A SEABIRD CALLS.

THE UNKNOWING ONE STANDS AT THE RAIL

PEACE. THE CIRCLE CLOSED.

THE LAST WORD WRITTEN.

--FROM THE  KOROKH JIMAH

VV. 13245-46

The cavern was silent. A faint mist drifted on the surface of the water, underlit by the dull orange glow that seemed to emanate from deep within the lake. Vast walls of granite climbed on every side while overhead, unseen, unsensed, a solid shelf of rock a mile thick shut off all view of stars and moon.

Islands littered the lake, twisted spikes of darkness jutting from the level surface of the water, and there, on the far side of the cavern, one single, massive rock, split yet still standing, like the splintered trunk of a tree, its peak hidden in the darkness.

Beyond it lay the city, wreathed in stillness, its ancient buildings clinging to the walls of the cavern.

D’ni slept, dreamless and in ruins. And yet the air was fresh. It moved, circulating between the caverns, the distant noise of the vast rotating blades little more than the suggestion of a sound, a faint, whumping pulse beneath the silence.

The mist parted briefly as a boat slid across the waters, the faintest ripple marking its passage, and then it, too, was gone, vanished into the blackness.

It was night in D’ni. A night that had lasted now for almost seventy years.

In the streets of the city the mist coiled on the cold stone of ancient cobbles like something living. Yet nothing lived there now; only the mosses and fungi that grew from every niche and cranny.

Empty it was, as though it had stood thus for a thousand years. Level after level lay open to the eye, abandoned and neglected. A thousand empty lanes, ten thousand empty rooms, a desolate landscape of crumbling walls and fallen masonry everywhere one looked.

In the great curve between the city’s marbled flanks lay the harbor, the shadows of sunken boats in its glowing depths, and across the harbor’s mouth a great arch of stone, Kerath’s Arch, as it was known, its pitted surface webbed with cracks.

Silence. A preternatural silence. And then a sound. Faint at first and distant, and yet clear. The tap, tap, tap of metal against stone.

High above, in the narrow lanes of the upper city, a shadow stopped beneath a partly fallen gate and turned to look. The sound had come from the far end of the cavern; from one of the islands scattered on the lake out there.

Mist swirled, then silence fell again.

And then new sounds: a whirring, high-pitched mechanical screech, followed by the low burr of a power drill. And then the tapping once again, the sound of it echoing out across the water.

K’veer. The noises were coming from K’veer.

Two miles across the lake and there it is, the island rising like a huge black corkscrew from the glowing lake, its once crisp outline softened by a recent rockfall.

Coming closer, the noise grows in volume, the sound of drilling constant now, as is the clang, clang, clang of massive hammers pounding the stone. The island shakes beneath the onslaught, the carved stone trembling like a sounding bell.

But no one is woken by that dreadful din. The ancient rooms are dark and empty. All, that is, but one, at the very foot of the island, down beneath the surface of the lake. There, deep in the rock, lies the oldest room of all, a chamber of marbled pillars and cold stone, sealed off by an angry father to teach his son a lesson.

Now, forty years on, that same chamber is filled with busy men in dark, protective suits. Their brows beaded with sweat, they toil beneath the arc lights, a dozen of them standing between the two big hydraulic props, working at the face of the wall with hammer and drill, while others scamper back and forth, lifting and carrying the fallen stone, stacking it in a great heap on the far side of the chamber.

A figure stands beside the left-hand prop, looking on. Atrus, son of Gehn, once-prisoner in this chamber. After a while, he glances at the open notebook in his hand, then looks up again, calling out something to those closest to him.

A face looks up and nods, then turns back. The message is passed along the line.

There is a moment’s pause. A welcome silence.

Walking across, Atrus crouches between two of the men and leans forward, examining the wall, prising his fingers deep into the crack, then turns and shakes his head.

He stands back, letting them continue, watching them go to it with a vengeance, the noise deafening now, as if all of them know that one more push will see the job through.

Slowly the chamber fills with dust and grit. And then one of them withdraws and, straightening up, cuts the power to his drill. Turning, he lifts his protective visor and grins.

All about him the others stand back, looking on.

Atrus returns to the wall and, crouching, pushes his hand deep into the crack, edging this way and that, feeling high and low. Satisfied, he eases back and, taking a marker from his pocket, stands, drawing an outline on the stone. The outline of a door.

At his signal, one of the drill men steps forward and begins to cut along the mark.

Swiftly it’s done. A dozen hammer blows and the stone falls away.

The stone is quickly cleared, and as the rest look on, Atrus steps forward one last time. He holds a cutting tool with a chunky barrel the thickness of his arm. Placing the circle of its teeth about the circle of the lock—a circle that overlaps the thick frame of the door—he braces himself, then gently squeezes the trigger, letting it bite slowly into the surface. Only then, when the cutter has a definite grip on the metal, does he begin to push, placing his whole weight behind it.

There is a growling whine, a sharp, burning smell, different in kind from the earlier smells of stone and dust and lubricant. And then, abruptly, it’s over. There is the clatter of the lock as it falls into the corridor beyond, the descending whine of the drill as it stutters into silence.

Setting the drill down, he raises his visor, then pulls the protective helmet off and lets it fall.

§

Atrus straightened and, with a single meaningful glance at the watching men, turned back to face the doorway. Forty years he had waited for this. Forty long years.

Placing his booted foot against the surface, he pushed hard, feeling the metal resist at first, then give.

Slowly, silently, it swung back.

A good D’ni door, he thought, with good stone hinges that never rust. A door built to last.

And as the door swung back he saw for the first time in a long while the empty corridor and, at its end, the twist of steps that led up into the house, where, long ago, his father, Gehn, had taught him how to write. Where he had first learned the truth about D’ni. Yes, and other things, too.

Irras came and stood by his shoulder. “Will you not go through, Master Atrus?”

Atrus turned, meeting the young man’s eyes. “One should not hurry moments like this, Irras. I have waited forty years. Another forty seconds will not harm.”

Irras lowered his eyes, abashed.

“Besides,” Atrus went on, “we do not know yet whether D’ni is occupied or not.”

“You think it might be?” The look of shock on Irras’s face was almost comical.

“If it is ,” Atrus said, “then they will know we are here. We’ve made enough noise to wake the dead.”

“Then maybe we should arm ourselves.”

“Against other D’ni?” Atrus smiled. “No, Irras. If anyone’s here, they will be friends, not foes. Like us, they will have returned for a reason.”

Atrus turned back, looking toward the steps, then, brushing the dust from his leather gloves and boots, he stepped through, into the dimly lit corridor.