
to fend her off. "Slow down. What were you doing in my fathers study."

"He takes us there."

"Who?"

"The Guild. He has us copy things from books. He says it saves him time."

"The Guild?" He laughed. In his mind he saw again how mad his father was, trying
to re-create the D'ni Guilds.

She stepped  around the  desk and,  reaching out,  pulled down  the edge  of the
choker she was wearing. Beneath it, burned into the flesh, was his fathers sign.

He met her eyes. "How long ago was this?"

She made a face, as  if she hated to recall  it. "He placed the mark  on me four
years ago. I was the fourth to have it. Since then he's increased our number  to
ten. We are  an elite. The  other islanders have  to do as  we say. Your  father
insists on it."

"So why bring me the book?" he asked, laying his hand on the flecked blue cover.

"You can write. I want you to fix our world."

Atrus stared back at  her a moment, then  went around the desk  and sat, opening
the book. It was blank. She had stolen  a blank book. He looked up at her.  "Why
should I do that?"

"Because you must."

"MustPWho says I must?"

"Don't you understand? Its falling apart. I'm asking for your help."

Atrus sat back. "Go on."

"It's been  happening for  a while  now. There  have been  small tremors  in the
earth, and cracks, and schools of dead fish have been floating into the bay. And
then the tree ..."

He waited,  his stomach  muscles tensed,  remembering what  had happened  on the
Thirty-seventh Age. There,  too, it had  begun with little  things. Instability:
there was a fatal instability in all his fathers worlds.

"The great tree is dying," she said.

"Why didn't you say this to me earlier?"

"Because I wasn't sure of you at first."

"Why?" he laughed.

"Because of your power. The power that your father has. The power to create  and
destroy worlds."

"You think I have that power?"

"Haven't you?"

He hesitated, then nodded. "I can write."

"Then help us, Atrus."

He let out a  long, sighing breath. What  if this were another  trap? After all,
how likely was it that she had  managed to steal books from his father's  study?
Then  again,  he remembered  the  voice he'd  heard  that time,  when  he'd been
standing at the bottom of the steps that led up to Gehn's study. He should  have
known, even then, that Gehn was bringing people back from his Ages.

"Okay," he said. "I'll help you." He paused. "But I need more books. More  blank
books."

"Why?"

He studied her momentarily. "There are things I have to try out. Experiments."

"I have more books on Riven. You'll need to help me carry them."

"You've ..." He laughed. "You mean, you stole more than one?"

"Yes. Your father trusts me. He ..."

"What is it?" he asked.

"Nothing. Just  that we'd  better be  getting back,  to pick  up the  books. The
quicker you get to work ..."

He shook his head. "Why are you in  such a hurry? It can't be rushed. To  fix an
Age ..."

She leaned closer. "There're only thirty days."

Atrus sat back. "I don't understand. What's happening in thirty days?"

But Catherine did not  answer him. Instead she  reached across and, placing  her
hand over the Age Five image on the page, linked back, leaving Atrus staring  at
the empty air, openmouthed, his heart pounding in his chest.

*   *   *

He linked back to the grassy plateau beside the pool.

Catherine was  waiting for  him. Taking  his hand,  she hurried  him through the
trees and along the edge of the cliff top opposite the tree. Water lapped softly
at the rocks a hundred feet below.  Looking at the tree across that narrow  gap,
Atrus could see little wrong with  it. From this distance it seemed  the epitome
of rude  health, a  vast symbol  of natural  fecundity, yet  he had no reason to
doubt Catherine.

"It would be  best if we  were not seen,"  she said, hurrying  him down a narrow
path that hugged the cliff, then up a curving twist of wooden steps set into the
earth between steep slopes of grass.

He shrugged, then went on with her, up the final few feet of the path and onto a
lush stretch of grass that nestled between two spurs of the great tree's massive
trunk.

"Here," Catherine said, beckoning him across.

He went over to  where she stood, then  frowned deeply, seeing at  once what she
meant. Just beside her  the bark was deeply  split, a huge crack  reaching in to
breach the medullary  ray that carried  the tree's necessary  nutrients, and on,
deep into the sapwood. The split was large enough for him to walk into.

"You see?" she said softly, her green eyes troubled. "This was his punishment."

"His punishment? For what?"

She walked past him,  then sat, looking out  across the water toward  the copse,
the white stone of the temple barely visible among that rich dark green.

"One of the Guild spoke out of turn. He questioned something the Lord Gehn  said
to him.  Your father  was angry.  I've never  seen him  so angry.  He had us ...
sacrifice the man."

Atrus went across and crouched, facing her. "What do you mean?"

"We fed him to the sea."

"I still ..."

She put her hand out to stop  him. "It doesn't matter. What does matter  is that
he threatened us. All  of us. Gave us  a warning. 'Question me  again,' he said,
'and I shall destroy your world. For just as I made it, I can unmake it! Look to
the great tree,' he said. 'I shall leave my sign upon it"'

Another fissure, Atrus thought, remembering  once more what had happened  on the
Thirty-seventh Age. Yes, everywhere he goes he leaves his mark, like a signature
of  his incompetence.  And is  that why   I'm here?  Is that  the reason  why  M
imprisoned me with the Ay Five hook? To clear up after him? To put right what he
has so abjectly failed to make good?

He looked back at Catherine. "And the other Guild members ... do they know  what
you plan to do?"

She shook her head. "They  would kill me if they  did. They are in fear  of your
father, Atrus. They tremble before his every word."

"And yet one of them gainsayed him."

Catherine looked down, as if ashamed.

"That was your fault?" he said, after a moment. "You ... influenced him/'

She  looked  up,  her  eyes  beseeching him  now.  "I  didn't  mean  to. I  only
thought..." She took  a long shuddering  breath, then, much  quieter. "I thought
Lord Gehn might listen to him. I thought your father was a reasonable man."

"My father? No," Atrus said matter-of-factly, "my fathers mad."

He turned and looked, seeing, in  the distance beyond the temple mound,  another
promontory.

"What's there?" he asked, trying to remember what Gehn had written in the book.

"That's where the Guild members live. That's where we have our enclave."

For some reason  the thought of  her living alone  with nine men  disturbed him.
"Are they ... like you?"

She laughed,  then patted  the grass  beside her.  "What do  you mean,  like me?
Young?"

He went to shrug, then nodded.

"No," she said. "Most of them are old ... even older than my father. Gehn  seems
to like them that way. More docile, I guess. Apart from Eavan."

"Eavan?"

She nodded,  sucking in  her lips  a moment.  "My friend.  He was  the one  Gehn
sacrificed."

Atrus looked past her a moment, his eyes drawn to the dark shape of the split in
that massive trunk. "Did you love him?

"Love?" The word came out surprised, but after a moment she nodded. "He was like
a brother to me. As dear to me as Carel and Erlar. When the other Guild  members
took him ..."

"I'm sorry," he said when she didn't go on. "I feel... responsible somehow."

"You shouldn't," she  said, looking sharply  at him. "After  all, he's not  been
particularly kind to you, has he? What kind of father imprisons his son?"

He stared at her. "How is it you know so much?"

She looked  away, then:  "Because your  father tells  me. Oh  ... some things he
doesn't even realize he's telling me. He likes to talk to himself, and sometimes
he forgets. Sometimes I'm in his study, copying, and ..."

"Hold a moment," Atrus said. "Tell me ... why does he do that?"

She blinked again. "It's as I said. It speeds up his work."

"Yes, but... what does he want:'"

His eyes held hers a moment, begging an answer, his head following hers when she
tried to avoid his gaze. She smiled.

"I  guess," she  began, sitting  up a  little and  turning herself  to face  him
square-on, "I guess he wants to teach us how to write.

"Is that what he told you?"

She nodded.

"But that's impossible. No  one but D'ni can  write. It simply doesn't  work for
anyone else."

She was staring at him curiously now. "You're sure of that?"

He nodded. "It  was the first  thing he ever  taught me about  the Art. And  the
books-the Histories-confirm it. Time and again they stress the fact."

Strangely, Catherine seemed relieved.

"What is it now?" he asked, puzzled by her reaction.

"I just thought... well, in my book ..."

"Your book?"

She stared at him a long moment, then nodded.

"Would you like to see it?"

He shrugged. "Okay ..."

"Then come" she said, taking his hand  and pulling him up after her. "I'll  show
you."

*   *   *

Katran had always been somewhat uncomfortable with the idea that she could  make
a book. Somehow the  whole notion, which at  first had fascinated and  intrigued
her, now  horrified her,  for if  she could  conjure up  her dreams from ink and
paper, what did that make her?  A mere figment. Just another conjuration  of the
Lord Gehn's fitful imagination!

She turned,  looking across  the shadowed  hut to  where Gehn's  son, Atrus, sat
cross-legged on the narrow bed, reading her book.

So different from his father, so ...

So true.

Her eyes went to the young man again, finding it strange the way his presence so
disturbed her. It was just...

Atrus looked up from the book and  met her eyes, and she instantly knew  what it
was. It was his kindness. His simple, natural kindness.

"This is quite beautiful," he said. "I've never read anything like it. Its  like
... well, its like nightfall over the  desert or ... like the cleft when  it was
filled with stars."

She went across and sat beside him.

"The writing ... well,  as I said, the  writings wonderful. It's poetic.  But in
practical terms  ... it's  riddled with  contradictions, I'm  afraid. It  breaks
almost every single law of D'ni  writing. It has no structure, no  architecture.
And some of  these symbols ...  I've never seen  them before. I'm  not even sure
they mean anything. Where did you learn them? Gehn never taught these to me."

Catherine shrugged.

"For such a place to exist ..." Atrus sighed, then, closing the book, handed  it
back to her. "I'm afraid it wouldn't work, but it does paint wonderful  pictures
in my mind."

She smoothed her  fingers over the  pale lemon cover.  The green and  light blue
flecks in it had always reminded her of grass and water, the predominant  yellow
of the sun. Fecund, it was, like the world surrounding her, but inside ...

"That's good," she said. "It must be like a dream."

He stared at her, not understanding.

"When I go there ..."

He shook his head. "But you can't..."

"It was just like my dreams," she said, turning to face him again.

"No," he said  forcefully, taking the  book back from  her. "It simply  wouldn't
work. Writing isn't like that.  It's a science. A precisely  structured equation
of words."

She leaned across him, then opened  the book, pointing to the descriptive  image
on the right-hand page.  It was dark, so  intensely dark that he  had thought it
blank. But there was something there.

He looked to her.

"I want you to see it."

"It's ..." he said, softer now, the  word almost a whisper. Yet even as  he said
it, she leaned across  him and placed his  hand upon the image,  smiling at him,
her smile dissolving in the air as he linked.



CHAPTER 20

"... Impossible."

Atrus stepped out of the air into  a huge, conical bowl of darkness. And  in the
middle of that bowl, at the  precise center of the massive, mile-wide  hole that
pierced it, a powerful column of water-as broad as a r,ver-thundered straight up
into the  darkness until  it was  lost from  sight, a  great spike of brilliant,
crystalline light glowing  like a fierce  flame at its  center where it  emerged
from the glowing depths.

Atrus stared, dumbstruck.

A group  of large,  fireflylike insects  glided past,  their translucent  bodies
glowing gold and red, their movements  more like the movements of fish  than the
darting flight of insects. Atrus looked down, meaning to brush one away and  was
shocked to see it pass right through his legs, re-forming like a soap bubble  on
the other  side. Other  creatures, their  forms no  less fantastic-sporting long
sparkling quills  and  fans, extravagant  crests  or tails  like  golden  chains
fluttered and  weaved across  that midnight  landscape, their  forms merging and
reforming, constantly in movement, constantly, it seemed, in transformation.

"It must be  a dream, don't  you think?" Catherine  said, stepping up  alongside
him.

There  was the  scent of  lemon in   the air,  the faintest  trace of  pine  and
cinnamon.

Atrus nodded absently, his  eyes following the course  of one of the  fireflies,
drawn to it, seeing how it seemed  to merge and then detach itself from  a rocky
crag nearby,  traces of  its bright  color left  behind in  the sparkling  black
surface of the rock, which pulsed momentarily then was still again.

Not that the rock was like real rock. It had a glassy look to it, as if it  were
made of gelatin, yet it had the warm, textured feel of wood. Most surprising  of
all, it smelled ... Atrus sniffed, then shook his head, amazed ... of roses  and
camphor.

Everywhere he looked, forms met  and merged, the barriers that  normally existed
between things dissolved away here, as in a dream.

He shivered then looked  up, pointing out toward  the great chute of  water that
cascaded endlessly into the night sky.

"Where does it go?"

She laughed; the softest, gentlest laugh  he'd ever heard. "Did you ever  wonder
what it would be like to go swimming out among the stars?"

"Swimming?" For a moment  he thought of Anna  and the cleft, that  evening after
the desert rain.

"Yes," she said wistfully. "If it is my dream, we could fall into the night  and
be cradled by stars and still return to the place where we began."

Atrus stared at her, wondering what she  meant. Sometimes she was like her  book
beautiful and poetic, yes, and incomprehensible, too.

"I'm not very lucky  with water," he said,  making her laugh. "But  this ..." He
turned, raising his  arms to indicate  the Age she'd  made. "I can't  understand
it." He looked to her, shaking his  head in amazement. "I just can't see  how it
works."

He looked about him,  disconcerted by the way  a bright blue snakelike  creature
split in two as  it brushed against his  arm, then split again  and again, until
there was a whole  school of tiny snakes,  swimming with identical motions  in a
tight formation.

"Did you imagine all of this?"

"Most of it," she answered, walking  past him, then stooping to pluck  something
from the ground close by. "Some of it I can't remember writing. It's almost like
I stop thinking and just... write"

She turned  back, offering  something to  him. It  was a  flower. But not just a
flower. As he went to  take it from her, it  seemed to flow toward his  hand and
rub against him, like a kitten brushing against its owner's legs.

Atrus moved back.

"What is it?" she asked.

"I don't know." He smiled. "It's just strange, that's all."

Catherine bent down and  put the flower down  carefully, then looked at  him and
smiled. "There's nothing here that's harmful. You're safe here, Atrus. I promise
you."

Maybe so. But  he still felt  ill at ease.  Nothing here behaved  as it ought to
behave. Wherever he looked the rules  of normality were broken. This was  an Age
where the laws had been  stood on their head. By  rights it ought not to  exist,
and yet it did. So  what did that mean? Was  it as Catherine had said?  Did some
other set of  laws- laws not  discovered by the  D'ni-prevail here? Or  was this
simply an anomaly?

Catherine straightened up, then put out her hand to him. "Come. Let me show  you
something."

He walked down the slope with her until he stood only a few yards from the edge.
Beyond it there was nothing. Nothing but the glow far below them, and the water,
spewing up out of the center of that brightness.

"Here," she said, handing him something small, smooth, and flat.

Atrus looked at it. It was a  polished piece of stone, small enough to  fit into
his hand.

"Well?" she said. "Have you never skimmed a stone before?"

He  looked to  her, then  swung his   arm back  and cast  the stone  across  the
darkness, imagining he was skimming it across the surface of a pond.

The stone skimmed rapidly across the vacant air, and then, as if it had suddenly
hit a  rock, soared  in a  steep curve  upward, finally  disappearing into  that
mighty rush of water.

Atrus stared, openmouthed, as he lost it in that mighty torrent, then turned, to
find that Catherine was laughing softly.

"Your face!"

Atrus snapped his mouth shut, then looked back. He found that he wanted to do it
again-to see the stone skim across the emptiness then soar.

"Where does it go?"

"Come," she said, taking his hand again. "I'll show you."

*   *   *

The tunnel through which they walked was small- just big enough for them to walk
upright-and perfectly round, like a wormhole through a giant apple, the  passage
unevenly lit by some property within  the rock itself. It led down,  continually
curving, until it seemed as though they must be walking on the ceiling. And then
they came out. Out into brilliant  daylight. Out into a landscape as  amazing as
the one they had left at the far end of the tunnel.

Atrus winced, his eyes  pained by the sudden  light, and pulled his  glasses on,
then straightened, looking out.

Just as the dark side had  been strange, so this-the bright side  of Catherine's
nature, as he  saw it-was wonderful.  They stood at  the top of  a great slope-a
large rocky hill in the midst of an ocean, one of several set in a rough  circle
each hill carpeted with bright, gorgeously scented flowers over which a  million
butterflies danced and fluttered.

And at the  very center of  that circle of  rocklike hills, a  great ring-shaped
waterfall rushed inward at  an angle, toward a  single central point far  below.
Directly  over that  huge vortex,  flickering in  and out  of visibility,   were
twisting, vertical ribbons of fast-moving cloud that appeared high up in the air
then vanished quickly into the mouth of that great circular falls.

With a shock of  recognition, Atrus understood. "We're  on the other side!  It's
the source of the great torrent ... it falls through .. '.'

And even as he said it, his mouth fell open with wonder.

But how? What physical mechanism was involved? For he knew-knew, with a  sudden,
absolute certainty- that if this existed,  then there was a physical reason  why
it existed. This  did not break  the D'ni laws,  it merely twisted  them; pushed
them to their limits.

He looked to Catherine, a sudden admiration in his eyes.

"This is beautiful. I never guessed ..."

She took his hand. "There's more. Would you like to see?"

"Yes."

"Out there," she said, pointing, directing his eyes toward the horizon.

Atrus stared. Huge thunderclouds massed at  the horizon, rising up into the  sky
like steam from  a boiling pot.  Incredible thunderstorms, their  noise muted by
distance, filled the air out there, the whole of the horizon, as far as he could
see to left and right, filled with flickering lightning.

It completely  surrounds the  torus, he  realized, turning,  looking back at the
great hole in the ocean, remembering the  great jet of water on the far  side of
that massive hole. There seemed to be two separate forces at work here-one a jet
stream force and the other a ring force to which the water was attracted.

Atrus blinked, then looked to Catherine. "You put most of the mass of the  torus
at its outer edge, didn't you?"

She simply smiled at him.

"So the gravity ..." Atrus paused, his right fist clenched intently, frown lines
etched deep in his brow. "That circle of gravity ...forces the water through the
central hole ... then some other force  sucks it up into the sky, where  it fans
out... still captured by  the gravitational field of  the torus, and falls  down
the outer edges of that field ... right?"

She simply smiled at him.

"And as it  slowly falls, it  forms clouds and  the clouds cause  the storms and
..."

It was impressive. In fact, now that  he partly understood it, it was even  more
impressive than he'd first thought.

He turned, standing, looking about him, then stopped dead. Just across from  him
was a  patch of  flowers, nestled  in among  the lush  grass. He  walked across,
climbing the slope until he stood among them.

Flowers.  Blue flowers.  Thousands of  tiny, delicate  blue flowers  with  tiny,
starlike petals and velvet dark stamen.

Moved by the  sight, he stooped  and plucked one,  holding it to  his nose, then
looked to her.

"How did you know?"

"Know?" Catherines brow wrinkled in puzzlement. "Know what?"

"I thought... No, it doesn't matter." Then, changing the subject. "What are  you
to my father?"

She looked down. "I am his servant. One of his Guild members..."

He looked at her, knowing there was more, but afraid to ask.

After a moment, she spoke again. "I am to be married to him."

"Married?"

She nodded, unable to look at him.

Atrus sat heavily, the flowers all  around him. He dosed his fingers,  squeezing
the tiny, delicate bloom, then let it fall.

His head hung now and his eyes seemed desolate. "He has commanded me," she said,
stepping closer. "Thirty  days, Gehn said.  There is to  be a great  ceremony on
Riven ... Age Five."

He looked up, a bitter disappointment in his eyes.

She met his eyes clearly. "I'd rather die."

Slowly, very slowly, understanding  of what she'd said  came to his face.  "Then
..."

"Then  you must  help me,  Atrus. We  have thirty  days. Thirty  days to  change
things."

"And if we can't?"

Catherine turned her head,  looking about her at  the Age she had  written, then
looked back at  Atrus, her green  eyes burning. Burning  with such an  intensity
that he felt transfixed, frozen,  utterly overwhelmed by this strange  woman and
the odd powers she possessed. And as she held his gaze, she reached out for  his
hand, clenching it tightly in her own,  and spoke; her voice filling him with  a
sudden, almost impulsive confidence. "We can do wonders, you and I. Wonders."



CHAPTER 11

As the sun slowly set, Atrus stood  on the top of the tiny plateau,  his glasses
pulled down tightly  over his eyes,  his journal open  in his hand,  looking out
across the  Age he  had written.  Below him  lay a  cold, dark  sea, its surface
smooth like oil, or like a  mirror blackened by age, its sterile  waters filling
the great bowl that lay between the bloodred sandstone cliffs.

On the shores of that great sea, the land was bare and empty; more desolate even
than the desert he had known  as a child. Titanic sandstone escarpments,  carved
by the action  of wind and  sun, stretched to  the horizon on  every side, their
stark, bloodred shapes interspersed with jagged, night-black chasms.

He had written in the bare  minimum this time. Enough to conduct  his experiment
and no more. Enough to see whether his theories about the flaws in the Age  Five
book were true or not.

He had built ten such  Ages in the past few  weeks. Two for each experiment.  In
this and one other he was testing  whether the changes he sought to make  in the
orbital system of Age  Five would have the  desired effects, while in  others he
was experimenting with the structure of the tectonic plates beneath the  planets
crust,  the  type  and  strength  of  the  oceanic  currents,  fluctuations   in
gravitational fields, and the composition of the crust itself.

What  he had  done, here  and elsewhere,  was to  recreate the  same  underlying
structures that he had found in  the Age Five book, only incorporating  specific
minor alterations-additions mainly-to the way the thing was phrased. If that new
phrasing was correct, then this Age was now stable. And if this was stable, then
so would Age Five be once he had written the changes into the book.

Looking about him, he jotted  down his observations, then, closing  the journal,
slipped it into his knapsack.

Thus far his tests  had proved one thing  conclusively. Age Five was  doomed. It
would degenerate  and be  destroyed within  a generation,  unless he  made these
vital, telling changes to the book.

Lifting his glasses,  he blinked, then  rubbed at his  eyes. He was  tired, more
tired than he'd been in years, yet he could not let up now. It was only ten days
until the ceremony, and everything-everything-had to be ready for that time.

Pulling his glasses back down, Atrus waited. The moon would be rising soon,  and
then he'd know.

If  he  was right,  Gehn  had placed  Age  Five's single  moon  well inside  the
synchronous orbital distance from the planet. This had the effect of  increasing
the planet's tides dramatically, and, ultimately, would result in the moon being
dragged into  ever-lower orbits  until it  would finally  smash into the planets
surface. That final catastrophe would take many lifetimes, but long before  that
happened,  the great  tides generated  by the  moon's ever  closer orbit   would
destroy the island, smashing it into the surrounding sea.

He needed to  push Age Five's  moon back into  a stable, synchronous  orbit: one
where its rotation  rate would be  equivalent to the  planet's. What complicated
the task was that he  would have to achieve this  in a matter that could  not be
directly observed.

As the light dimmed, Atrus pulled his cloak tighter about him. The air here  was
thin and cold, and it would be good to get back to D'ni, if only for some sleep.

He waited,  watching as  the sun  winked then  vanished beneath  the edge of the
horizon. Atrus turned and, pulling up  his glasses, looked for the moon.  He saw
it at once, directly behind him in  the sky, low down, the silver-blue orb  huge
and ominous.

Wrong, he thought, chilled by the sight. It's much too close.

The tremors began at once, the tiny plateau gently vibrating, as if some machine
had started up in the rock beneath his feet.

The sea was stippled now, like a sheet of black, beaten metal.

Atrus  stared  up  at the  moon.  What  had gone  wrong?  Had  he written  in  a
contradiction of some kind? Or were the changes he'd made simply the wrong ones?

Or, in his tiredness, had he mixed up the two books? Was he in the wrong Age-the
Age where he had exaggerated the moon's deteriorating orbit?

The trembling grew, became  a steady shaking. There  was groaning now from  deep
within the earth, sharp cracks, the  sound of rocks falling, splashing into  the
sea below, while the sea itself seemed to be boiling, as if in a great cauldron.

In the distance, the land was glowing, not with the silver-blue of moonlight but
a fiery orange-red.

A cold wind gusted across the plateau.

Frowning, Atrus stepped  over to the  edge and, lowering  his glasses, increased
their magnification.

That distant glow was the molten glow of magma, spewing out from deep within the
fiery mantle. Out there, beneath that  low and massive moon, the planet's  crust
was tearing itself apart.

The noise all about him  was deafening now, and the  shaking was so bad that  he
found it hard everr to stand without bracing himself. It was time to link back.

Atrus half-turned,  lowering his  right shoulder,  meaning to  slip the knapsack
from his back and take  the Linking Book from inside,  but as he did the  ground
lurched violently.

Knocked from his feet, Atrus reached out blindly, grabbing a nearby outcrop, but
though it stopped him sliding, it was no good, for the whole plateau was  slowly
tipping over, sliding inch by inch toward the sea below.

What's more,  the knapsack  was trapped  beneath him  and when  he tried to lift
himself to free it, he lost his grip and began to tumble down the tilted face of
the plateau.

For  a moment  his fingers  scrabbled at  the surface  of the  rock, and   then,
abruptly, he was falling through the air.

"No...!"

His cry was cut short as he hit the cold, dark surface of the sea.

For a moment he panicked, not knowing  which way he faced, the water in  turmoil
all about him, and then his head breached the surface and he gasped for air.

Water splashed his face constantly now, filling his mouth and nose. He struggled
not to swallow any, struggled to bring  his knapsack around so he could get  the
book.

And then he saw it.

Directly  ahead of  him, its  thundering crest  lit almost  demonically by   the
obscenely huge moon that seemed to ride on its back, was the wave. A huge, black
wave  that  towered  over  the  surrounding  pinnacles  of  rock,  smashing  and
splintering them as if they were nothing.

And as  it came  on the  water all  about Atrus  grew still  and smooth, an eery
silence falling. A silence that contrasted  with the great roar of the  oncoming
mountain of water.

For a moment Atrus forgot. For a moment he simply stared at the sight.

Then, abruptly, he snapped into action, and, scrabbling at the sack, his fingers
numb from the coldness of the water, he took the Linking Book out and flicked it
open.

Home...

And even as Atrus placed  his hand upon the page,  the moon blinked out and  the
whole of the sea in which he rested  seemed to lift up to join that great  black
wall of water, the noise so loud it  made his whole skull tremble, as if at  any
moment it would shatter.

*   *   *

Coming to his senses, Atrus found himself lying in an exhausted heap on the cold
floor of the chamber, back on D'ni, a puddle of water from his drenched  clothes
forming beneath his body.

The air was cool, and the silence, after that hideous destructive roar, was  the
most welcome sound he'd ever heard.

He let out a long breath, remembering that final moment as the wave towered over
him, lifting him up into its sightless maw as if to devour him, then sat up.

Tearing off his glasses, he turned toward his desk. Catherine was sitting  there
in his chair, unaware of his return, her whole attention focused on the book she
was reading.

"Catherine?"

She looked up, closing the book and setting it aside. Then, taking in the  state
of him, she quickly stood and came around the desk. "Atrus? Are you all right?"

He stood, fending her off. "I'm okay. Just a little trouble with the moon."

"The moon?"

He waved her query aside, then, softly, "Why are you here? I thought we said  it
would be best if you stayed on Riven."

"I know  but..." She  stopped, then  went over  to the  desk and turned the book
around to face her. "I don't want to go back."

"But you must. You can't stay here"

"I've been  working on  something," she  said, as  if she  hadn't heard  him. "I
wanted to surprise you."

Catherine turned and handed him the book.

Atrus stared at  her, then, when  she said no  more, took the  book over to  the
desk, sat and opened it. For a while he was silent, the sound of a turning  page
the only noise in that great chamber. Then, with a little shake of his head,  he
looked up.

"What is this?"

She stepped up next to him, looking down at the open pages. "I've written us  an
Age. Somewhere we can go. I've named it Myst."

"But this is so different from your other Age."

"You don't like it?"

"No ... it's what I would have done, had I time. You..." He laughed, and covered
her hand with his own. "I think you are astonishing."

"I've been studying."

Atrus looked at it again, astounded by the sudden restraint in the writing,  the
deep understanding of D'ni principles that surpassed even his own. He was silent
for a long time.

"There are one or two final touches," she said, breaking that silence. "But when
they're done ..."

"You'll take me there?"

Catherine smiled. "Of course. Now out of my way, I've work to do."

*   *   *

Atrus sat back after Catherine had gone.

Whatever he felt for  Catherine, whatever she might  feel for him, this  was far
more important. If his father was allowed to triumph on Age Five, then he  would
triumph everywhere, for there was no  end to Gehn's ambitions. Having seen  what
Catherine had-through chance or design-created in  her two Ages, he knew now  it
was possible  that Gehn  might yet  achieve his  dream of  resurrecting the D'ni
empire, or at  least a shadow  of it; of  creating countless slave  worlds, with
himself as lord, the fate of millions subject to his will.

There was but  one solution: to  trap Gehn on  Age Five and  destroy all of  the
Linking Books that led out of that Age.  But to do so he would have to  take the
risk that he, too,  might be trapped there.  And now that Catherine  had created
Myst  island for  them-as a  sanctuary, away  from Gehn-the  thought of  failure
seemed suddenly quite hideous.

Of course, they would have to write another, separate Age-a simple,  uninhabited
world they might reach from Myst,  one where fruit and herbs were  plentiful, so
they  would be  provided for,  for her  new Age  was curiously  lacking in  such
things.

Thinking of what he had read  of Catherines latest book, he wondered  briefly if
she really had written it, or whether, like his father, she had copied  elements
of it. It was so different, after all, from her other world.

Or was that fair? After all, if she had been studying...

He shook his head, trying to clear it, to keep focused on what he had to do.

His main  priority was  still to  stabilize the  island. Once  that was done, he
would need to find where Gehn kept his Linking Book, for unless he knew that  he
could not trap him. He would have to go there and look-to search all the  likely
places until he found it.

And the most likely place was the cave behind the temple.

Right now, however, there were other  things to do. Yawning, Atrus took  the Age
Five notebook from his pocket, then,  pulling his journal toward him, turned  it
to the page on which  he had written out the  changes he was to make  to the Age
Five book, and began to write.

*   *   *

"Atrus! Atrus!"

He woke, wondering what on earth was happening. Catherine was standing over him,
shaking him by the shoulders, calling his name time and time again.

"Atrus! Come on, wake up! You have to listen to me!"

He sat up, groggy, barely able to open his eyes. "What?"

"It's Gehn ... he's moved the date forward!"

"The date?" Atrus was suddenly wide awake. "Moved it to when?"

"Three days. We've got three days."

He groaned.  Then it  was impossible!  There were  still more  tests to  be made
before the Fifth Age could be put right. And then there was the matter of Gehn's
Linking Book. Unless he could get hold of that...

"Catherine ... you know where Gehn keeps his Linking Book."

She nodded.

"Could you take me back to Riven and show me where?"

Again she hesitated, then, "What are you going to do?"

"Does my father expect to see you again before the wedding ceremony?"

Catherine shook her head.

"Good." He looked about him at the cluttered desk. "Then we'll take all of  this
to Myst. All but  the Myst and Age  Five books. Then I  want you to stay  there,
Catherine. I want you to keep away from both D'ni and Riven."

"But you'll need help ..."

Atrus looked at her sternly. "The biggest help to me will be to know that you're
safe."

"But what are you going to do?"

He stood up then came around the desk, taking her arms gently in his hands.  "Do
you trust me, Catherine?"

She smiled, then nodded.

"Then wait for me. As soon as I've dealt with my father, I'll come and join  you
on Myst island."

There was a slight flicker in her expression, as if, for a moment, she was going
to disagree, then she nodded.

"Good. Then let's  get back to  Riven. It's time  you showed me  where my father
keeps his Linking Book."



CHAPTER 22

Careful not to be seen, they walked  quickly up the temple's steps and into  the
shadowy interior. Since Atrus had last been here, the place had been decked  out
with great gold and red banners, ready for the wedding ceremony.

My father, with Catherine... no, it will never happen.

He followed  Catherine through,  behind the  great golden  silk screen  that had
Gehns silhouette embroidered at its center, and down the narrow flight of steps,
into the cave. It was just as he'd thought.

"He used to bring us here," she said quietly, almost whispering. "There would be
a linking ceremony.  He'd make the  chosen one drink  something from one  of the
golden chalices. It had the faintest  taste of aniseed. And afterward ...  well,
afterward you could remember nothing.  But lately ..." She looked  down. "Lately
he's trusted me. He brought me here and showed me where the book was hidden."

Atrus watched her go across and, standing on tiptoe, reach into one of the holes
that peppered the rock face to  the left of the low-ceilinged cave,  searching a
moment before she withdrew her hand,  clutching the slender box that held  Gehns
Linking Book.

He  walked over,  looking down  at the  floor, then  back up  again, fixing  the
position in his mind the way Anna had taught him. Then, nodding, he gestured for
her to put it back.

"Come," he said, taking  her hand. "Let's go  to your hut and  get any remaining
books."

She pulled on his hand, slowing him, making him face her. "Atrus?"

"Yes?"

She leaned close and kissed  his cheek-just a single, gentle  peck-then, tugging
on his hand, moved  on, hurrying now, knowing  that there was barely  time to do
all they had to do before the ceremony.

*   *   *

Atrus blinked, the bright  sunlight hurting his eyes  after the dullness of  his
prison, and pulled his glasses down over his face.

He was standing on a wooden jetty,  the knapsack holding the books heavy on  his
back. Water lapped against the rocks beneath, while somewhere out in the distant
haze  seagulls  called forlornly.  To  his right  the  sea was  calm  and green,
stippled by the  light breeze that  blew across the  island from the  northwest.
Facing him, directly  east from where  he stood, a  barren rock, twenty  feet in
height and thirty or forty in width rose from the sea like a sawn tree trunk. To
its left, the land rose  to a sharp peak, over  a hundred feet in height,  while
behind him and to his left, beyond a narrow shelf of rock, tall pines filled the
west end of the island.

Atrus smiled. The air  was clean and clear,  the smell of pine  strong. Overhead
the sky was a pale blue, wisps of thin cirrus high up in the atmosphere.

He turned back, waiting, then saw Catherine step out of the air onto the  wooden
planks beside him, the heavily laden knapsack on her back.

"This is beautiful ..."

"You wrote it so," he said. "Considering how much time you had, I think you  did
a marvelous job."

Atrus looked about him,  breathing in the nch,  clean air. "That smell.  It's so
wonderful."

He stopped suddenly,  realizing that  it was  the same  smell as  on the  Thirty
seventh Age. Before Gehn had destroyed it.

"What is it?" she asked, noting how his face had changed.

"It's nothing," he said, shrugging off the mood.

"Then come. Let me show you the cabin."

"A cabin.' You've built a cabin here already?"

She took his hand and led him up a narrow track that climbed the rock slope.  At
the top,  the ground  opened out.  There was  grass beneath  their feet now. The
sound of the  wind was stronger  here-a strangely desolate  sound, punctuated by
the more peaceful sound of birdsong.

"Yes," he said, after a moment. "I could live here."

Catherine smiled and squeezed his hand,  then pointed down the broad grass  path
between the trees. "It's down there," she said. "Just over on the left."

They walked on along the sloping path until they stood before the cabin.

Atrus stared a while,  noting how neatly the  logs were fixed, how  cleverly she
had trimmed the planks that framed the doorway, and shook his head,  astonished.
There were clearly aspects of Catherine he had never suspected.

"It's a good beginning," he said quietly.

"I'm glad you think so."

He turned, looking  back up the  slope toward the  peak. "We could  build things
here. Perhaps finally a library of my own."

"Shhh ..." she  said, amused by  his eagerness. "There'll  be time. After  we've
dealt with Gehn."

"Yes ..." The reminder sobered him. "I'll see you settled in, then I'd best  get
back. Two more journeys should see me finished."

"Atrus?"

"Yes?"

"Are you sure I can't help?"

He hesitated, then drew her dose and kissed her gently, a proper kiss this  time
their first.

"No," he  said, staring  into the  green depths  of her  eyes. "Just wait for me
here. All right?"

"All right," she answered, leaning forward to kiss his nose gently.

"You promise?"

"I promise."

"Then come. I'll drop the books and go back."

*   *   *

But even after the  last of the books  were transferred and safely  stacked in a
corner of the cabin, Atrus lingered on Myst island.

Catherine had  brought blankets  with her  from Riven  and had  made up  a rough
pallet bed  in the  corner facing  the books,  using her  knapsack for a pillow.
Seeing it, he imagined  her here after he  had gone and realized,  for the first
time, how lonely she would be if he did not return.

"Well?" she asked, from the doorway, making him turn, startled by the suddenness
of her appearance.

He laughed. "You frightened me."

"Frightened you?" She came across. "Are you afraid of me, then, Atrus?"

He smiled as her fingers brushed his  face. "No. I could never be frightened  of
you. Surprised, I meant."

"Then I shall keep surprising you."

She moved past him, placing the stalk of a small white flower she had picked  in
the gap between two of the logs so  that it hung just above the space where  she
would sleep.

He stared at it, then met her eyes. "What's that?"

"It's to remind me of you, while  you're gone." She stood, then offered him  her
hand. "Shall we have a walk, Atrus? Along the shore?"

He realized suddenly  that he had  outstayed his time,  but the idea  of walking
with her seemed suddenly more important than anything else he had to do.

He took her hand then stepped out into the late afternoon sunlight.

The wind  had dropped  and it  was much  warmer now,  the sky  above them clear.
Looking up, he realized it would be a good night to watch the stars and wondered
suddenly what the stars were like here on Myst island.

If only I could stay ...

But he  could not  stay. It  was not  fated. He  had to  stop Gehn, whatever the
outcome.

Catherine looked to him. "Why did you sigh just then?"

"Because this is all so perfect."

They walked slowly along the path, then  cut through the trees and out onto  the
grassy slope. Below them was the sea, stretching away into the misted  distance.
Close by, just over to their left,  was a tiny island, separated from the  shore
by a narrow stretch of water.

"Come," she said, leading him down until they stood just yards from the  lapping
surface of that sea. "Let's sit and talk."

"Talk?" Atrus hesitated, then sat beside her. "About what?"

"About the future."

"About whether you'll make it back from Riven, you mean?

Atrus looked to her, surprised.

"You think I didn't know what you had planned?"

He laughed. "Am I that predictable?"

She laid her ringers gently on his cheek.  "No. But I know you feel you have  to
do what is right, even if it means sacrificing yourself"

He laid his hand on hers. "I will be back."

"Yet there's a risk?"

He nodded.

"And you want me to stay here, no matter what?"

Again he nodded.

"And the Linking Book, back to D'ni?"

"Destroy it, the moment I'm gone."

"Then if Gehn links here he will be trapped with me, and with a supply of  blank
books."

Atrus looked down. It was  the one flaw in his  plan. To be certain of  trapping
Gehn he ought to destroy his own Linking Book from Riven to D'ni the instant  he
returned to Age Five, but that would  also trap him there, and he wanted  to get
back. No, not wanted, nuici. To be with her.

"I'll be careful,"  he said. "I  know where he  links to. I'll  take his Linking
Book from  its hiding  place then  watch for  him to  arrive. The moment he's on
Riven, I'll burn his Linking Book. Then I only have to destroy my own."

Her eyes  were smiling  now. Leaning  forward she  kissed the  tip of  his nose.
"Okay. No more about your plans. What about you?"

"I know almost nothing about you.  Your grandmother, Anna, for instance. Do  you
remember what she was like?"

She was like you, he wanted to say, but the reminder of Anna made him look down.

Taking the almost empty knapsack from his back he removed his journal and handed
it to her.

She held the small, gray book delicately, almost as if it were a living thing.

"It's my journal. I ... I want you to read it. While I'm gone. It might... well,
it might help you to understand me."

"In case you don't come back?"

He hesitated, then nodded.

And  suddenly,  he  understood  what  it  was  he  had  wanted  from  Catherine.
Companionship. Someone  to understand  him. Someone  with whom  to share all his
adventures and experiments. Someone  to be there by  his side, as Anna  had once
been, only not as teacher or substitute mother, but as a full partner.

He reached out, laying his fingers gently on her cheek.

For one tiny moment that was all: the two of them, sitting there in the sunlight
beside the water, Catherine  with her eyes closed,  Atrus's journal in her  lap,
her face tilted  slightly to meet  the gentle touch  of his fingers  while Atrus
stared at her  in wonder, as  if at an  Age he would  never visit, only  glimpse
through the descriptive image on the page.

And then she turned, looking to him again, her green eyes searching his.  "You'd
better go now, Atrus."

The idea of leaving was suddenly like contemplating death itself. All he  wanted
in life was right here on Myst island.

"Catherine ..."

"I'll be all right. Now go."

*   *   *

As he sat in his chair back  on D'ni, Atrus stared sight-lessly at the  cover of
the Age Five book, his heart heavy, resigned now to his fate.

There  was only  one way-one  way alone-  that he  could be  certain of   seeing
Catherine again, and that  was to kill his  father. To link to  Gehn's study and
destroy the man. But that was not possible, for it was not in his nature to harm
another, even for the best of reasons.

No good can come of such ill, he thought, knowing that Anna, had she been there,
would have agreed with him. If I killed Try/father, the shadow of my guilt would
blight my days with Catherine.

He knew it for a certainty. And so his fate was set. He had to take the risk  of
losing her forever.

If I  cannot haw  her, I  shall at  least have  something that  keeps her memory
alive...

He sighed, wishing now that he had asked Anna about his mother. It was only  now
that he realized that he didn't even know what she looked like.

She looked  like you,  Atrus, a  voice answered  in his  head, so  clear that he
looked up, surprised.

"Yes," he said, smiling suddenly.

Atrus drew the Age Five book toward  him and opened it to the final  page. Then,
reaching across, he took  the pen from the  stand and began to  copy the phrases
into the Age Five book.

*   *   *

Atrus  linked. In  an instant  he was  gone, the  air where  he'd been   sitting
strangely translucent,  like the  surface of  a clear  slow-moving stream. Then,
abruptly, another figure appeared from the nothingness.

It was Catherine.

Setting the Linking Book down on the  desk beside her, she closed the Myst  book
and slipped it into her knapsack. As  she did so, a second figure shimmered  out
of the  air, taking  on a  solid form.  Stepping forward,  it stood  behind her,
watching as Catherine pulled  the Age Five book  toward her and flipped  through
until she was  on the final  page. Then, as  Catherine took Atruss  pen from its
stand, the figure pointed  and encouraged Catherine as  she dipped the pen  into
the ink pot and began to write.

*   *   *

The cave behind the temple was  dark, the smell of incense strong,  wafting down
from the great censors hanging from  the temple ceiling. Atrus paused a  moment,
squinting into the deep shadow, listening, then hurried across.

Crouching, he took his grandfathers tinderbox from his pocket and lit it, moving
it slowly along the bottom edge of the cave wall until he found the mark  stone.
Tracing up from there he found the hole where Gehn stored his Linking Book.

Standing on tiptoe,  he reached into  the narrow orifice,  his fingers searching
the cold rock.  For a moment  he thought he  had it wrong,  but then his fingers
brushed the edge of the slender box. He pulled it out and, in the light from the
tinderbox, opened it. The Linking Book was there.

Removing it, he  returned the box  into the hole  and slipped the  book into his
backpack, then, clicking  off the tinderbox,  he turned and  headed back through
the temple.

He ducked under the  low lintel and out,  climbing the steps quickly.  Yet as he
went to step around  the screen, he heard  voices from the front  of the chamber
and stopped, crouching low, keeping himself hidden behind the shadowed shape  of
the great chair that was thrown onto the golden screen.

"He will be here  soon," one of them  said, his voice that  of an old man.  "You
will bring  the villagers  out onto  the slope  below the  temple. They can make
their offerings there, after the ceremony."

"It will  be done,"  another, a  little younger,  answered. Then,  in a slightly
lower, more conspiratorial tone. "Did you see how she smiled at the Lord Gehn at
the rehearsal? There's no faking that,  is there? Now there's a match  that will
be consummated in heaven!"

Atrus felt himself go cold. Rehearsal? Catherine had said nothing of rehearsals.
The words troubled him.

No, he told  himself. But then  why would they  say it if  it wasn't true? After
all, they did not know he was there behind the screen.

He swallowed, suddenly uncertain, then  slowly crept around the screen,  peeping
over the arm of the chair.

The two men were standing with their backs to him, their cloaks, copies of  D'ni
Guild cloaks, covered in the Guild  s secret symbols. They were graybeards,  and
as he watched, they bowed to each other and made their way out again.

He hurried across, seeing what they had been here to deliver. On a marble  stand
in the very center of the chamber was placed a shallow bowl made of special D'ni
stone,  and on  that bowl  were two  beautiful golden  bracelets, one   markedly
thicker than the other.

The mere sight of them made his stomach turn.

Did you see how she smiled at the Lord CehnP Did you sec how six smiled?

He felt like picking up  the bowl and throwing it  across the room, but knew  he
must deny  the urge.  Gehn must  suspect nothing.  He must  think his  bride was
coming. He must believe ...

Atrus shook his head, pushing aside the doubts, the endless flood of  questions,
that threatened to drown him.

Catherine is on  Myst island. I  took her there  myself. She's safe.  Or will he
once I've trapped Cehn here on Riven.

He turned and  hurried to the  front of the  chamber, peering around  one of the
pillars. The two Guild members were  nowhere to be seen. Slowly, cautiously,  he
made his  way down  the steps  and out  across the  open space  in front  of the
temple, slipping in among the trees,  then making his way along the  path toward
the beach.

Before he  came to  the cliff  he stopped,  searching quickly  among the  trees,
gathering up any loose twigs and branches he could find. Satisfied he had enough
for his purpose, he hurried on, making his way down the steep cliffside path.

As he came out beneath the overhang  of rock, he paused, staring out across  the
rocky beach. Two of the strange, toothlike rocks had been broken-sheared off, it
seemed. For a moment he watched the tide come in, seeing how the incoming  waves
seemed to undulate like a windblown sheet, tiny globules of water, heated by the
late afternoon sun, tumbling across the beach, hundreds of tiny bubbles drifting
above the slow, incoming tide before they merged with it again.

He would be sad to leave this world. Sad not to have come to know it better than
he did.

Turning back, he went over to the cliff face. Putting down the stack of wood, he
busied himself  collecting a  number of  large rocks,  placing them  in a  tight
circle, then, gathering up the wood again, he laid out twigs and branches inside
the circle of rocks to form a rudimentary fire pit.

He took  his grandfather's  tinderbox from  his pocket  and placed  it on a big,
flat-topped rock, then, removing the knapsack  from his back, he set it  down by
the fire and knelt beside it, taking Gehn's Linking Book from within and placing
it next to the fire pit.

Kneeling, Atrus cupped the tinder between his hands and struck it, then lit  the
kindling wood beneath the main stack,  watching it catch, then blowing on  it to
encourage the flames, seeing them begin to lick at the Linking Book.

Atrus leaned  back. There!  Now for  his Linking  Book! All  he would have to do
would be to hold  his Linking Book over  the fire as he  linked-letting the book
fall into the flames and be destroyed, trapping Gehn here forever.

Going across, he  hauled himself up  the peeked face  of the cliff  until he was
facing the recess where his book was hidden. It was some way back, so he had  to
haul himself up  over the lip  and squeeze inside,  wriggling in until  he could
reach it.



CHAPTER 23

When Atrus came  to he was  standing in the  open air near  the temple, his arms
pulled up tightly behind  his back, his wrists  bound, his body secured  at neck
and waist and ankles to  a thick pole that had  been embedded in the earth.  The
blood pounded  in his  head, and  when he  tried to  open his  eyes the pain was
intense.

Slowly he let his  eyes grow accustomed to  the failing light, then,  moving his
head as much as the binding allowed, he looked about him.

Close by, on a small table-so close  that, had his hands been unbound, he  could
have reached them-were the two Linking Books.

He groaned, remembering, then  felt a touch on  his shoulder, felt his  father's
breath upon his cheek.

"So you are back with us, Atrus,"  Gehn said quietly, speaking to him alone.  "I
thought for a while that I had lost you. It seems I do not know my own  strength
sometimes."

Atrus hung his head,  grimacing at the thought  of Catherine. She was  there, on
Myst, waiting. And now he had failed her

"Catherine, ah clever  Catherine," Gehn spoke  as if he  heard Atrus's thoughts.
"You really didn't think she'd miss her own wedding?"

With that, Gehn turned to face a figure who stood just beyond him in the shadows
of the surrounding trees. Atrus went limp as the figure stepped toward into  the
sunlight.

It was her!

Atrus closed his  eyes and groaned,  remembering the old  men's words, recalling
the sight  of the  two golden  bracelets laying  there in  the shallow red-black
bowl.

She is marrying my/other ...

The thought was  unbearable. He could  almost hear their  laughter. Yet when  he
opened his eyes again, it was to  see Gehn, alone, standing before the Age  Five
islanders, his hands raised, his appearance that of a great king come among  his
subjects.

"People of the Fifth Age," Gehn  began, his voice powerful, commanding. "It  had
come to my notice that some of you ..." Gehn pointed to a little group Atrus had
not noticed, or  who had possibly  not been there  until that moment;  who knelt
there abjectly, just below Gehn, their hands bound: the two brothers, Carel  and
Erlar among them. "Some of you, as I say, have taken it upon yourselves to  help
my enemies. To nurse this imposter"-he turned, this time indicating Atrus-  "who
dares to call himself my son!"

Gehn turned back, raising his  hands again. "Such behavior cannot  be tolerated.
Such defiance must be punished"

There was a great murmur of fear from the watching islanders.

"Yes," Gehn  went on.  "You were  warned, but  you did  not listen.  And so,  in
punishment, there will be great tides .. :'

"No ..." Atrus said, finding his voice.

"And the sun will turn black ..."

"No ..."

"And the ground ... the very earth will shake and the great tree fall!"

"No!" Atrus cried  out a third  time, this time  loud enough for  some among the
crowd to hear him. "No! He's wrong!  I've fixed it. All of those things  ... all
of the weaknesses in the book. I've put them right, I've ..."

Atrus stopped, seeing  the hideous grin  of triumph on  his father's face  as he
stepped up to him.

"Well done, Atrus ...  I knew I could  count on you." Gehn's  smile was suddenly
hard and sneering. "I shall be most  interested to read the changes you have  so
graciously crafted for me." Then, stepping away, he clicked his fingers, calling
to the nearest of the Guild Members. "Untie him!"

Turning to face  the crowd again,  Gehn raised his  hands. "People of  the Fifth
Age. You are most fortunate. I have  asked my servant here to do my  bidding and
he has done so. Your world is safe  now. Yet if you transgress again, if I  find
that any among you have  sought to help my enemies,  then the full weight of  my
wrath shall fall on you. I shall  destroy your world, just as I created  it!" He
sniffed deeply.  "But let  us not  dwell upon  that now.  Now is  a time to look
forward, and to celebrate,  for tonight, at sunset,  I shall take a  daughter of
this Age to be my bride and rule the thousand worlds with me!"

There  was a  great cheer  at that.  Gehn turned,  looking to  Atrus, his  whole
demeanor triumphant.

Atrus, seeing that look, turned his head,  stung by it, all fight gone from  him
now. He had been duped. Used by the two of them. Betrayed.

He pressed his hands together, the pain suddenly unbearable, then gently  rubbed
at his wrists where the binding rope  had chafed them. He was beaten. There  was
nothing more he could do.

But Gehn  was not  done. Stepping  up to  Atrus, he  pressed his  face close  to
Atrus's, speaking so only he could hear.

"Don't  think  that  I have  finished  with  you, boy.  You  have  caused me  an
inordinate amount  of trouble,  and I  shall not  forget that.  As far  as I  am
concerned, you are  no longer my  son. Do you  understand me? I  do not need you
anymore, Atrus.  You have  served your  purpose." Gehn  looked to  Catherine and
smiled; a hideous, gloating smile. "Yes ... you see it, don't you? Catherine and
I..." He laughed. "She's a strong young woman. Perhaps my next son will not fail
me!"

Atrus groaned. It was a nightmare. Had he still been bound to the post he  could
not have felt more impotent.

Catherine... my beloved Catherine...

He looked up, surprised. The ground was trembling.

No ... he was imagining it.

And then  the ground  shook violently,  as if  a great  rock had  been dislodged
beneath  them.  From  within the  temple  came  the sound  of  the  marble stand
toppling, the tray  with the two  bracelets on it  clattering across the  marble
floor.

"No ..." Gehn said, looking about him wild-eyed. "No!"

But even as  he said it,  a great crack  opened in the  ground before the temple
steps.

*   *   *

The sky was slowly turning black. The sun, which only moments before had  blazed
down from the late afternoon sky,  was being eaten, a curved blade  of blackness
devouring its pallid face inch by inch.

One by one the stars winked into place in the sudden night.

With a great low, groaning shudder, like some gargantuan animal waking from long
hibernation, the  ground shook  once more,  the quake  much stronger  this time,
rumbling on and on, causing the temple roof to fall, throwing many of the  Guild
from their feet and knocking over the table on which the Linking Books had  been
placed.

Atrus stared about him  in disbelief, seeing the  jagged pattern of thick  black
cracks that now covered the meadow. Then, seeing the fallen books, he rushed  to
pick them  up, yet  as he  did, Gehn  stepped out  in front  of him,  wielding a
massive ceremonial spear he had grabbed from one of the Guild, the gold and  red
pennant still fluttering from its shaft.

"Leave them!" Gehn growled.

"Get out of the  way!" Atrus yelled back,  crouching, knowing that there  was no
other way now  except to fight  his father. Riven  was doomed, and  even if he'd
lost Catherine, he had to stop Gehn.

But Gehn had other ideas. He laughed mockingly. "If you want the books, you will
have to come through mi to get them!"

"If that's  what it  takes!" Atrus  said and  threw himself  at Gehn,  hoping to
overwhelm him. His first rush  almost succeeded, his charge knocking  Gehn back.
For a moment they struggled, Atrus's hands gripping the spear's shaft, trying to
keep Gehn from using it against him. Then, suddenly, Gehn released his grip, and
Atrus found himself tumbling over, the  spear falling from his grasp. All  about
them  now, the  earth was  breaking up,  huge cracks  appearing everywhere   one
looked. The air was growing hot and  everything was underlie now by the red  and
orange glow emanating from the fissures.

Atrus got up and, turning, went to throw himself at his father again, but he was
too slow. As he charged, Gehn  stepped aside and, putting out his  boot, tripped
him, then stood over him, the spear point pressed hard into his chest.

"You're useless. I should have killed you long ago!"

Atrus answered, his voice defiant. "Then kill me."

Gehn lifted  the spear,  his muscles  tensing, but  as he  did a  shout rang out
behind him. "Gehn!"

Gehn turned, to  see Catherine, her  dark hair streaming  out behind her  in the
wind that had blown up, one of  the Linking Books in each hand, standing  over a
large crack that had opened in the ground, its dark, jagged shape lit redly from
below.

"Harm him and I'll throw the books into the crack.'"

Gehn laughed disbelievingly. "But Catherine, my love ..."

"Let him go," she  ordered, her voice unyielding  now. "Let him go  or I'll drop
the books into the fissure."

Again he laughed, then looked to Atrus. "No ... No, I ..."

To his astonishment, she let the Linking  Book fall from her right hand. With  a
gust of flame it vanished into the crack. Gone.

Both Gehn and Atrus gasped.

"No.1"  Gehn  screamed, then,  in  a softer,  more  cajoling voice.  "Come  now,
Catherine ... let us discuss this. Let us talk about this reasonably"

He lifted the  spear from Atrus's  chest, then, throwing  it aside, took  a step
toward her, his hand out,  palms open. "Remember our plans,  Catherine. Remember
what we were going to do. A thousand worlds we were going to rule. Think of  it.
Whatever you wanted ... I could write  it for you. You could have your  own Age.
You could live there  if you wanted, but...  if you destroy that  second book we
shall be trapped here. Trapped on a dying world!"

Gehn took a second step.

"You  want  the Linking  Book?"  Catherine asked,  a  faint smile  lighting  her
features for the first time.

Gehn nodded, then slowly put out his  hand, a smile appearing at the corners  of
his mouth.

"Then have it!" she said and tossed the Linking Book high into the air, its  arc
carrying it out over the smoldering crevice.

With a gasp of horror, Gehn dived for the book, straining to get to it, one hand
grasping in the air to catch it, but  he was too late. With a burst of  flame it
vanished into the red glow.

Gehn stared disbelievingly, then, getting up onto his elbows he turned,  furious
now, looking for them.  But Atrus and Catherine  had gone. The wind  was howling
now, like a gale, bending the nearby trees and making the loosened earth  tumble
up the slope, as if defying gravity.

As he  watched, the  temple heaved  a sigh  and fell  inward, the sound of stone
grating against stone like  the groan of a  dying giant. For a  brief instant he
thought he could see the shape of  a giant dagger jutting from the ruins.  Then,
with a  great crack  of sound  and a  fierce, almost  blinding flash of light, a
lightning bolt hit the summit of the great tree. two hundred yards from where he
knelt. At once the upper branches exploded into flame, a huge fireball  climbing
into the sky above its crest.

In that sudden, blazing light  Gehn saw the two of  them on the far side  of the
copse, beneath the trees,  their backs to him  as they ran. As  the light slowly
died, their figures merged again with the darkness of the trees. But he knew now
where they were headed.  Getting up onto his  feet he began to  run, the howling
wind at his back.

*   *   *

"Wait! Wait!" Atrus shouted, pulling Catherine back, barely able to hear himself
over the noise of the storm. "You've got to tell me what's happening!"

"Don't worry!"  she yelled  back at  him, pulling  her hair  back from her face.
"Everything's going just as we planned!"

He stared at her. "As who planned?"

"Anna and I."

His mouth fell open. "Anna?"

Overhead the branches  of the trees  were thrashing wildly  in the wind.  As she
made to answer him, the crash of a falling tree made them both jump.

It isn't possible...

Atrus stared  at Catherine  a moment  longer, then  numbly let  her lead  him on
through the trees.

They were following a narrow crack. At  first he'd thought it was just like  all
the others that had opened up,  but there was something very strange  about this
one. It glowed... not red, but blue ... a vivid, ice cold blue.

To either side,  dirt and leaves,  broken branches and  small stones jumped  and
tumbled, dragged along by the wind that  seemed not so much to blow from  behind
as to draw them  on. And where those  tiny particles brushed against  the crack,
they vanished, sucked into that ice-cold fissure.

They ran on between the trees,  the crack slowly widening beside them.  And then
suddenly, there where the trees ended, the fissure opened out to form a kind  of
cleft, the edge of it outlined by that cold blue light. Inside, however, it  was
dark-an intense, vertiginous darkness filled with stars.

Atrus stopped, astonished. The wind still tugged at his legs, but its noise  was
not as strong here  as it was among  the trees. Even so,  he had to struggle  to
keep his footing. His right hand  gripped Catherine's tightly, afraid to let  go
in case she, too, was sucked into that strange, star-filled hole.

He looked to her,  wondering if she was  as afraid as he  was, only to find  her
strangely calm, a beatific smile on her lips and in her beautiful green eyes.

"What  is  it?"  he asked,  his  eyes  drawn back  to  the  fissure, seeing  how
everything seemed to be sucked into it;  how leaves and earth and lumps of  rock
tumbled over the edge and seemed to wink into non-existence.

And other things ...

Atrus  blinked,  noticing some  of  Catherines fireflies,  melting  and merging,
pulsing with brilliant color as they flickered across that dreamlike landscape.

Turning to Atrus, Catherine freed her hand, then took the knapsack from her back
and opened it.

"Here," she said, handing him a book.

Atrus stared, dumbfounded. It was the Myst book.

"But what...?"

She put a finger to his lips, silencing him.

"Did you ever wonder what it would be like to go swimming out among the stars?"

Catherine smiled then; opening the Linking Book, she placed her hand against it.
"We could fall into the  night and be cradled by  stars and still return to  the
place where we began ..."

The last word was an echo as she vanished.

"But what do I do?" he called after her, holding up the book.

The answer came from behind him. "That's easy, Atrus. You give the book to me."

Atrus turned, facing his father. Gehn stood there, a large chunk of jagged  rock
in his hand. His  glasses were gone and  his ash-white hair was  disheveled, but
there was still something powerful, something undeniably regal about him.

He looked down at the Myst book in his hands. His first impulse had been to  use
the book to return to the island, but there was an obvious flaw with that. If he
used the book, the book would  remain here in his father's possession.  And Gehn
would surely follow him. His second impulse had been to throw the book into  the
fissure, but something stopped him-something in what Catherine had said ...

He smiled.

Raising the book in one  hand, he held it out,  then took a step back,  onto the
lip of the  fissure, the wind  tugging at his  boots, a strange  coldness at his
back suddenly.

A muscle beneath Gehn's left eye jumped. "If you throw the book into that chasm,
I'll throw you with it!" he snarled. "Give it to me. Give it to me now/"

Atrus shook his head disdainfully.

Gehn took a step back, letting the rock fall from his open hand. "Unless ..."

"Unless what?"

Atrus stared  at Gehn  suspiciously. Holding  the book  up was  a strain, but it
didn't matter. Nothing mattered  now, not even the  dull, throbbing ache at  the
base of his skull.

"Unless what? Give me a single reason why I should trust you?"

Gehn shrugged. "Because you are my son"

Atrus laughed bitterly. "I thought you'd already disowned me. Or did I hear that
wrong, too?"

"Forgive me, Atrus. I was angry. I thought..."

"What? That I'd see  your point of view?  That I'd realize that  you were right?
That I would come to see myself as a god?"

Gehn blinked. "But  you need me,  Atrus. I know  so much. Things  you will never
know. Think of the experience I have, the knowledge. It would be a waste not  to
call upon it, no?" Gehn shook his  head, as if regretful. "You were such  a good
student, Atrus. So quick. So  nimble of mind. It would  be such a shame if  your
studies were curtailed ..."

Atrus stared back at him, expressionless.

"What is it?" Gehn said, puzzled now. His hand, which had extended toward Atrus,
drew back slightly.

"It's you," Atrus said, lifting the book higher. "All those things you taught me
... they were just  words, weren't they? Empty,  meaningless words. As empty  as
your promises." There  was a momentary  hurt in the  young man's eyes,  then, "I
wanted so much from you. So much. But you failed me."

"But I taught you, Atrus. Without me ..."

Atrus shook his head. "No, Father. Anything I ever learned that was of any value
to me, anything important,  I got from Anna,  long before I met  you. You... you
taught me nothing."

Gehn glared at him.

The sky was growing lighter, the wind slowly dying.

"I should never have left you with her," Gehn said, after a moment. "She spoiled
you. You were a blank book, waiting to be written ..."

"You would have ruined me, just as you've ruined everything you've touched. Yes,
and then discarded me."

"No! I loved you, Atrus."

"Love? What kind of love is it that binds with ropes and locks its loved ones in
a cell?"

"That was never intended to be a prison, Atrus." Gehn swallowed. "It was only  a
test. All of it."

Atrus stared  back at  him, silent  now, the  fissure behind  him dark and cold,
glistening with stars, the Myst book edged by that strange blue light.

Gehn studied his son a moment, taking in the situation, then took a step  toward
him, putting out a hand. "Please, Atrus. There is still a chance for us."

"No, Father.  Whatever linked  us once  has been  destroyed. You  burned it with
those books  you burned.  You erased  it along  with those  phrases in  my book.
Little by little you destroyed it. Don't you see that? Well, now you've got  the
justice you deserve. You  can stay here in  the little haven you've  created for
yourself, in your tiny island universe, and play god with your 'creations.'"

The word was firm and final, and as he spoke it Atrus stepped back, out over the
lip of the fissure, falling, tumbling down into that great expanse of stars, his
hands gripping the book, opening the cover as he fell into the darkness.

What do you see, Atrus?

I see stars, grandmother. A great ocean of stars ...



EPILOGUE

Sunlight winked  through the  tall pines,  casting long  shadows on  the lawn in
front of the library. It was late  now, but the boys were still out,  playing in
the woods that covered the south  end of the island. Catherine, standing  on the
porch, listened a moment, hearing their distant shouts, then shaded her eyes.

"Can you see them?"  Atrus asked, stepping out  from the library, his  pale eyes
squinting in the sunlight.

She turned, the hem of her dark green dress flowing over the polished boards.

"Don't worry  so," she  said, her  green eyes  smiling back  at him. "Annas with
them. They'll be in before its dark."

He smiled, then came across and placed his arms about her.

"Have you finished yet?" she asked  softly, wrapping her own arms about  him and
pulling him closer.

"No ..." Atrus sighed wearily. "I'm close though."

"Good."

He kissed her gently, then, releasing her, went back inside, taking his seat  at
the desk that he'd made for himself.  For a moment or two he looked  out through
the brightly-lit rectangle of the  doorway at Catherine, drinking in  the simple
sight of her, then, taking his pen,  he looked back at his journal and  began to
write:

	It is strange now to conceive that I could have doubted her, even for  a
	second, and yet in that moment when my father surprised me in the  cave,
	I was certain beyond all doubt  that she had betrayed me. Certain,  yes,
	and at the same  time heartbroken, for I  had transferred to her  person
	all of that love,  all of that natural  affection that my father  had so
	unnaturally rejected. Love given  freely and without hope  of repayment.
	Yet how was I to know how kind, yes, and how cunning, too, my  Catherine
	could be. My savior, my partner, yes, and now my wife.

Atrus paused,  recalling the  shock he'd  felt, that  moment when  Catherine had
revealed to  him that  Anna was  behind it  all; the  feeling, the  overwhelming
feeling he'd had, of having stepped into one of Catherines dream worlds. But  it
had been true. Without  Anna's forethought he would  have been trapped on  Riven
still. That was, if Gehn had let  him live, after what he'd done. He  dipped the
pen and wrote again:

	Only a remarkable woman would have done what Anna did, following us down
	through that labyrinth  of tunnels and  broken ways, into  D'ni. She had
	known, of course, that Gehn would  not keep his word. Had known  what I,
	in my innocence,  could not have  guessed-that my father  was not merely
	untrustworthy, but mad. All those years I spent on K'veer she had kept a
	distant eye on me,  making sure I came  to no harm at  my fathers hands,
	while she awaited the moment of my realization.

Atrus looked up, remembering  that moment; feeling once  more the weight of  his
disillusion with his father.  Such things, he knew  now, could not be  passed on
like other things, they had to be experienced. A parent- a good parent, that  is
had to let  go at some  point, to let  their children make  choices, for choices
were part of  the Makers scheme,  as surely as  all the rest.  He dipped the pen
then wrote again, faster now, the words spilling from him:

	Anna saw me flee K'veer and sought to find me in the tunnels once again,
	but Gehn had got there first.  Even then she would have intervened,  but
	for the mute. Seeing them carry me back, unconscious, to K'veer, she had
	known she had to act. That  evening she had gone to K'veer  and, risking
	all, had enteredmy father's study, meaning to confront him. But Gehn was
	not there.  It was  Catherine she  met. Catherine  who, after that first
	moment of shock and surprise, had chosen to trust and help her.

	So it was that Catherine had known me even before she met me in the  hut
	on Riven; like an Age one has first read in a descriptive book and  then
	subsequently linked to.

	I should have known at once that Myst was not Catherine's. But how was I
	to know otherwise? I had thought Anna lost. Lost forever.

	And how was I to know that,  just as I made my preparations, so  the two
	of  them  made  theirs,  pooling  their  talents-Anna's  experience  and
	Catherines intuitive genius-to craft those seemingly cataclysmic  events
	on  Age  Five, in  such  a way  that  after a  time  they would  reverse
	themselves, making  Catherines former  home, now  Gehn's prison,  stable
	once more.... And the Myst book?

Briefly he looked about him at the room he'd made, pleased by his efforts, then,
picking up his pen again, he began  to write, setting down the final words.  The
ending that was not a final ending:

	I realized the moment I fell into the fissure that the book would not be
	destroyed  as  I had  planned.  It continued  falling  into that  starry
	expanse,  of  which I  had  only a  fleeting  glimpse. I  have  tried to
	speculate  where  it might  have  landed, but  I  must admit  that  such
	conjecture is futile. Still, questions  about whose hands might one  day
	hold my Myst book  are unsettling to me.  I know my apprehensions  might
	never be allayed, and so I close, realizing that perhaps the ending  has
	not yet been written.