Where The Ni-Lach

by Marcia J. Bennell

  He looked over at Haradan. “You didn’t answer my question. How long do you think we’ll have to wait here?”

  “You should be strong enough in another day or so. Then it will depend upon Saan Drambe.”

  “Do you trust him, Haradan?”

  “Yes, as long as we have something he wants.”

  “Meaning me?”

  Haradan nodded. “He wants you to heal his son. He said he would bring me safely to Annaroth and get me into the warrens to help you escape if you would heal his son, Efan.”

  “What’s wrong with his son?”

  “Crippled in a fall, according to Saan Drambe.”

  “How long ago did this happen?”

  “Two years this spring.”

  “Haradan, what if I can’t help the boy?”

  “You healed me.”

  “Your wound was new. I’ve never tried to heal a hurt that was old. What if I fail? Would Saan Drambe go back on his bargain and turn us over to the Sarissa guard?”

  Haradan’s silence set a chill on Dhal’s heart.

  Waking to the sound of voices, Dhal found Gi-arobi sitting within the circle of his arm, staring at a point just above Dhal’s shoulder.

  “… so you have told me time and time again, but what I don’t understand is if he can heal others, why couldn’t he heal himself?”

  “Saan Drambe,” Haradan said in a low voice, “you saw the condition he was in when we brought him here. He was starved. It requires strength to heal, strength which must come from food. If you ask him to heal your son now, you risk having him deplete the little energy he has managed to store these past few days. He’s up and walking, but it may be days before he’s strong enough to attempt that which you would ask of him.”

  Dhal lay quietly, listening, but some change in his breathing or a slight movement of his body caught Gi’s attention. His golden eyes dropped to Dhal’s. Before the olvaar could whistle a greeting, Dhal pursed his lips, cautioning him to silence.

  “How many days before he’s strong enough to move?”

  “Why?” Haradan asked.

  “The regent has ordered that the entire warrens be searched, every room, every tunnel. A diligent search of the temple would, I fear, uncover this room.”

  “Damn! What do we do then?”

  “It should take the guards at least two days to reach this level. We’ll just have to move you tonight, to my rooms.”

  “Won’t they be searched?”

  “They already have been, so you should be safe there, at least for a little while.”

  “What about your family? Won’t they object to your harboring a fugitive Ni?”

  “My wife is dead. My son and I share our rooms with only one servant. No one will object to your presence. I’ll go now and return with suitable clothing for the two of you to wear. The supper hour is long past and soon the tunnelways will be relatively empty. We’ll move you then. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  The black-hooded robes changed them from obvious intruders to temple priests. When they were ready to leave, Haradan lifted the hem of his robe and Gi slipped under.

  “Dhalvad,” Saan Drambe said, “you’ll walk beside me and pretend to be ill. Whatever happens, keep your hood up and your eyes down. If anyone should recognize you, we would all forfeit our lives. Haradan, you follow close behind and hunch over a little. I can’t think of one priest in all the warrens with your height.”

  They passed single file through a small tunnel, then reached the open rooms of the temple. Saan Drambe paused to make sure no one saw them emerge from what appeared to be solid wall. He stepped out quickly, then motioned them to follow. Moments later they left the temple and continued down another larger tunnel way to the first stairway leading up. With his arm around Dhalvad’s waist, Saan Drambe gave him support while climbing the steps. “We’re in luck so far. I hope it continues to hold.”

  From that point on it seemed like a steady climb. Saan Drambe stopped when they reached the fifth level above the temple. “Are you all right, Dhalvad?”

  “Yes.”

  “Liar, you tremble with every step. But we can’t stop now.”

  “I could carry him,” Haradan offered.

  “You may have to. We have three more levels to go.”

  “I can make it,” Dhal protested. “Just let me rest a minute.”

  “All right, but only a minute. If someone finds us loitering here, it would mean questions. Do you want to sit down on the steps?”

  Dhal shook his head, though he doubted either man could see him in the semidark at the foot of the steps. “Afraid to sit,” he told them. “Won’t be able to get back up.”

  The seconds passed. Gradually the trembling in his legs stopped. Looking up the thirty-odd steps ahead of them, Dhal felt a great fatigue slip over him. He would never make it.

  When he signaled that he was ready to go, Saan Drambe moved in and supported him once more. He was aware of reaching the top of the stairs and looking down a long dark corridor, then everything began to take on a dreamlike quality. His legs ceased to be a part of his body and the lights in the tunnel blurred into small suns.

  Suddenly there were shadow forms standing in front of him. He felt Saan Drambe’s arm tighten around him.

  One of the shadow forms spoke. “Name yourselves, and give reason why you pass this way.”

  “I am Cerl sar Drambe, Captain. I know it’s late for anyone to be about, but I was in the temple praying when one of the initiates fell ill. Priest Glacon and I are taking him up to the infirmary.”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “We don’t know, but the sooner we get him to the infirmary the better.”

  The guard stepped forward. “I’m not supposed to let anyone pass this level without proper identification, Saan. What is the initiate’s name?” As he asked his question, he reached for the hood of Dhal’s robe.

  But before the guard’s fingers could close on the material, Dhal’s legs finally gave out, and Saan Drambe caught him before he fell to the floor. “Damn! He’s fainted again! Captain, please let us pass. Regent Lasca would be greatly displeased to hear that you hindered us in aiding his nephew.”

  “It is Janor sar Lasca?”

  “Yes.”

  “Saan, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. Please, let us help you with him.”

  “No. No, it’s all right. Your duty is here. We can see to him. Now, may we pass?”

  “Yes, surely.”

  Dhal felt himself being lifted, the hood of his robe being pulled down about his face by a hand he couldn’t see. Saan Drambe started forward, only to be halted once more. “Saan,” the guard said. “We believe the Ni-lach prisoner is loose on the lower levels. I think it wise if you all stayed out of the temple area until we’ve found him. Pray elsewhere for the next few days.”

  “A wise suggestion, Captain,” Saan Drambe said. “Be assured it is advice we will follow.”

  Once out of the captain’s sight, Haradan moved up alongside Saan Drambe. “Here, let me carry him.” Dhal felt himself being passed from one pair of arms to another. “Dhalvad? Are you all right?”

  Dhal formed the word yes but couldn’t get it past his lips.

  “He isn’t faking,” Haradan said. “He has fainted.”

  “He could not have timed it any better had he planned it,” Saan Drambe commented. “Come, we have two more levels to go. Pray that we don’t meet any more posted guards.”

  Gradually the darkness that had closed over Dhal’s eyes ate into his thoughts. As he slipped into unconsciousness, he could hear Haradan’s hearbeat strong against his ear. It was a hollow, thumping noise that brought warmth and the feeling of security.

  Chapter 9

  DHALVAD STOOD IN FRONT OF A FLOOR-LENGTH MIRROR GAZING at the strange apparition that was his image. Was he truly that thin, green-haired, pale-skinned being that looked back at him with large, crystal eyes?

  Looking deep into those twin orbs, he searched for
that part of him which had not changed. Are you there, Dhalvad? No need to be afraid, he thought. Though outward appearances have changed, we are the same… or do I only wish it were so?

  He ran fingers through his freshly combed hair. There was no mistaking the color now—it was as green as the needles of the rilror pine.

  They had been five days in Saan Drambe’s apartments, which were located on the upper level of the main warrens. Escape wasn’t going to be an easy matter. Saan Omna’s death had caused a stir in Annaroth and had served as a reminder to the Sarissa that the Green Ones were dangerous, no matter how few their number. The war that had left Dhal an orphan had been revived.

  And who is to blame? he thought. You, Dhalvad sar Haradan, all because you saved a child’s life.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of voices. Turning from the mirror, he crossed the stone floor and paused in the narrow archway that opened onto the next room. There Haradan and Gi-arobi sat on a raised cushioned platform opposite Efan sar Cerl, Saan Drambe’s son. Between Haradan and Efan sat a playing board. Judging from the number of pieces still on the board, Dhal guessed that the game had just begun.

  Efan was a tall boy of fifteen years. Like his father, he wore his dark hair drawn back in a club at the nape of his neck, a sign among Sarissa males that he had left his childhood and become a man. Efan was a handsome youth with lively brown eyes and very expressive hands. He was fascinating to watch as he emphasized each thought with motion, as if his body was trying to compensate for the crippled limbs that forced him to sit while others ran.

  Though Dhal had had several chances to talk to Efan alone, not once had they spoken of the boy’s injured body or Saan Drambe’s hopes that Dhal might be able to help him. Was it possible that Efan knew nothing about his father’s plans? Knowing Saan Drambe’s doubts about his ability to heal, Dhal could see the wisdom of keeping silent until he had more proof. Why raise the boy’s hopes only to destroy them later?

  Dhal let his eyes wander from Efan to Gi. He smiled to see the olvaar so intent upon the gaming board. Such things were not a part of the olvaar’s world, yet he seemed to be following the game with some understanding. Would he ever be content to return to his home in the Deep after all this? Teasing baby draak would hold little appeal after matching wits with the Sarissa.

  Sensing Dhal’s eyes upon him, Gi-arobi lifted his head and piped a whistle greeting. Haradan turned to see Dhal standing in the doorway. “About time you woke up,” he said, smiling. “Come and join us. Efan has won the last two games and I’m beginning to think I need some help.”

  Dhal witnessed the small flicker of amusement that touched Efan’s face. According to his father’s boasting, dacor was one game Efan had thoroughly mastered.

  Efan watched Dhal cross the room, his eyes flicking from the top of Dhal’s head down to his legs. Did the boy envy him his freedom, Dhal wondered, or was he only satisfying his own curiosity about the Green One his father had brought into their home? As their eyes met, Dhal decided that it was a little bit of both.

  Haradan moved over so Dhal could sit by his side. Gi greeted Dhal with several pats on the arm, then settled himself in Dhal’s lap.

  “How are you feeling?” Haradan asked.

  “Fine, though it seems as if I can’t get enough sleep.”

  “So we noticed. This makes three naps today.”

  “Are you hungry, Dhalvad?” Efan asked politely.

  Dhal smiled and nodded. “Always.”

  “We ate just a short time ago.” Efan brought around a tray from a nearby table. “We saved some for you.” On the tray were slices of cheese, rolls, a bowl of jellied fruit, and bite-sized squares of cooked fish. “If you want something to drink, there’s a pot of rayil tea in the kitchen. It’s probably cool by now but can be easily warmed.” Efan started to reach for his crutches.

  Standing, Dhal set the tray down. “Please, continue with your game. I know where the kitchen is.”

  As Dhal headed for the kitchen, Gi-arobi padded across the floor after him. “Thirsty?” Dhal whistled.

  “No. Gi has something for Dhal. Give in secret.”

  “Sounds interesting. But tea first.”

  In the kitchen, Dhal sat down on the warm stone floor in front of the hearth. It would be a few minutes before the rayil was hot enough for his taste—time to find out what Gi wanted. He nudged Gi’s well-rounded stomach with a finger. “How about that secret?”

  Ducking his furred head, Gi dug his fingers into the fur around his neck and lifted out a piece of vine. Pulling the vine up and over his head, he stepped closer.

  Dhal recognized the object dangling from the vine the moment he saw it. “My ring!” Hidden deep in the plush of Gi’s fur, vine and ring had remained safe and invisible. Gi cut the vine with his teeth, then carefully placed the ring in Dhalvad’s hand.

  “You’ve had it all this time?” Dhal asked, slipping the ring onto the middle finger of his right hand.

  “Haradan worried for Dhal. Forget ring. Gi keep. Dhal happy?”

  “Yes, happy! I never thought to see it again. I only held it for a few short hours, yet somehow it seemed that I had owned it all my life.” Gently, he touched the olvaar on top of the head. “How can I thank you, Gi?”

  “Gi look fire ring sometimes?”

  “Any time you wish, friend. Any time.”

  Dhal poured himself a cup of hot rayil, then returned with Gi to the other room where Haradan and Efan continued their game.

  While Haradan was contemplating his next move, Efan caught Dhal’s eye. “May I ask you a question?”

  “Certainly.”

  “When you left the room a few minutes ago you were making strange sounds, whistling sounds like the olvaar makes. Do you understand his noises?”

  “As a second language. Gi is an excellent teacher.”

  Efan looked at the olvaar. “I never thought of them as having an actual language. Does he understand us—I mean, right now?”

  “Yes, or at least most of it.”

  Efan shook his head. “Fascinating. Do you think—could you—” he hesitated, embarrassed.

  “Could I what?”

  Eyes wide in hope, Efan looked at the olvaar. “Could you teach me the olvaar language?”

  Dhal looked down at Gi and winked. “Could we, Gi?”

  “Yes,” Gi whistled.

  “Your first lesson, Efan. Gi said yes.”

  “I hate to interrupt,” Haradan said, “but could we get back to the game now? I made my move over a minute ago.”

  “Sorry,” Efan apologized. He took a half minute to scan the pieces, then made his next move.

  Haradan frowned. “Damn! I was sure you had no way out of that!”

  Efan looked up and grinned, pleased to be causing Haradan so much trouble. “While he thinks about his next move,” he said, “perhaps we could talk.”

  “About?”

  “About you and why my father brought you here.”

  Dhal saw Haradan’s eyes lift and knew he was listening. “Do you know why?” he asked calmly.

  “I think so. It was rumored that the Ni captured in the Deep was able to heal. I belive Saan Dram—my father—brought you here hoping that rumor to be true.” After a moment Efan asked softly. “Is it?”

  Dhal decided that he had underestimated young Efan. Realizing that it would serve no purpose to lie to the boy he answered truthfully. “I’m a wilder by profession, Efan, as is Haradan. We’ve been dealing with healing herbs for a long time. At some point in my growing up I discovered that I had a certain talent for repairing broken things, not inanimate objects like chairs or pots, but real living things. Cuts, broken bones, hurts within the body that weren’t always visible from the outside. All I had to do was picture the wounds ‘right’ and they changed. I can’t explain how it works. Call it a talent or just a gift, whatever its name, it works. Or at least most of the time.”

  “Has it ever not worked for you?” Efan asked.

&nb
sp; “Yes. Once I found a baby nida that had been mauled badly by a gensvolf. The wounds were too extensive and it took too long to try to undo the damage. The kit died in my lap.”

  Efan was silent for a few moments, his eyes straying to the game board. Dhal knew the question he wanted to ask. Why didn’t he speak? “Efan, would you like me to try to heal your legs?”

  Efan looked up. “Do you think you could?”

  “I don’t know. I can try. Your injuries are old and I’ve never attempted anything like that before.”

  Moistness filled Efan’s eyes. “It would be wonderful to walk again, to stand alone.”

  Haradan and Dhal shared a glance. “Are you up to it, Dhal?” Haradan asked.

  “I won’t know until I try.” He looked at Efan. “Shall I try?”

  Efan hesitated, then shook his head. “No,” he said softly.

  “No?” Haradan echoed. “If Dhalvad is willing to try, why not?”

  “My father. I can’t risk putting him in danger. I know he wants me to walk again. I know that’s why he brought you here. But should you perform the miracle he hopes for here in Annaroth, everyone would know where you are hiding and who was responsible for your escape.”

  “Efan,” Haradan said. “Hasn’t your father thought this all through? Perhaps he has plans of which you aren’t aware.”

  The boy frowned. “He’s spoken of taking a trip upcoast to Port Bhalvar.”

  “Were you to accompany him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “This trip—did he say if it was for business or pleasure?”

  “I assume business. Father deals in imports from Letsia and works through a buyer in Port Bhalvar.”

  “Does he have his own boat?”

  “Yes, sir. We have a small sailboat down at the fourth run of docks, but it isn’t large enough for cargo. When my father sails upcoast on business he usually rents one of the larger trade ships available.”

  Haradan had one more question. “Efan, does your father ever sail directly to Port Sulta?”