For a moment she considered seizerting there, but the distance daunted her. She could see and hear them; she watched them at work, sitting chained like slaves to consoles of equipment. They spoke to each other. Their voices were serious, high-pitched, and slow. She concentrated on their speech patterns, but those were difficult to understand. Monitoring their thoughts, chaotic and not ordered by rings, was not much easier. Frustration filled her.
She projected an image of herself into their midst. Several shouted. One jumped up from his chair, gesturing. His hand signals made no sense. He looked like an idiot. She frowned, displeased to find him in charge.
Then a second man, one seated apart from the others, unfastened the restraints around his body and rose to his feet. He was the calmest of the group. He spoke to the others, his voice sharp but controlled, and they quieted. He stared at Aural with a frown.
He was a short creature, matched in height to most of his crew, yet the top of his head did not come to her shoulder. His hair was the color of vegin wood—dark brown tinted with red—and cropped short to his head. His face was haired below his nose and across his jaw. His eyes were small and repulsively colored. She had never seen eyes that were dots of green in the center surrounded by the white of blindness. He could not have complete vision with such eyes. She wondered how he managed to do his work. Yet all the others had similar eyes and they seemed as unimpaired as he.
She let her image shimmer closer to him. His strange eyes grew wider, but he did not move. They faced each other.
Human, she said. Hear me.
She spoke to his mind. He winced and lifted a hand to his temple. Then he turned away from her and spoke sharply to one of his crew.
Human. She probed deeper into his mind, cutting across resistance barriers and drawing his chaotic thoughts into a small ring.
Must identify alien life form. Projection. Hologram? No, unlikely. Mental. Demos, my head aches. No telepathic hijinks with me. No! What the devil was Saunders doing all the way out here? I’ll have her busted down to the bottom. Knew her brother. Just as stubborn. Does this alien know her? Why haven’t they put out a communication buoy? Or at least fired warnings? Not even a fleet. Must be wide open. But who is she? Beautiful. A giantess. More than beautiful. Get out of my head, damn you!
I am Aural, she said, steadying him. She forced his thoughts into order, seeking the ability within him to answer her. Communicate your name.
McKey. Angus. Captain Angus McKey of the SIS Dorian Grey. Number 444—
Enough. Why have you come here? To conquer us? We are an independent people. This world is our own.
We come in peace, said McKey. We—
Don’t lie! I look upon you with truth. You have orders to investigate this world and if it is promising you will claim it for your masters.
Our sensors have told us—
I am not interested in your machines. Let us bargain together. I shall give you the mineral wealth of this world in exchange for your ships and crews to man them.
I am not authorized to make deals. That is for my superior officers—
Relay to them.
McKey hesitated, then he said, We are here in search of a downed ship. The Forerunner. Have you encountered either her or her crew? Captain Asos Lute? Navigator Rhyi Saunders? A criminal drone masquerading as Helmsman Blaise Omari? Hassid? Any of these?
Your questions are unimportant at this time.
Have you knowledge of these people?
Aural frowned. She disliked his insistence. For a moment she withdrew from his mind. He swayed, his face paling to a queer gray color.
Yes, she replied at last. I have knowledge.
Where?
First our bargain, Captain McKey. There is war and unrest among my people. Assist me, and I shall assist you.
Her strength was exhausted. She withdrew her image from the ship and snapped back within the shaky circle of her own rings. Her eyes fluttered open, but it was a moment before she could see. Her breath rattled in her throat. She reached out and touched the comforting solidity of stone, cold and gritty beneath her fingertips. Her knees gave way beneath her, and she sank down in a heap, fumbling in her sleeve for the vial of yde.
She licked up the last of the bitter-tasting powder in desperation, then closed her eyes as it took hold of her and renewed her strength. She should not use yde so often. Her addiction might get out of hand. But this time her recklessness was justified. As soon as she had rested she would contact the humans again for their answer.
She rose to her feet and smoothed her pleated skirts. It was time to put the second part of her plan into motion.
The soft patter of slippered feet warned her a split second before a voice as tart as aged honey said,
“Plotting alone in the coldest corner of this old pile. Is there an aesthetic pleasure in it? Does shivering inspire you? But I am being disrespectful once again. How tiresome of me.”
Aural paused a moment, seeking to control her anger, and did not turn to face Dame Pasau until her expression was smoothed into nothing that would betray her. She had not missed the deliberate usage of the familiar “you.” Dame Pasau, like far too many others, refused to completely believe that Aural had returned from the mists of legend to supremacy as Tsla leiis of this miserable world.
“I have been to visit Dame Zaula,” Aural said as though her rings were serene and her fists were not clenched inside her wide sleeves.
The impudent expression vanished from Dame Pasau’s face. Suddenly she looked exasperated and old, her fawn-tinted skin withered at the mouth and eyes, the elaborate tattoo covering her forehead faded of its once-brilliant color. She had been born in the House of Spandeen and was still inclined to their love of excessive display. Her gown was all of gold, stiff and shimmering, with exquisite beadwork across the wide skirts and a pleated ruff standing up behind her head. She looked as though she were dressed for a visit of state, and for an instant Aural thought she was on her way to visit Zaula in the manner of custom.
“Poor idiot,” said Dame Pasau. “Does Zaula understand that there will be no visits, no feasts, no homage? She has never been an intelligent person. Her marriage to Leiil Hihuan was an unrivaled feat of political maneuvering on the part of her father and matriarch. But she must forget all that now. I hope you have not raised hopes in her head by going to her?”
Aural narrowed her eyes. “She is the fool, not I.”
“She should have died. It was a difficult birth. My head still echoes with all the screaming last night. But then she should have died when Hihuan did. Now she will meddle. She will drive Unar mad, or else bewitch him. He never could resist a pretty little body.”
“She won’t meddle.”
Something flickered in Dame Pasau’s eyes. “A riddle, is it? What have you done, locked her away? A waste of guards, especially now when Unar needs all the manpower he can find. The Soot’dla have arrived.”
Aural blinked, startled by that last, unexpected statement. “What?”
“Ah, so there are things you don’t monitor.”
Aural frowned, angry at herself for showing surprise and angry at Dame Pasau for provoking it. “They have come quickly.”
“Of course. It is an emergency. The Bban horde must be stopped from committing any more atrocities. Come,” said Dame Pasau, actually taking Aural’s sleeve. “Don’t look at me as though you mean to strike me dead for my impertinence. I’m too old to care, and there’s more at stake here than your notions of self-consequence.” She paused and cocked her head. “Or don’t you want to be present when I receive Dame Agate, the traitoress?”
Aural stared down at her, and after a second her anger began to fade. Reluctantly she returned the matriarch’s smile, recognizing for the first time that perhaps she had a better puppet here than Unar would ever be. Better, because Dame Pasau would assume she was an ally and would never know the extent to which she was being used in a far larger, far more serious contest.
Aural gestured g
raciously. “Lead, noble dame.”
The reception hall of the citadel was long and narrow with a tall vaulted ceiling that made it impossible to heat or light adequately. Fires had been lit in braziers set all along the room, but they were a poor, smelly comfort. Aural’s eyes stung from the smoke. She retreated, deciding not to go in. These petty political meetings bored her.
But as she backed up, she collided with a muscular chest. Her smallest rings flickered against Unar’s, and sparks struck in a friction that made her shiver with excitement. She turned quickly to face him, smiling into his eyes.
He smiled back, his handsome face relaxing from its stern lines. His gaze roamed, savoring the beauty of her lithe body. Pleased, she tilted back her head, basking in his worship. Unar was a straightforward man, ambitious and sufficiently short on conscience. He was very easy to lead.
“My Unar,” she murmured, her voice husky. Her rings enticed his to level one, darting, teasing to level two. She heard the breath tangle in his throat. “Battle armor. Guards around you. Rationed fuel flaming in every hearth. Is all this display just to impress the Soot’dla?”
His eyes were beginning to glaze. She watched the struggle in his face as he sought to control himself away from her seduction.
“There—there is no time for anything less,” he said thickly, averting his gaze from hers. “A regency must be declared. The houses must unite now before the Bban horde strikes again. Then we’ll show those curs how the true Tlar’jen fight!”
“You sound as though you have been practicing those ringing phrases in your chamber.”
He frowned. “Now that Asan the usurper is dead—”
“Not dead!” she said swiftly. “I feel his life. How he has escaped yet again, I don’t understand, but—”
Unar gripped her arm hard, making her wince. “You told me you did not rebond after your resurrections.”
“We did not! Don’t doubt my word.” Angrily she pulled free. “If he died now I would be safe, but I would still know it. There are times, Unar, when your jealousy is tiresome.”
He started to answer, but in the reception hall a gong sounded. His eyes flickered past her.
“It is time,” he said, pushing her aside. “Go and bring the child. They will insist on seeing her.”
Furious, she lifted a hand. “I am no nursemaid, to run and fetch! I am—”
“Bring her,” he said, and entered the reception hall with his guards behind him.
She clenched her fist, tempted for a moment to strike him dead. Her long hair, burnished ruddy gold in the flare of torchlight, swirled and lifted about her with a crackle of static electricity. She could destroy this place, hurl it to rubble with not one stone left lying atop another. She could leave these tiny men who dared call themselves descendants of the mighty Tlartantlans to perish out in the cold desert of a barren world. She could expel her breath and lash the winds to a fury unmatched by the black devis of Kathra season.
Her rings spread, dark with anger, and a low rumble shook the citadel beneath her feet. The walls trembled. Dust rained down from the ceiling, and a crack split the mosaic pattern of celadon and amber tiles set into the jate-stone floor.
“Thus…” she breathed, laughing to herself, and spread her fingers.
The tremor stopped, and the silence within the reception hall broke into a confused babble of voices. Dame Pasau called out, demanding a return of order. A pair of guards ran past Aural, their footfalls heavy, their shielding rattling beneath their cloaks.
Dame Agate—the tall, emaciated matriarch of the infamous Soot’dla—appeared in the doorway to face Aural. Behind her, there were still requests for order and no cessation of the noise.
Aural stared at Dame Agate, hating her on sight. Agate had the haughty curves in nose and cheekbone of the oldest bloodlines. Her hair was scraped back tightly from her face and kept hidden beneath a cowled hood of leadweave. She wore tattered work clothes of leadweave and leather, nomad clothes, Bban clothes. Aural’s nostrils wrinkled back from the scents of sweat, dung smoke, and animals.
Agate’s gaze caught the movement of swift revulsion. Her eyes glittered.
“Thy powers have not been forgotten by all, noble leiis,” she said. Her voice was raspy and low. She turned her head so that Aural glimpsed the house mark burned into her right cheek. “I have met thy ring-mate on the plains of Ddreui—”
Aural swept her palm down. “That union is dissolved. We walk no more together.”
Dame Agate shrugged as though the denial was unimportant. Her eyes grew distant with visions. “The mighty Asan. Tall, handsome, powerful. Straight from the legends of my girlhood, unchanged and no disappointment. Now, I meet Aural. Another legend come to life. Will all the Jewels of M’thra rise?”
“Of course. We are the true race. We have been sealed away too long.”
“Is Asan dead?”
Aural half turned away. “Your questions are impertinent, old one.”
“He must reactivate Anthi.”
Agate’s choice of words made Aural glance back. She frowned at the old woman, who spread her fingers wide.
“I am not superstitious, like the Bban tribes, nor am I lazy, like my fellow Tlar’n. We need Anthi to work again. The food will not grow properly—”
“Food.” Aural lost interest.
“Has thou lost the need to eat? Has thou lost the need for warmth? Are thou so strong thou needs no planetary defenses to protect thee from those who have come in spaceships?”
“What do you know of those?” demanded Aural sharply.
Dame Agate smiled and turned over her hand. Her palm was crossed with thin scars. “My rings of sight are strong, noble leiis. I require no yde to help me see what is happening around me.”
Aural drew in her breath with a hiss, unable in that moment of fury to speak.
“The houses must unite around the infant. We must bargain a truce with the Bban tribes in order to face whatever has come to our world.” Dame Agate paused, a frown creasing her face. “The last time a ship came to Ruantl, Asan was the result. And thyself.”
“And the destruction of Altian.”
“Complex patterns,” said Dame Agate, turning her head as someone shouted within the reception hall. Then she stared right at Aural. “Our world is our own, noble leiis. Do not give it away.”
To be read as easily as though she were a Henan slave…Furious and somewhat alarmed, Aural gathered her cloak around her and seizerted to the central chamber of the citadel. The safest, most defensible area, normally it held a generator to power the stronghold, but none of the equipment worked without Anthi. It had been converted into a nursery, with two attendants stationed there at all times to regulate the fires burning in the braziers and to care for Cirthe’s needs.
The attendants were gone. She knew that even as she materialized in the oval room hung with tapestries and carpeted with white borlorl fur. Her feet sank into the thick fur, and she almost stumbled as she ran to the tiny bed carved from rose quartz. Lined with the softest, costliest fabrics in the Mura-an treasury, it too was empty.
Cirthe was gone.
“No!” shouted Aural.
Panic snapped her rings apart. She stood there blind and shaking, unable to think. Unar could have sent a servant to fetch the child. Just because Aural planned to spirit Cirthe away did not mean that another had done so first.
Drawing in a deep breath, she focused herself, forcing calm to her rings as she re-formed them one by one. She quested first through the reception hall, delicately, well aware of the agile minds gathered there who could sense her intrusion. No, Cirthe was not there.
Again a sense of panic destroyed her concentration. She cursed and continued her search, level by level, desperation making her faster and less cautious.
Cirthe!
It was as though the infant had ceased to exist. There was not even a ghost ripple of Cirthe’s patterns fading among the overlapping structures of time and essence. Where could she be? More
importantly, who had taken her? Who was strong enough to conceal Cirthe’s unique patterns?
The answer whispered through her mind, a vision of the Soot’dla scar entwining with her thoughts. She clenched her fists inside her wide sleeves. While Dame Agate had delayed her with conversation and insolence, Cirthe had been abducted.
Aural’s lip curled. She would teach the old woman to meddle.
Gathering herself, she seizerted into the reception hall with a flash of blue fire. Startled, several warriors stumbled back from her, their hands reaching for weapons they had removed before entering the citadel’s inner walls.
On the dais at one end of the hall, Unar shot to his feet in spite of the hand Dame Pasau clamped on his forearm.
“Lea’dl, noble leiis! What is this—”
“Treachery!” said Aural, her voice ringing out. She swung, pointing at Dame Agate, who sat encircled by her warriors, hands folded, eyes glittering. “She has taken—”
A tremendous clap of sound, like thunder only sharper, cut her off. The walls shook, and several people cried out in alarm. The noise grew louder, rumbling overhead as though the heavens themselves were falling upon the citadel. Torches snuffed out with loud pops.
Suddenly Aural couldn’t breathe. She gasped, struggling with lungs that were paralyzed. Around her men began choking, their hands at their throats, shaking themselves from side to side.
Aural staggered toward the dais. The world wavered and darkened around her. She had to seizert out of here.
But there wasn’t time. She was losing control. Her rings were fuzzy shadows swirling away from her. She stumbled into someone. A hand clutched her arm. She blinked and focused. It was Unar. His face was contorted and a queer shade of brown. He tried to speak. It came out as a gargled sound.
The humans! she thought. The treacherous fools would pay for this.
Her body arched back in a last convulsive effort to breathe. Then she was falling, unable to hear anything more, and conscious only of a fading sense of rage that death should be so swift.
Requiem for Anthi: Anthi - Book Two Page 6
