Wulfston's odyssey

Chapter Four

Voices drifting in the darkness.

Two women. What are they saying?

Wulfston’s mind made snatches at the words buzzing around in his head, but could only make sense of a few.

Trader’s Common? No. The other language, taught by-

What was her name? Chaika? Eyes. Only her eyes could be seen. Eyes so much like.. whose?

WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME?

For a moment Wulfston’s mind was startled into coherence, but he could not maintain it. Confusion returned.

He tried to open his eyes, but the lids stubbornly refused to move.

Drugged. Drug on that… dart. Must call up healing

But his powers would not obey him. No matter how he tried, he could not make the healing fire flow through his blood.

My powers… gone?

Fear pushed some of the cobwebs from his brain. He was in acute discomfort, his tongue and throat raw and swollen.

He remembered stopping at the well, thirsty. That’s where he had been captured!

His flailing mind seized that thought. I’m a prisoner, and they’ve drugged me so I can’t use my powers to escape.

A mixture of anger and fear charged his blood, helping to bring him to his senses. He lay in a soft bed.

The air was warm and dry, had a “morning” smell. Aching joints announced themselves, but his attempts to stop the pain met with failure.

No powers.

He forced himself to calm his mind. For the moment, rational thought was his only weapon.

My Adept powers will return, he told himself firmly. Reading doesn’t require energy, so perhaps-

But his attempt to reach out with his mind, to summon Traylo and Arlus, also failed. He could not even sense them, nor any animal life.

Reading might not require strength, but illness and injury curtailed it severely. The drug on that dart had made him so ill that he could not even open his eyes.

The pain in his throat flared. He gave an involuntary moan. The women stopped talking. Wulfston heard them approach the bed. Gentle fingers pushed open his eyelids, and his eyes slowly focused on two concerned faces. They propped him up against some cushions, and one of them brought the mouth of a small clay bottle to his lips.

The liquid that poured over his parched tongue had a sour taste, but it cooled the fire in his throat and eased the queasiness in his stomach. The woman let him have only a little at a time, so he would not choke.

His thirst satisfied, Wulfston managed a weak smile in lieu of thanks. Both women smiled in return.

Discovering that his tongue would move, Wulfston tried to say “thank you” in Trader’s Common. One of the women closed her eyes, and for a moment he “heard” the distant echo of a woman’s voice in his head, speaking foreign words.

He was Reading her thoughts!

Despite his situation, this long-dreamed-of moment buoyed his spirits. He wanted to laugh and shout for joy, but had no strength. At last I’m a Reader! A very weak one, apparently, but that will change as soon as I get some training from-

Lenardo.

The rescue mission.

His elation disappeared as he remembered why he was here.

He heard-no, Read-the woman’s thought again, the same words repeated; she was sending a message to someone. Soon another female voice echoed in his mind. He got the impression that she was a short distance away.

He could not understand the words, but sensed orders being given concerning his welfare-and something else. As the message continued, the young Reader’s facial expression changed several times; mild surprise… consternation… wry amusement.

What’s being said about me? he wondered, then tried to project the question to the Reader beside his bed.

Either she couldn’t understand or was ignoring him. She spoke rapidly to her companion, who stared at Wulfston with the same series of reactions.

The atmosphere suddenly chilled. Wulfston discerned that the mysterious message had changed his status from patient to prisoner.

Or to someone’s property.

The irony did not escape him.

Not so many years ago he had captured a badly injured Lenardo and taken him to Aradia, who had healed him but claimed the Aventine Reader as her property. At the time, Wulfston had felt as she did: whatever an Adept could hold was his to keep by right of nature.

Now someone wants to keep a Lord Adept, he thought. And in my present condition, there’s not a thing I can do about it!

Again the women propped him up to a sitting position, but the olay bottle they brought him this time smelled like wine. It had a bitter taste. Wulfston tried to avoid swallowing it, but one of the women stroked his throat, forcing the swallow reflex. Instantly, his feeble attempts at resistance dissolved, and the women lowered him back to the cushions.

No amount of drugs will make me anyone’s property, he thought defiantly as drowsiness overcame him. I will regain my powers and rescue Lenardo…ifl have to fight all of Africa to do it!

He dreamed he was back on the grass plains again, trying to evade capture. Herds of wild beasts scattered at his approach. A dozen paces ahead of him, a giant eagle stood on the ground as though waiting to carry him away from his pursuers. But before he could touch it, the great wings spread and it was instantly aloft.

Wulfston was surrounded by a dozen women in long dresses and veils. They approached as though sure he could not escape. He tried to use Adept force to drive them back, but found himself powerless, stripped of all his talents!

The women formed a tight circle around him, each one raising a long dagger. He leaped for the throat of the woman immediately in front of him, feeling more like a beast than a rational man as he tried to strangle the life out of her. Her knife thrusts somehow missed him as they struggled… struggled… struggled until her neck snapped and her veil fell off-

Revealing the face of his sister Aradia!

Wulfston was shaken awake. Groggily he stared at the two very large men who dared thus handle a Lord Adept, but neither his powers nor his body would obey his will. He remembered where he was.

Or did he?

He was in the same room where he had awakened before, but as the two men helped him to sit on the edge of the bed his feet touched stone, not earth. The walls were also stone. This could not be one of the wooden huts he had seen near the well where he was captured!

The men determinedly urged him toward a wooden tub. As he gathered that they wanted him to bathe, he realized that his clothes had been removed while he slept. The water was warm, and scented with spices. As he sank into it, the warmth eased the paralysis out of his muscles.

Still silent, the men handed him soap and a sponge, then stood back and waited. Wulfston studied them as he washed away the sweat of illness and bad dreams.

His guards-or whatever their function-were night-black giants with no trace of humor in their faces.

Like the horsemen who had pursued him, they wore tan tunics, but these garments were emblazoned with a black lion’s head in the center of the chest. Wulfston gathered that it was the mark of some elite group-palace guards?

Palace?

That was it-the place felt like his own castle. He glanced at the room’s only window, and saw the branches of strange trees at eye level. They were above the ground floor. The rosy glow of sunset filtered through the trees.

His attention went back to the guards, who stood grimly waiting for him to finish his bath. Why so grim?

They were not mistreating him, but he suspected they resented their orders to nursemaid him. Whose orders?

Why had whoever was in charge decided he needed two strong men as guards? He was certainly no threat in his present condition. The guards had shaken him awake, even though the only safe way to waken a powerful Adept was with a light finger touch on the forehead. So they were sure his powers would not manifest, as he verified when he found that he could not even strengthen his limbs with Adept energy.

Could it mean that his Reading powers were growing? Dominating his Adept talents?

No, he realized as soon as he tried them, whatever small Reading talents I had have deserted me, too

He could not even Read the surface emotions of the two men.

“Where am I?” he asked them, first in Trader’s Common, then in Zionae. Both attempts earned him only stares, and an apologetic shrug from one of the men.

The bathwater was cooling, so he turned his efforts to scrubbing himself clean. The brown soap they had given him was much coarser than even the cheapest at home, and he wondered what other differences he would find. Ghulaika had hinted-

Chulaika. Chaiku. Zanos. Astra. Huber.

Are they still alive? he wondered on a stab of guilt at having been completely consumed with his own survival. And where are they?

While Wulfston toweled himself dry with a huge sheet of sheer, soft cotton, one of the guards laid out clothes for him. They were impressive, but nothing like what he was accustomed to: a black loincloth of soft, satiny material; a gold satin tunic with matching trousers that tie-cinched at the waist; and a pair of black leather sandals.

He was handed a large wooden comb resembling a flat, oversized fork, and discovered that it was a better instrument for controlling his hair and beard than the combs and brushes he struggled with at home.

As he stood before a small, circular mirror affixed to one of the walls, the image that stared back at him began to resemble his old self. His beard needed trimming, but he still looked reasonably neat, and felt much better about facing… what?

Casually, he tried to slip the comb into his tunic-it could make quite an effective weapon-but one of the guards snatched it out of his hand the moment he finished grooming his beard.

“Well? What now?” he asked rhetorically.

One of them opened the door. Wulfston followed him out, and the other guard brought up the rear.

Elaborate candleholders lined the corridor. Wulfston noted that the stone walls appeared new-not much older.

than the walls of Castle Blackwolf, completed two years before.

Near the stairs that appeared to be their destination, Wulfston stopped to look out a window. The second guard nudged him, but Wulfston held his ground to get a view of the outside of the castle.

Stretching away before him were the dark outlines of a small community under a dusky sky. Lights were coming to life in structures resembling the buildings of Zendi. This was a city, not a primitive village.

Just below him, workers were constructing a stone wall, hauling stone and mortar up wooden scaffolding to a height perhaps two stories above the ground. The first story had been completed around the castle for as far as he could see in either direction. The workers passed tools and materials with the precise, efficient movements of people who had labored together for a long time.

His patience at an end, the second guard took Wulfston’s arm and urged him down the stairs. Still unaccustomed to such treatment, Wulfston glared at him-and noted a glimmer of fear in his eyes. So.

The guards knew he had powers… and that the drugs they had given him would not deprive him of them forever.

Feeling relief from a fear he had been unable to acknowledge, Wulfston began considering how he might escape as he turned and continued down the stairs.

At the bottom they entered a wide, high-ceilinged foyer. To his left were the massive iron doors of the castle’s main entrance, closed and barred. To his right were an impressive pair of teakwood doors, also closed, each with the face of a roaring lion carved in its center.

The two guards now flanked him, pausing for a moment before the doors. Wulfston squared his shoulders and took a deep calming breath as they pushed open the doors and ushered him into-

— a gallery of a hundred silent, staring people.

Two stone tiers, each higher than a man was tall, curved around the huge room in a semicircle. Seated on each level were perhaps a dozen ebony-skinned men and women in high-backed thronelike chairs.

Each was dressed in elaborately embroidered finery, some in robes similar to Aventine fashion, others in gowns or caftans such as he associated with Africa. About each person’s neck was a talisman on a gold chain. All had the bearing of rulers.

Each chair was flanked by two people standing, some hulking bodyguards, some more like his own retainers at home. All were impressively attired, as were the two dozen or so men and women standing on the floor level, against the curved wall directly ahead of him.

Emotion charged the air. People stared, pulling back in their seats as Wulfston and the two guards strode into the brightly lit chamber. It felt for one moment as if this vast assembly of strangers recognized him-with fear.

The mood was dispersed by the sudden yapping of dogs. Wulfston was unreasonably pleased to see Traylo and Arlus, even though they were leashed and restrained by two men flanking a young woman at the center of the lower tier.

Wulfston recognized her: the girl with the blowgun at the well!

His captor.

But now she was resplendent in a gold gown, her hair elaborately upswept-no village maiden this, but a woman of consequence.

When the guards stopped, so did Wulfston. His mind was on that girl/woman of catlike beauty, green-eyed and serene. She smiled enigmatically as she reached one hand to the head of each pup. Their barking ceased at once, and they sat like well-trained house pets.

Wulfston felt as subdued as the dogs. He wanted to bide his time, see what was asked of him, store up information, but he dared not appear passive and compliant.

A throat cleared, pulling his gaze upward to a middle-aged woman on the upper tier, directly above the woman in gold. She had the same catlike air, but in the older woman it was more like that of a lioness staring at her dinner. Her resemblance to the younger woman was unmistakable.

“Lord Wulfston of the Savage Empire,” she said coldly, “I am Ashuru, Queen of the Karili Nation.” Her voice was soft, but it resounded clearly off the chamber walls. She spoke Trader’s Common with an accent much different from Sukuru’s or Chulaika’s. “We would know why you have invaded our lands.”

“Invaded!” Wulfston’s first impulse was to defend himself, but the peculiar feeling that these strangers knew him when he knew nothing of them kept him from going beyond the single word of disbelief.

He remembered Nerius teaching him, “When powerful Adepts first meet, each seeks to impress, dominate, or intimidate-or to make the other appear to brag or bluster. Whether you sit on your own throne, or stand before another’s, you must gain the advantage and maintain it.”

The queen leaned forward. “Well?” she prompted.

My advantage, thought Wulfston. She displays impatience before her peers.

He countered with a contemptuous glance at the guards on either side of him.

Ashuru recognized that she had given him the upper hand, for he distinctly heard a low, angry sound come from her throat. She dismissed the two guards with a wave of her hand. They bowed and retreated.

“Now,” said the queen, “explain your presence in our lands.”

Excellent-he was now a presence rather than an invasion.

“Explain why,” he countered, “when I was shipwrecked on your shores, I was three times attacked when all I sought was to survive.”

“You entered Karili lands, wearing Karili clothing from one of our people you murdered,” Ashuru replied.

” Entered your lands thus attired,” Wulfston noted. “Then the man whose clothing I appropriated came out of your lands to attack me. I have done nothing to provoke your people, yet ever since I arrived in Africa my life has been in peril. Finally you,” he said, directing his gaze to the young woman in gold, “shot me down as I sought to quench my thirst. In my land, no stranger goes thirsty when there is water available.”

“You killed Gorimu, the son of one of our allies,” a new voice suddenly spoke up. It belonged to the young man standing beside the woman in gold. He bore a strong resemblance to her, but was a bit younger. “In recompense, my sister Tadisha had to risk her life to capture you. “

No wonder Ashuru hates me, Wulfston realized. A mother whose child has been endangered.

“Queen Ashuru, Princess Tadisha, and Prince…?”

“Kamas,” the boy supplied.

Wulfston continued, “I assume that Gorimu was one of the men who attacked me in the grasslands.

Another party tried to kill me on the beach. My ship was destroyed without so much as a warning, before I could even land- and I am the one accused of wrongdoing? Africans came to my land, and stole my brother Lenardo. They forced me to come to Africa against my will. Help me find Lenardo. I will take him home with me, and never set foot in Africa again.”

He felt Tadisha’s eyes on him, although he kept his gaze fixed on Ashuru. Beside the queen, a very old man stood peering at Wulfston, giving him the sense that his every word was being absorbed and examined, all nuances behind it unveiled. A Master Reader, he suspected, or the African equivalent.

Someone capable of determining whether he spoke the truth, as long as he did not brace his Adept powers.

The old man leaned forward and asked, “You have a brother? Is he not then a powerful Mover like yourself?”

Wulfston looked deliberately at the man, who appeared to be of Master Clement’s age. His face was wrinkled so that his eyes sank deep into his skull, bright coals glowing amid a dying fire. There was somehing else in those eyes, something very different from Master Clement’s calm benevolence, yet Wulfston sensed that this man knew him, and would reveal the truth of what he said.

From years of experience with Readers, Wulfston knew how to drop his mental defenses so that there could be no question of his honesty. Staring the old man in the eye, he did so now, for he had nothing to hide. “Lenardo is my sister’s husband, a Master Reader.”

“A sister,” the old Reader murmured significantly. Wulfston was annoyed; he didn’t want to explain that Aradia had not come because she was pregnant. He wanted to get on with the search for Lenardo.

Instead of asking the expected question, though, the old man stared trance-like at nothing for a moment, then said, “Your sister, but not by blood.”

Wulfston realized he must have seen the image of Aradia in his mind, which would certainly show anyone they were not blood-related. To forestall any further questions, he looked back to the queen and repeated, “Queen Ashuru, I do not want to be here. Will you help me find Lenardo, so that I may leave your lands?”

Before the queen could reply, her daughter said, “He did not ride into the village as an attacker, Mother.

He appeared to be just what he said, a thirsty traveler seeking water. With his powers, he could have easily taken those poor people if he had wanted them.”

“Barak?” questioned Ashuru, looking toward the aged Reader.

“Your daughter discerns the truth,” he replied. “Lord Wulfston did not come to invade Africa.”

Ashuru did not seem particularly pleased to have Wulfston declared innocent, but he was relieved, saying, “Thank you, Master Reader.”

The old face crinkled in a sad smile. “I am not a Seer- Reader, as you call such in your lands. I am a Grioka.”

“Grioka?”

‘Storyteller,” Ashuru explained, “although that is not an adequate description of Barak’s function. My daughter and I are Seers, but we expected you to approach us shielded with your Movers powers, preventing us from Seeing the truth of your words. Your history cannot be hidden from a Grioka.”

“I don’t understand,” Wulfston said. Even Lenardo could not Read an Adept braced to use his powers.

“I cannot See your thoughts,” Barak explained. “When I am in your presence, however, I know your history. Lord of the Black Wolf, I know who you are.”

Only later was Wulfston to realize the significance of Baraks words. At the moment his concern was to find out where Lenardo was. In the days he had been drugged and helpless, Sukuru could have taken the Reader almost anywhere. “Then you know that I came to Africa against my will. Does anyone here know where Sukuru is? He is the one who stole Lenardo. He had heard an exaggerated story about my Adept prowess-that I had defeated Drakonius single-handed. Perhaps he heard the tale from you, Barak?”

Barak studied him. “I have told this story,” he admitted. “The one from whom I learned it believed it. But Sukuru?” The Grioka frowned. “I do not know any Sukuru. And I would surely remember any man for whom I told such a rare tale.”

“Whether he was the one who called for the telling, I don’t know,” said Wulfston, “but the story brought him to me. When I would not leave my lands to fight in a cause I knew nothing of, he kidnapped Lenardo to force me to follow him to Africa. I have already lost many days. I don’t know if Sukuru still has Lenardo. Z’Nelia attacked my ship; how do I know she did not also destroy his? He professed to be her enemy.”

“Z’Nelia?” Ashuru scoffed. “Lord Wulfston, Z’Nelia is queen of a small country on the other side of Africa. She doesn’t have to power to wreck a ship on the west coast!”

Wulfston was about to protest, when he saw the expression on Barak’s face. The man was at war with himself. In the silence left by Wulfston’s lack of reply, the Grioka finally said, “Queen Ashuru, it is true.

Z’Nelia does have such power.”

The whisper of a drawn breath swept through the assembly, and suddenly everyone was staring at Barak. “Why,” asked Ashuru, “have you never told us this?”

“The time was not fulfilled, until today,” the Grioka replied.

“And so we have had only rumors!” the queen said angrily. “Four years ago the Savishnon warriors were stopped in Z’Nelia’s lands… and no one knew how. All that remains where the battle took place are the Dead Lands, which no Seer may investigate, for to seek to See into them is to die!”

Wulfston had deliberately kept himself open to Reading all this time, and now even his limited powers were overwhelmed with Ashuru’s fury. Thank the gods it was directed at Barak, and not at him! The queen continued, “My own teacher died, his spirit trapped in the Dead Lands, attempting to discover what had happened at Johara-and all the time, Barak, you knew?”

Barak said, “This tale I intended never to tell.”

The members of the Assembly stirred again, and Ashuru voiced their rage. “We face the Savishnon, and possibly Z’Nelia’s powers as well, and you would have left us in ignorance?”

But it was to Wulfston Barak spoke. “Shangonu willed that I repeat the tale that is responsible for your presence here, Lord of the Black Wolf. I fear you will have to fight Z’Nelia, whether you wish it or no. If I tell now of Z’Nelia’s defeat of the Savishnon, and the making of the Dead Lands, perhaps you will learn something that will allow you to survive.”

The Assembly fell silent, and even Ashuru’s mental fury abated as all waited for the Grioka to begin.

Barak’s words were stock phrases of bards the world around, but as Wulfston listened, the Assembly faded away, and they were at the city of Johara, four years earlier. It was like nothing he had ever experienced listening to a bard; he knew things as if he had lived in Africa all his life, felt the apprehension of the people of Johara…

Hordes of desert warriors swept down from the north, looting and burning and killing. In the name of their god, Savishna, they slaughtered all who opposed them. Their bloody trail spanned half the continent, but narrowed sharply at Johara, the richest and most beautiful city in Africa.

The six armies of Savishna surrounded the city’s fortified walls while the commanders waited to see what futile ransom the royal family would offer. They failed to reckon with the powers and determination of Queen Z’Nelia.

Z’Nelia was not in Johara, although her Seers wove visions of deception to make the Savishnon Seers perceive her there. Two days before the armies arrived, Z’Nelia and her family had traveled to Mount Manjuro, to use their powers to waken the sleeping fire demon.

Only the queen returned from that perilous journey, her mount dropping with exhaustion as she arrived within the gates. “Tell our enemies,” she instructed the Seers whose vigil had protected her city, “that here Savishna will meet his match.”

As the message was delivered, Mount Manjuro thundered with renewed life.

When the Savishnon did not flee as she had hoped, Z’Nelia stood upon the parapets and summoned the fire demon. The sky grew dark. The mountain unleashed a river of death.

Liquid fire poured onto the plains surrounding Johara, burning everything in its path. The Savishnon had no time to flee; thousands of warriors were consumed in minutes. The few survivors fled, their dreams of conquest shattered.

Savishna sought revenge.

Strength already depleted from the steady use of her powers, Z’Nelia now fought to save her own people from the force she had unleashed. The river of fire lapped at the walls of Johara.

Other Movers supported her efforts, but fell, one by one, their powers exhausted. Z’Nelia stood alone, diverting the river of fire around her city, protecting her people to the last of her strength.

When finally the burning river began to harden into rock, it surrounded the entire city, but Johara itself remained an island in the frozen flow. Z’Nelia had saved her people.

The cost was all her strength. She dropped where she had stood, and as she lay helpless, a Savishnon spy who had infiltrated the city struck her with a knife!

He was killed at once by the mob, but it appeared he had accomplished his revenge. There were no healers for Z’Nelia. Every Mover in Johara lay unconscious, powers exhausted from trying to control the fire demon.

Seers rushed to Z’Nelia’s aid, stanching the blood flowing from her wound, but until the next day no one with healing powers could help her… nor could the Seers reach her wandering spirit.

From the full moon to the third quarter, the healers of Shangonu’s temple kept Z’Nelia’s heart beating.

Seers searched the planes of existence for her spirit-and their own spirits failed to return.

When the scattered Savishnon spread to other lands, bringing incoherent tales of what had happened at Johara, other Seers left their bodies to find out the truth-and lost themselves in turn. Hence the legend that to attempt to See into the Dead Lands-the lands ravaged by the fire demon-was to die.

The tale ended. Wulfston blinked, astonished to be back in the Karili Assembly.

He gathered his wits, and stared at Barak. “But Z’Nelia is alive and well now,” he said. “What happened?”

“I do not know. When the lava cooled I left Johara. Some say the queen’s eventual return to life and health was not accomplished by the priests and priestesses, that Z’Nelia found her own way back from the home of the dead. And she returned with more power than any Mover ever dreamed of possessing.”

“That is an interesting story,” Ashuru put in, “but there are many things that it does not tell-such as what happened to the others who went to the volcano. Z’Nelia’s family. Who were they? Why didn’t they return to Johara with her?”

“The others were Z’Nelia’s husband, their son, and Z’Nelia’s sister,” Barak said. “Some say the fire demon demanded their lives in sacrifice.”

“And what do people say who know that a volcano is a natural object, and not a god or a demon?”

Wulfston asked.

“They say nothing… as Queen Z’Nelia would have it.”

Wulfston wondered, “Have you been in Z’Nelia’s presence since the events you have just described?”

He saw and felt Barak’s hesitation, but before the Grioka could answer, the doors of the Assembly chamber were flung violently open, banging resoundingly against the walls, then remaining in place as a newcomer strode into their midst.

It was a plump, round-faced young man in elaborate green robes, carrying a spear like a walking staff.

The spearhead glittered, and it took Wulfston a few moments to realize that it was actually made of a huge, long-cut diamond.

Its owner could not be even twenty years old. He was slightly shorter than Wulfston, and had the same brown skin tone. Again that whisper of surprise went through the gathered rulers, as it had when they first saw Wulfston.

But it was Barak’s reaction Wulfston noted. The Grioka shrank back for a moment, as if he feared the younger man, but then he straightened determinedly, staring defiantly.

The boy turned his attention to Ashuru. “Members of the Karili Assembly,” he said with a gesture toward Wulfston, “why has this prisoner not been sent to me as I ordered?”

“Because, Prince Norgu,” Ashuru replied with a slight stress on the title, “you have no right to order the Karili in anything. You have our respect as ruler of the Warimu, no more. If you care to join our Assembly-”

“I am King of the Warimu,” the boy replied, his attempt at insulted dignity coming out as a pout. “My powers are greater than any of yours. However,” he added, rescuing himself from acting completely the fool, “I have come to offer you my help. I will take this dangerous invader into my custody, for you have other, far more serious things to concern you. The Savishnon are gathering again to the north of the plain.

You need my powers, Ashuru. You need my armies.”

“The Savishnon were soundly defeated four years ago,” the queen told him. “They remain in small bands, an annoyance, but not a threat to a united front such as we represent. If you fear them, Norgu, you are welcome to join with us for protection.”

“You are the ones who need protection!” the boy fumed.

“All your great Seers have not warned you of the danger. See with me!”

It was as if the diamond head of his staff came alive with light-whirling colors that resolved into a view of the plain with its herds of animals, to the north of the huge lake. Apparently Norgu shared some of the talent of a Grioku.

Then they were traveling northward. The herds of beasts disappeared. Bands of horsemen appeared, growing more numerous as they converged on-

— a camp of thousands!

Around the shore of a small lake an army was gathered. They were making weapons.-arrows, spears, throwing sticks like the ones Wulfston’s attackers had used along the shore. Wagons brought whole trees from the strip of jungle separating the plain from the sea, and craftsmen built catapults, a certain sign that walled castles like Ashuru’s were included in their plans.

The vision faded.

“Norgu,” Ashuru said, “we thank you for this warning, and welcome you to our company.”

“I rule-”

“Will you waste your strength in a contest of powers when our common enemy is readying to attack?”

Ashuru demanded.

“The Savishnon will attack here first,” said Norgu. “If I do not aid you-”

“If you do not aid us,” Ashuru replied, “we may be able to stop them, and we may not. If they defeat our combined powers here, you will stand alone… in their path toward their avowed destruction of the city of Johara! Alone, Norgu, you will be squashed like a beetle beneath the foot of an elephant.”

“No one squashes me! Remember how I dealt with the assassins of Matu? Only a year ago, three assassins caught my father by surprise and killed him while his powers were weakened with use. Like you, they thought me too young to be a danger to them. But they were wrong!” He raised the diamond-headed spear. “They had lost the element of surprise. After they had murdered my father they turned on me, but I easily deflected their pain and their thunderbolts! Summoning my powers, I picked up my father’s fallen spear, and with all my Mover’s strength flung it at them, piercing all three bodies at once! Thus did I revenge my father’s death. Thus did I become King of the Warimu. And thus will I treat all who deny me the rights Shangonu has given me with my powers!”

With that, Norgu leveled the spear at Wulfston, the diamond tip pointed at his throat.

“Would you be a Grioka, Norgu?” Barak suddenly challenged. “Then you must speak only truth. Child, you would like to believe this story as you have just told it, but you have not succeeded in destroying the actuality of that terrible day. What truly occurred was tragic-a wound you have yet to heal.”

Again Barak’s storytelling powers took them all to a different time and place. This time the scene was a village outside the walls of a castle-Norgu’s castle. It was a sunny day. Women gathered at the river that ran nearby, to gossip as they washed clothes. They looked healthy and prosperous, as did the children splashing in the stream.

Norgu, looking slightly younger and even chubbier than he did today, walked beside an older man-his father, Matu, Wulfston knew with everyone else. The older man carried the diamond-headed staff.

Matu was instructing his son; Wulfston was strongly reminded of the days when Nerius took him out into the villages, and taught him his duties to their people.

The lesson was familiar. “While it is true that your people must fear your power, they should fear only to disobey. Do not be capricious, Norgu, or they will hate you. Hate can overcome even the greatest fear…

and then your people will turn on you. If they have not the courage to attack you, they will simply fail to defend you from your enemies. And enemies rise quickly against the ruler who does not have the support of his people.”

“But we are great Movers, Father,” Norgu protested. “We can protect ourselves from our enemies.”

Matu shook his head. “It is no blessing that your powers have developed so early, my son. Already they nearly equal mine, but I have the wisdom of experience. I have friends with powers-friends, Norgu, not servants or reluctant allies. If I need help in teaching you that no man can stand alone against the world, I will have it.”

They came into the marketplace, where people turned to smile and bow as their ruler and his son passed.

Beside the well at the center of the market was a canopied stand with two thronelike chairs. Matu and Norgu took their places, and people began coming forward one by one with their petitions.

Wulfston was impressed. This was the way he had been taught to rule, making himself available to his people at certain times and places where no one could be turned away.

There were differences, though. He liked the way Matu and Norgu came alone, no guards or servants, into the midst of their people. It was friendlier than making them come into the castle-more like Lenardos habit of taking petitions in the forum at Zendi, although he was always amidst a retinue.

Most of the petitions were for healing. The two Movers were also Seers, able to locate broken bones, infections, growths inside people’s bodies, and thus work as the best healers did at home. Matu did most of the healing, Norgu observing as a Seer, learning the techniques.

Wulfston was interested in the way Matu used the diamond-headed staff, touching its head to his patients as if his power flowed through it. He had never before seen an Adept use an instrument to focus his powers. Once

Matu handed it to Norgu, and had the boy heal a vicious infection inside a man’s bowel that had him in agonizing pain.

As the strain and paleness left the man’s face, he looked up at Norgu and whispered, “Shangonu bless you,” and drifted off into healing sleep.

Matu put a hand on his son’s shoulder, and Norgu smiled at him. Then he returned the staff, and Matu continued with his work.

Wulfston estimated that the work Matu had done by then would leave an average Lord Adept weary-not exhausted, but ready for a good meal and a night’s sleep. If Matu went on, it would suggest that his powers were beyond the average for a ruler, more on the level of Wulfston’s or Aradia’s.

Soon, though, Matu stood. “At the quarter-mooR,” he said, “there will be another healing day. None left among you is in pain, or has any problem that will be worsened by waiting until then.”

“Excellent king!”

It was a cry of despair. Matu looked up sharply, and he and Norgu Read a ragged group of strangers guiding a rickety wagon drawn by a half-starved donkey. A woman ran forward, her emotions a jumble of grief and terror. “Oh, King Matu, please! My husband!”

On the wagon a man lay moaning, burned so badly that he hardly appeared human.

The moment Matu Read his pain he gasped, then sent the man to sleep, saying, “Bring him here at once.”

Two men in hooded robes shoved the wagon forward while a third lashed the exhausted donkey.

Matu touched the diamond-headed spear to the injured man’s forehead, and concentrated. Norgu Read that the patient was close to death, and was stepping forward to add his strength to that of his father when he suddenly Read something from the anxious woman.

Yes, the man was her husband, and yes, she was terrified for his life, but she was desperately trying to hide other fears-of the three men who appeared to be helping her!

Norgu turned his Seeing powers on them, and found them blank, braced to use Movers’ powers.

“Father!” he cried-too late!

The same flames they had used to burn the poor man- their safe passage into Matu’s village-suddenly consumed Matu!

Norgu’s father gasped as flames roared through his clothing, seared his hair-

Then the fire was out, and he turned to face his attackers. A lightning bolt shot from the diamond-headed spear, and one of the three fell dead.

Norgu turned one of the others into a tower of flame, but it was out almost as it had begun. This was a powerful Mover!

With hardly a glance at Norgu, he reached out toward the other surviving Mover as Norgu saw his father stagger. They had made him use up the last of his strength!

The two Movers joined hands, concentrated-

Norgu wrenched the diamond-headed-spear from his father’s unsteady hands and pointed it at the two Movers. Power flowed through him, concentrated in the diamond head-

And the bolt of lightning missed its mark as his father’s scream jarred his concentration!

He turned to be splattered in the blood of Matu’s exploding body!

Norgu screamed in turn, grief and rage mingled in pure animal savagery.

Now the two Movers were concentrating on him, but he had the spear. With the tip he caught the energy directed at him, all his strength concentrated on controlling, redirecting-

With a savage howl, he flung the power back at the closest of the attackers. The man’s body sprung gouts of blood, his dying scream a drowning gurgle.

Panting with exertion, Norgu faced the last attacker. He reached for his Movers powers, and found little left. But surely that other Mover was also exhausted. Reason was slowly returning; all he had to do to kill the man was stop his heart. That didn’t take much effort.

He pointed the spear, concentrated-

The Mover faltered, but recovered. He raised his hand. Norgu knew he would send flame or lightning, and wasn’t sure whether he still had power to deflect it, But-

The target was clear.

With all his physical strength, Norgu flung the diamond-headed spear straight into the heart of his attacker!

For a moment there was silence. Norgu waited numbly, emotions frozen.

Then, once he was certain his legs would obey him, he walked over to the still-quivering body, put his foot on it, and drew out the bloody spear.

He turned to where his father had been, where there were now only gobbets of flesh and splatters of blood.

The woman cowered beside the wagon, whimpering.

Norgu pulled her to her feet. She was already spattered in Matu’s blood, but his hand left its print in red on her sleeve. “Go,” he told her. “Take your husband, who is even now healing at the cost of my father’s life.”

“Prince Norgu, they burned him! I had to do what they told me-”

“And I should kill you for it,” he replied, transferring his bloody hand to her throat. The terror in her eyes was sweet. “But who better than you to carry my message? Matu is dead, but Norgu lives! Norgu lives and holds power; let others come against me only at their peril.”

He turned, eyes raking over the silent villagers, who had witnessed the entire scene. “So much,” he announced loudly, “for Matu’s belief that his people would protect him! Let it be known that Norgu will protect himself-and not waste his powers on the likes of you!”

Again Wulfston experienced the disorientation of returning from the Grioka’s vision to the present in the Karili Assembly chamber.

Norgu was glaring at Barak, but the Grioka seemed to have no more fear of him. So the young prince turned to Ashuru. “This tale still presents ample evidence of my powers-which have grown since that day. You need-”

“Norgu, you need a parent’s teaching,” said Ashuru. “We all feel for your terrible loss, but it is a loss to us, too, for Matu would have taught you to be a wise ruler as well as a powerful one. As it is, you are a fifteen-year-old boy with powers you do not know how to use properly.”

Norgu is only fifteen! Wulfston thought in astonishment. No wonder he acts childish: he is a child-

an extremely dangerous one.

Ashuru obviously knew that. She was trying again to persuade Norgu to join with the Karili Assembly against the Savishnon. “There may be none of us here with the powers you will have when you are fully mature,” she ended, “but we have a wealth of experience, Norgu. Let us teach you as Matu would have, so that you will be a great king one day.”

“I need none of your teaching about how to be weak! But you need my help against the Savishnon. Give me this prisoner-he gestured toward Wulfston once again-“and I will join my powers with yours.”

“Lord Wulfston is not a prisoner!” Tadisha spoke up. “He has spoken truly to us before the Grioka, and opened his mind to our Seeing powers. No one in Africa has the right to hold him prisoner, Norgu.”

“Does your daughter speak for you, Ashuru?” Norgu asked.

The Karili queen looked around the assembly, getting nods from every direction. “She speaks for us all.”

“Then I speak for myself!” Norgu spat. “You can face the Savishnon without my help, but when this man brings on your destruction”-he pointed to Wulfston with his left hand, the one not holding the spear-“you can remember that I would have kept him away from you if you had let me!”

Wulfston hardly heard the last words Norgu spoke. He was staring at the boy’s left hand. On it shone a gold ring in a familiar shape. He had to see it up close!

Norgu spun, cloak swirling dramatically, and stalked out of the Assembly chamber. Without a thought, Wulfston started after him.

“Lord Wulfston!” It was Tadisha’s voice, but it held him only for one step. He had to see that ring, for it was as if Norgu had deliberately waved it before him.

“Prince Norgu!” he called.

The boy continued as if he hadn’t heard.

Wulfston had to run to catch up to him, and they were out in the courtyard before he could pass the boy and stop, facing him, barring his path. “Prince Norgu, I believe you have knowledge concerning the man I am looking for: a Reader-Seer, you would call him-named Lenardo.”

“This Lenardo,” Norgu asked, cocking his head to one side, “he is a white man?”

“Yes,” Wulfston replied, certain now that Norgu knew where he was. The boy had his left hand hidden beneath his cloak. Wulfston resisted the urge to grab for it and get a good look at that ring.

“Seer, I do not know,” Norgu said, his manner now grave-but he was play-acting, putting on a false sympathy that grated on Wulfstons nerves as he continued. “A white man traveling with Zionae… Was he quite tall, with dark hair and beard?”

“Yes,” Wulfston said tightly, afraid to let his mind hear the past tense.

“Then… you can but avenge his death.”

“What? No-it couldn’t be Lenardo!”

“The party of travelers,” Norgu replied, “was attacked by other Zionae, under the orders of Z’Nelia.

All-the people he traveled with and their attackers-were trespassing in my lands. It was reported to me. Too late, unfortunately. There was a battle of Movers, over before I arrived to drive them out.

Everyone was killed, everyone on both sides.”

“It couldn’t be-”

“There was a woman with a small child in the party,” said Norgu, and Wulfston’s heart sank. Chulaika and Chaiku had obviously rejoined Sukuru. Shock created a buzzing in his ears as the plump young ruler went on, “The Zionae wore nothing that would identify them, but from the hand of the dead white man I took this.”

Numbly, Wulfston put out his hand, and Norgu laid on his palm the gold ring. The intricate carving glinted, blurring as his eyes filled with tears-but not before he saw clearly the intertwined figures of wolf and dragon.