sure that the frown on D’ol Neric’s face was caused by the need to be the bearer of such terrible news. But then he realized that he was pensing—and pensing not a reluctance to cause pain, but only surprise and bewilderment.
“I know nothing of your sister, Raamo,” D’ol Neric said at last. “I did not know of her illness.”
“But I was told that you twice sang the Psalm of Healing for her at the public ceremony in Orbora,” Raamo said. “Her name is Pomma D’ok, and she only in her eighth year and small even for her age.”
“It could well be so,” D’ol Neric said. “I have led Ceremonies of Healing in Orbora many times. But I seldom know or remember the names of the ailing. I am sorry, but I have no news of your sister.”
Relief washed over Raamo, leaving him limp and mindless, so that the strange words that were next spoken echoed in his ear chambers for several seconds before his mind allowed them to enter.
“But it is, perhaps, true that I called you here to speak of the wasting,” D’ol Neric was saying. “I called you here to speak to you of the wasting of all Green-sky.”
CHAPTER TEN
H E INSISTED THAT RAAMO call him simply, Neric, except, of course, in the hearing of others, as the respectful title D’ol was only another symptom of the illness that plagued the whole planet.
“They set themselves apart,” he said, “in every way possible. They make themselves unknowable and unapproachable—so that the Kindar will not learn the truth about them.”
“What truth?” Raamo asked.
“What truth!” Neric repeated, his voice rising almost to a shout. “A thousand truths. The truth, for instance, that the Spirit-skills are gone—dead! The fact that any Kindar, picked at random off any branchpath in Green-sky, has as much ability at pensing or grunspreking as the most honored among the Ol-zhaan. Didn’t you wonder how I dared to send you messages that would have placed me in great jeopardy had they been intercepted by my fellow Ol-zhaan?”
“But you are able to pense,” Raamo said. “If pensing is dead among the Ol-zhaan, how is it—”
“I am the only one,” Neric said. “One or two of the ancients were once able, but they are no longer. And my skill is very slight. I can pense only what is sent, and then only if the sender is skillful and possessed of great Spirit-force. Until your coming, I had not pensed anyone clearly for several years, except children, of course.”
“But why?” Raamo asked. “Why has this happened?”
“Perhaps there are many reasons, but there is one that is reason enough by itself. For many years, now, no one has been chosen who was suspected of having any skill at pensing. I, myself, would not have been chosen had they known of my slight skill.”
“But why then—” Raamo began.
“Were you chosen? Because they are desperate. They have tried everything else. They knew, of course, of your abnormal skill at pensing—and there were many who opposed your choosing, but there was one—D’ol Falla herself—who felt that your Spirit-force must be used. I had not expected them to choose you. I had almost resigned myself to the inevitable, but when I heard that they had chosen the child Raamo D’ok who, according to his teachers, was still able to pense and kiniport and grunspreke at the age of thirteen years, I was given new hope. I decided that there might be a way to stop the evil that is spreading in Green-sky—if only I could reach you in time. And if only you would help me.”
“But what evil?”
“I don’t know exactly—or perhaps I should say—entirely. Not yet. That is why you and your talent for pensing is of such great importance—as a means of—” He smiled ruefully, shaking his head. “I can see how strange and senseless this must sound to you, and how disturbing. Let me start at the beginning—at the beginning for me, that is—and tell you my story. Then perhaps you will find it more understandable.
”I came
“I know nothing of your sister, Raamo,” D’ol Neric said at last. “I did not know of her illness.”
“But I was told that you twice sang the Psalm of Healing for her at the public ceremony in Orbora,” Raamo said. “Her name is Pomma D’ok, and she only in her eighth year and small even for her age.”
“It could well be so,” D’ol Neric said. “I have led Ceremonies of Healing in Orbora many times. But I seldom know or remember the names of the ailing. I am sorry, but I have no news of your sister.”
Relief washed over Raamo, leaving him limp and mindless, so that the strange words that were next spoken echoed in his ear chambers for several seconds before his mind allowed them to enter.
“But it is, perhaps, true that I called you here to speak of the wasting,” D’ol Neric was saying. “I called you here to speak to you of the wasting of all Green-sky.”
CHAPTER TEN
H E INSISTED THAT RAAMO call him simply, Neric, except, of course, in the hearing of others, as the respectful title D’ol was only another symptom of the illness that plagued the whole planet.
“They set themselves apart,” he said, “in every way possible. They make themselves unknowable and unapproachable—so that the Kindar will not learn the truth about them.”
“What truth?” Raamo asked.
“What truth!” Neric repeated, his voice rising almost to a shout. “A thousand truths. The truth, for instance, that the Spirit-skills are gone—dead! The fact that any Kindar, picked at random off any branchpath in Green-sky, has as much ability at pensing or grunspreking as the most honored among the Ol-zhaan. Didn’t you wonder how I dared to send you messages that would have placed me in great jeopardy had they been intercepted by my fellow Ol-zhaan?”
“But you are able to pense,” Raamo said. “If pensing is dead among the Ol-zhaan, how is it—”
“I am the only one,” Neric said. “One or two of the ancients were once able, but they are no longer. And my skill is very slight. I can pense only what is sent, and then only if the sender is skillful and possessed of great Spirit-force. Until your coming, I had not pensed anyone clearly for several years, except children, of course.”
“But why?” Raamo asked. “Why has this happened?”
“Perhaps there are many reasons, but there is one that is reason enough by itself. For many years, now, no one has been chosen who was suspected of having any skill at pensing. I, myself, would not have been chosen had they known of my slight skill.”
“But why then—” Raamo began.
“Were you chosen? Because they are desperate. They have tried everything else. They knew, of course, of your abnormal skill at pensing—and there were many who opposed your choosing, but there was one—D’ol Falla herself—who felt that your Spirit-force must be used. I had not expected them to choose you. I had almost resigned myself to the inevitable, but when I heard that they had chosen the child Raamo D’ok who, according to his teachers, was still able to pense and kiniport and grunspreke at the age of thirteen years, I was given new hope. I decided that there might be a way to stop the evil that is spreading in Green-sky—if only I could reach you in time. And if only you would help me.”
“But what evil?”
“I don’t know exactly—or perhaps I should say—entirely. Not yet. That is why you and your talent for pensing is of such great importance—as a means of—” He smiled ruefully, shaking his head. “I can see how strange and senseless this must sound to you, and how disturbing. Let me start at the beginning—at the beginning for me, that is—and tell you my story. Then perhaps you will find it more understandable.
”I came
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