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.”