Gi sighed deeply. Dhal smiled at him. “It would have been fun to have gone with them, wouldn’t it?”
“Fun yes. Dhal safer here.”
“I suppose. Still…”
As the time passed, Dhal found his thoughts wandering back to the last time he had looked into the ring. He pulled the cording from around his neck and lifted the fire ring from its resting place against his chest. A moment later, he had the ring on.
Gi-arobi immediately moved closer. “Gi see?”
For long moments Gi sat and stared into the fire stone, then he lifted his head. “Dhal make fire ring live now?”
Dhal was reluctant. The last time he had stirred the mysterious life force within the stone, those who peopled the ring world had not been very friendly. Remembering the spears they had raised against him, he was of a mind to leave well enough alone.
But he was too curious. If he could only find a way to speak to those people, he could ask so many questions. But how? Was it even possible?
As he looked down at the ring, he was possessed by an irresistible urge to return to that Ni world. He took a moment to make sure no one was looking his way. Settling down on the pile of pouches next to Gi, he leaned over. “Ready, Gi?”
Gi nodded enthusiastically.
“Watch for the change in color and listen close. The last time I did this, I could hear the Ni speaking.”
“Gi listen.”
Moments passed as Gi and Dhal shared watch over the green stone. Then, swiftly, the colors began to shift. “Do you see the colors, Gi?” Dhal whistled softly.
“Suns’ light gone. Water colors come now.”
The blue and green colors began to fold one into the other in a mesmerizing pattern. For a moment Dhal felt as if he was falling forward, then he felt Gi’s small furred hand clamp tight on his wrist.
“No like, Dhal,” came the olvaar’s shrill whistle. “Gi leaving.”
For a moment Dhalvad thought to follow Gi-arobi’s example and break the pull of the stone’s power, but then he noticed another change in the layers of color. A picture was forming, just as it had before—this time he was looking at a great building of red-black stone, with a long, slanting roof tipped to the north and a single, triangular turret to the south. The open windows to the east were large enough for a man to enter standing. The building was so unlike the round, squat buildings erected by the Sarissa that for long moments all he could do was stand and stare.
Then his eyes went to the magnificent aban tree that sheltered the building. The girth of the tree was easily the size of twenty men standing in a tight circle. Its topmost branches cleared the height of the cliffs to the west. Dwarfing all the other trees around it, the giant aban stood as a lone sentinel at the throat of an open valley. To the northwest was the same lake he had seen on his last trip to the ring world.
Looking back at the building, he saw movement in front of a pair of great wooden doors that stood open. Dhal approached cautiously, reluctant to leave the safety of the trees. Upon reaching the last row of bushes, Dhalvad paused, gathering his courage, then stepped out into the open. Something had changed this time—he was actually walking, not gliding.
Dhal was two hundred paces from the building when several Ni appeared in the doorway. He continued walking, keeping his pace steady. He counted thirteen people in and around the doors.
He was within twenty-five paces of the Ni when one of them spoke. He did not notice which one, nor did he understand the words spoken. “I don’t understand,” he said. Again his words had no sound.
From the looks on their faces, Dhal knew the Ni could see him. Several spoke at once. He listened and tried to make sense of the babble.
The voices died away, then two of the females held their hands out in a gesture of peace and moved toward him, their crystal eyes never once leaving his. All were silent now. Dhal looked to the others standing near the doorway. He was thankful that no weapons were in sight.
The female on the left spoke. Dhal shook his head. The two females exchanged glances, then the first one tried again. “Do you speak the trade language, outlander?”
Though the accent was strange, he understood and nodded.
“Your name, outlander?”
Dhal looked closely at the female nearest him. He could see the wind move the loose strands of her hair, but this time he could not feel the air. It was as if he was there, yet not there. Was he dreaming it all? Were the people real or only images of the past locked into the stone? And what of Saan Drambe’s theory of communications?
“Can’t you speak, outlander?” the other female asked.
Suddenly a tall Ni appeared at the open portal. As he approached, one of the females spoke. “He seems to understand the trade language, Donnai.”
The male nodded as he stopped before Dhal. His eyes were light blue, not crystal, but his hair was a deep, rich green. He nodded and spoke softly. “It has been long and long since last there was a Seeker in Val-hrodhur. Only the older ones remember such as you. If you will stay a few moments, our leader will come and speak with you. He’s on his way.”
Stay? In a world that was more dream than reality?
“Seeker, won’t you talk to us?” one of the females asked.
Would that I could, thought Dhal. He wondered what she meant by naming him Seeker.
“Is he the same one Fantar saw?” the female asked.
The Ni male nodded. “Yes, I think so. Fantar described him as Ni dressed as outlander. He was out in the hills the first time he saw him. The second time was on the trail here. Then many at the Gathering saw him too.”
Val-hrodhur? Was this then the place Fantar and the old one had spoken of as their destination? Val-hrodhur Gathering to gift the Tamorlee—that was how Fantar had described it. Was he finally to learn the truth behind the legends of the Tamorlee?
“Danner comes,” someone announced from the crowd. Dhal looked past the three who had confronted him and was surprised to find that as many as thirty Ni had gathered, most of them male. Their silent appearance made him uneasy.
The crowd parted as the old Ni stepped forward. His hair was white with age, but his eyes were Ni.
Stepping forward, the old one looked Dhal over, then bowed his head. “Greetings, Seeker. I am Danner of the Gathering of Val-hrodhur. I’m pleased to have lived long enough to have one of the Seekers return to us. How can we serve you?”
“He won’t answer, sir,” the first male said.
“Will not or cannot?” Danner asked, stepping closer. The old one reached out to touch Dhal, but his hand moved toward Dhal’s arm—and through it. Dhalvad felt nothing.
Startled by the unreality of it all, Dhal was sure now that all he was seeing was part of a dream. Suddenly he heard a shrill piping whistle. At the sound of Gi’s alert, Dhal felt a wrenching pull back to reality. Like a wave of rain, a veil of blue-green mist dropped around him.
He could no longer see the Ni-lach of Val-hrodhur, but still he could hear their voices. A female: “Look, he’s fading!” Then the old Ni, his voice thundering in Dhal’s mind: “Seeker, strengthen your projection! Speak to us. I feel you are in need!
Tell us what we can do to help you. Please, come back! Tell us—”
There was a moment of disorientation as Dhal stirred from his strange dreaming, then Gi-arobi was there repeating his whistled warning. Before Dhal could ask him what was wrong, Gi dove under the seat.
“Gi? What’s wrong?” Dhal demanded, leaning down to see where the olvaar had gone. “What are you—”
“You!” The harsh voice came from behind him. “You there!”
Dhal turned just as a big man stepped down into the boat, rocking it with his weight and throwing Dhal a little off balance. The man was Sarissa. On the dock behind him stood two more men, their dark tunics decorated with the emblem of the Sarissa Guard of Annaroth.
“What are you, deaf?” the man growled, reaching for Dhal’s shoulder.
Dhal tried to evade his g
rasp but fingers caught in the hood of his tunic as he ducked under the man’s arm. He heard cloth tear, then he was jerked sideways and thrown against the gunwale.
“What’s wrong with you?” the man bellowed angrily, reaching for him a second time. “All I asked you was…” The man’s voice trailed off, his eyes widening in disbelief.
“It’s him!” the man cried, lunging forward.
But this time Dhal was faster. Pushing away from the gunwale, he dove for the dock. He heard the splash of water as the large man lost his balance and went overboard. A moment later Dhal was on his feet and running, the other two guards fast behind him. Jerking his hood up and over his head, he ran the length of the dock, jumping piles of fish and dashing around the fishermen who had stopped their work to watch the chase.
He headed straight for the side street where he had seen Haradan and Efan disappear. He had just cleared the last of the wooden docks when he rememberd Gi-arobi. Praying that the olvaar would have sense enough to remain hidden in the boat until all was clear, he ran up the cobble street and took the first turn he came to, startling several women who were coming from the other direction.
Before he could reach the other end of the street, the cry of “Ni-lach” echoed in the air. Gone in that moment were all thoughts of finding Haradan and Efan. Hide first, he thought, search later. At the end of the narrow lane, Dhal came to a street that climbed up in a long flight of steps. He was almost to the top when two men ran out from the lane below him. Once again the cry went up. “Ni-lach! Stop him!”
Dhal remembered little of the twists and turns he followed those next few minutes. The streets were narrow and littered with refuse. The clutter of buildings, the dark shadows created by high stone walls, all were alien to him. It was so unlike the free openness of the Deep that he could not understand why anyone would choose to live so crowded together. It was almost as bad as the underground tunnels in Annaroth.
In the next ten minutes he finally managed to outdistance his pursuers. Though he could hear the clamor of voices coming up the streets behind him, he slowed his pace to a fast walk, to call less attention to himself. Carefully keeping his hood around his face, he threaded his way through several open markets until he located another flight of stairs. Moving upward once more, he noticed that the crowded buildings started to give way to several open parks where trees and grass had been allowed room to grow. The trees were trimmed and kept small; the grass was cut short. Here the streets were wide, the buildings less crowded, and there seemed to be fewer people moving about. Twice passersby looked at him strangely, but it was not until he heard a comment from a man sitting on a bench in front of a prosperous-looking inn that he realized what was wrong.
“Out of your depths, aren’t you, fisherman?” the man said, glancing down at the water stains on Dhal’s tunic and pants.
Dhal looked down toward the bay. Realizing his mistake and hoping it was not too late to do something about it, he quickly passed down the street, searching for a way back down to the lower levels. Fifteen minutes later he was still searching, the walled-in upper reaches becoming a maze that led nowhere.
Finally he arrived at a large marketplace similar to the one he had seen in Annaroth. One glance told him that here the Sarissa classes mingled, the sellers coming from the docks and lower city, the buyers from the upper levels and other side of the river. There was a good-sized crowd in the marketplace. Fresh flowers, fruits, and vegetables were in abundance, as well as unusual trade items from Letsia and Annaroth.
Fearing the crowds yet realizing that dressed as he was he would only be one among many, he forced himself to move into the stream of buyers, taking care that his hood was up and that no one came too close. But everyone seemed to move in and around one another with such unconscious ease that he soon lost his fear and began to take an interest in some of the goods being sold and traded. There were foods and clothes, jewelry and perfumes and weapons in such variety and description that he could not have named all their makers.
An hour later he was still looking for a possible place to hide when he almost walked into two Sarissa guards. They looked like the same two who had chased him from the docks, but he could not be sure. Neither man seemed to see him, their eyes wandering over the heads of the crowd in front of them.
Carefully Dhal turned to the side. Realizing that to run would be to call attention to himself, he kept a slow pace, moving off around a group of people who were haggling over the price of a bolt of cloth. It took several minutes to maneuver out of sight and he had almost completed the process when he saw five or six men moving through the crowd in his direction. They were peering at faces and asking questions. Several of them were obviously dockworkers; the others looked more official.
Angling off to the right, Dhal headed for a stand of trees he could see beyond the marketplace. But he was stopped by a shoulder-high stone wall. The lush green beyond the wall called to him, promising safety. He followed the wall, hoping to find a place to climb over without being seen.
As he passed several buyers standing and talking together, he heard one of them ask about the unusual number of Guard in the area. Walking slowly, Dhal caught the other man’s reply.
“I understand they’re looking for a Ni who escaped from Annaroth.”
“I thought they were all gone.”
“So it was reported. It’s probably one of the half-bloods still wandering about.”
“Probably. I don’t know why we didn’t get rid of them the same time we got rid of the full-bloods. They’ve been nothing but trouble since the end of the war.”
“That’s what Connar said just the other day. I remember hearing the entire subject discussed in council some years ago and I believe it was decided that…”
Dhal moved off. He continued to follow the wall, leaving the marketplace behind.
Soon he came upon a large, open gateway. Beyond the gates lay a well-tended park where bushes were trimmed and flowers grew along the stone pathways. The trees overhead were aban and veil vine. There were only a few people moving through the park, but as he walked toward the center he found more visitors around the flowered gardens, some sitting on the cut grass, others on wooden benches along the pathways. Farther on he passed several food booths, and as he sniffed the air he was reminded that he had not eaten since morning and then only dried fruit, a hard bun, and water.
Next he came to a long, rectangular walkway paved with large slabs of smooth stone on which four men sat, drawing pictures with chalk. Haradan had once told him of such artistry, but he had never before seen it. He lingered to watch an old man draw, then turned away and moved along the path.
He was nearing a small crowd when he first heard the music. Someone was singing. Curious, he worked his way around the edge of the crowd and moved in for a better look. The singer was another chalk artist.
Dhalvad stood with the others, caught up in the soft magical chant. The song was not loud but it carried clearly, each word and note building to create a picture in sound.
Dhalvad looked down at the stone to see the picture the artist was drawing while he sang. Words, music, and chalk flowed together in a strange, mesmerizing pull. Slowly he lowered himself to the ground, watching the chalk artist continue to work, song and chalk blending, creating a living picture of a world that could not possibly exist, yet which was hauntingly familiar, as a remembrance from the past or from a time before birth.
How long he sat staring at the picture he did not know. The song ended. He reached out, knowing he could touch the picture and make it his. But before his fingers could touch the stone, another hand shot out and caught his wrist in a firm grip.
Dhal looked up at the chalk artist. For long moments they watched each other. The people standing around them drifted away, several tossing coins into a cloth pouch that lay unfolded near the artist’s leg.
The artist appeared to be about Dhal’s age. He wore his dark hair long and free. A cheaply woven headband kept it out of his eyes. Hi
s tunic and pants, not much better than Dhal’s, were dark, a greenish brown that would allow the singer to blend in with his surroundings.
At first Dhal thought the man’s eyes were blue, then they seemed to change, to lighten, but Dhal could not be sure—the artist held his head in such a way that he looked up through dark eyelashes, shielding his eyes. He had nice features, a straight nose, hollow cheeks, well-molded lips. He looked a little sad, Dhal thought, as if he longed for something that was beyond reach. His song and picture told that to Dhal.
Slowly the singer released Dhal’s wrist. “Tell me, stranger. What did you see in my picture?”
Startled by the singer’s speaking voice, Dhal looked closer. “You’re a woman!” he exclaimed softly.
A half smile touched the singer’s lips. “I most certainly am. Does that shock you?”
Dhal shook his head. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen a chalk artist before, though Haradan told me about them. I thought they all would be men.”
“Most of them are, but one earns a living where one can.” Her smile faded. “You’re new to Port Bhalvar?”
“Yes.”
The singer looked down at her picture, then back at Dhal. He saw that her eyes were blue with flecks of gray in them.
“Tell me, stranger, what did you see in my drawing that made you want to touch it?”
Carefully keeping his head tilted down, shielding his own eyes as best he could, Dhal answered. “It seemed real. Alive.”
The singer’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “How do you mean that?”
For a moment Dhal was at a loss to explain. “It was your singing, I think. It seemed to do something to the picture. I felt that I could reach in and touch what I saw.”
“And what did you see?” the woman pressed.
Dhal looked down at the chalk picture. It was not as he remembered it. It had become flat and lifeless, just a sky and mountains, a lake of green ice and something in the lake. “What’s that supposed to be?” he asked, pointing at the object in the lake.
Where The Ni-Lach Page 12