by Jean Lorrah
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.
&
nbsp; 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