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Автор David Wingrove
THE MYST READER
THREE BOOKS IN ONE VOLUME:
The Book of Atrus
The Book of Ti’ana
The Book of D’ni
RAND AND ROBYN MILLER
with david wingrove
Contents
Cover
Title Page
MYST: THE BOOK OF ATRUS
MYST: THE BOOK OF TI’ANA
MYST: THE BOOK OF D’NI
About the Authors
Copyright
MYST: THE BOOK OF ATRUS
TO MOM AND DAD
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
THOUGH ONLY
Principally, we’d like to thank Richard Vander Wende. His contributions to story development and the creative process were at least equal to our own.
Thanks to Ryan Miller for writing the first book—his contributions set a tone from which we could work.
Also, thanks to John Biggs, Chris Brandkamp, Mark DeForest, Bonnie McDowall, Beth Miller, Josh Staub, and Richard Watson for their input and output.
And finally, thanks to Brian DeFiore, our editor, and David Wingrove for accomplishing the impossible.
A special thanks to the fans of
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 out-crop, 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 clearly 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
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.
