The Children of Anthi: Anthi - Book One

by Deborah Chester

  “Gather yourselves!” he shouted hoarsely, cutting silent the uproar. “Ammal, Raan, Mliit! Seal the House. Raise all guardian systems. Now!”

  Their white faces gaped at him out of the shadows. “All?” faltered Ammal as Uble stumbled into sight beside him. “Even the—”

  “My noble,” broke in Uble wearily, “it is too late. The temple has been struck by light—”

  “It is not the weather we need fear,” snapped Picyt. “I have commanded you. Go!”

  As one they fled, gathering up their robes and seizing torches from other hands to light their way.

  A quivering slave, burned and gibbering, crawled across the floor to clutch at Picyt’s feet. Impatiently Picyt kicked him away as he caught the hot scent of fire.

  “Teecht!” he called in alarm, glancing again at the chaos. Part of the upper balcony that ran the full length of the transport bay had fallen, leaving torn and twisted strips of metal and wire hanging through the shadows. One transport lay on its side, its hull caved in by a mass of stone and wreckage fallen from above. The control centers were nothing but blackened holes belching smoke. Someone had made an effort to organize, for wailing grime-streaked slaves were hauling in containers of the precious food stores and piling them along a wall in haphazard stacks beside the injured, who lay moaning and unattended. Picyt looked up to a door above the balcony and saw that it was open, swinging on ruined hinges, and beyond in the stairwell orange flames licked out hungry tongues.

  “Teecht!” he shouted, angrily this time. He saw priests scurrying about, stumbling over technicians, who swore at them. Ah, there came the head technician, unhurt and erect as he strode grimly through the confusion. He picked his way around a mess of rubble and twisted metal and came up to Picyt, towing the n’dl firmly by one arm. Her clothes were torn, and as they stopped Picyt saw that one side of her face was burned. But both were safe. In relief he stepped forward to meet them.

  “What damage?” he asked curtly.

  Teecht’s craggy face, streaked by dirt and smoke, looked weary and old. “Lightning struck the temple. We had no shielding to raise over it. Damage is heavy through the entire complex save for the lowest levels.” He pointed about them. “And fire…there is much of it.”

  Involuntarily Picyt looked again toward the stairwell door, where the orange flames were brighter, as though raised in anger at the black shadow of a man valiantly beating them back. The tension within Picyt tightened, constricting his lungs until for one desperate second he knew only the overwhelming need for yde. How tempting it was to give way to despair and drown himself in the drug until he could crawl into a safe corner and sit locked in visions. Angrily he forced his weakness back, clearing his mind to deal with the problems before him. There was not much time. As soon as Hihuan could gather his forces, he would come.

  “The damage does not matter,” he said, quelling Teecht’s start of surprise with a frown. “I have sent Ammal and Raan to activate the guardian systems. Help them. They must have all power available to protect what is left of the House.” He paused, staring at the n’dl without really seeing her. “Was the bubble struck?”

  Teecht swept out his thick hand palm down. “No, revered noble. But the storm has worsened, and it is raining ice needles. They could damage the bubble beyond repair.”

  “Understood.” Picyt’s gaze flickered back to the n’dl, who stood taut and silent, her broad face drawn beneath the angry red mark across her cheek. But if she suffered pain or fear she did not show it. And despite the emergency of the moment he was impressed by her calm nerve. Involuntarily he smiled at her, then turned back to Teecht. “The palace will come against us as soon as this storm abates. We must hold our position here until we can evacuate to the northern Bban citadels and the Tchsco Mountains beyond.”

  Teecht caught his breath and raised his shaggy head. “Then the uprising—”

  “It has begun,” said Picyt grimly. He considered the inadequacy of their present position. Little preparation, the Bban’jen scattered, season raging, and this, their most important stronghold, destroyed so totally. “Send word to the tribes, and I must know what casualties and how much food we have. We must begin strict rationing at once. There will be no more food available, especially if Leiil Hihuan confiscates our fields.”

  Teecht’s eyes narrowed, but without question he bowed. “Yes, my noble. And the n’dl? I cannot work and guard her too.”

  Picyt frowned, distracted, as his mind began to work on strategy and future moves. “Leave her with me. Go.”

  Picyt’s presence alone went far toward reestablishing order, and under his direction the House gathered itself and descended to the lowest level beneath the city, where the hum of sealed machinery could be felt faintly through the stone tunnels. The priests no longer knew the location of the access point to that power source that supported the bubble and all devices providing heat and light within the palace and villas. Even Picyt was not certain how to reach it, although for a moment he was greatly tempted to destroy such comforts as another goad in Hihuan’s side. But destruction was not his purpose, and he directed his concern to the more important transfer of the sacred scrolls away from the hands of the looting Henan’n who would come as soon as the storm ceased. Picyt permitted himself no regrets for the ruined splendor of the temple. There was not time. Sustaining himself on yde and refusing to consider the danger of the diminishing supply of the drug, he toiled through the night, overlooking no detail, making sure nothing of use to his enemies was left behind. And when all was done, he donned his stole of office over a fresh robe of white and stood before the assembled group of filthy, exhausted adults, boys, and slaves.

  Saunders, who had worked as hard as anyone, stood in a corner once again under Oliir’s eyes, her bewildered gaze not wavering from Picyt.

  He eyed her for a moment, remembering her momentary excitement over the vast power sources hidden down here and how she had quieted and grown thoughtful when no one had spared time to find a medallion of tongues to answer her questions. He was tempted to send forth a bit of reassurance to clear away her frown of exhaustion, but he had not the strength left to touch her mind with his. Almost all of his inner resources were depleted by yde and fatigue. His rings swirled and disintegrated in ragged splinters, leaving his nerves raw. But still he stood erect and summoned a serene expression for the sake of his priests.

  He lifted his hand, and the low murmuring swelling through the assembly hall hushed and died away into a weary quiet. The room held the tainted smell of rot, and the damp walls and floor were uneven and broken from the pushing of settling earth. Dust webbed the corners in sodden piles of filth. Here and there he saw men shake themselves as tiny unnamed insects dropped from the cracked beams overhead. But all eyes, glazed with weariness and despair, were upon him. And he, First Honored of Anthi, accepted that responsibility, holding himself together for their sakes despite his grief and heartache and guilt at not having lifted the shields. In his pride he had taunted Hihuan, but it was Kkanthor that had suffered.

  The yde hunger tightened his veins, leaving him lightheaded and momentarily witless. To sleep, to purge, to be done with it…But it was just beginning. Ruthlessly he pushed away the weakness and focused his gaze.

  “We suffer this night, my kai,” he said in a low, gentle voice, drawing upon old methods to put reassurance and comfort into his tone. “We despair. We grieve for what is lost. But our war has begun, and we must win it. We shall win it. That we must throw forth blood in challenge to our own brethren, our own Tlar kind, does not matter. Of all the Tlar, only we remember the purpose that Anthi gave us. The true birth shall be brought about, no matter what price we must pay.” He saw an answering in some of the weary faces and let his own gaze flash. “This dawn shall see the Kkanthor-kai gone from Altian, to walk its streets with authority no more—for a time. Let them seek us. Let them wonder. Let them fear! Divine Anthi’s departure from their city is sufficient omen.” He lifted one long-fingered hand. �
�Now we go to cross the Outerlands. But when we are victorious, Anthi shall return to Altian to raise a new temple over a shining city. On my blood I swear it!”

  And as one they raised the laud chant to Anthi, voices husky and cracking.

  Moved, Picyt blinked fiercely and left the room, suddenly able to bear no more. At least no one had raised questions; at least no one had demanded to know why they must flee Altian at such an ill-timed moment. He hoped no one thought to wonder how Hihuan’s wrath had been incurred. Outside in the corridor he stopped, bracing himself upon the wall with his hand to his eyes. The chant rose up more strongly in the other room. He sighed, his body sagging. To rest…Dear Anthi, to rest…

  “Revered noble,” said a soft, concerned voice.

  He had heard no one follow him out. Wishing only to be left alone, Picyt raised his head, which suddenly seemed to weigh tons, and saw Oliir, Uble, and Teecht ringed around him, anxious. Where Basai had gone, he did not know. Behind them stood the n’dl, thinner than when she had first come to Ruantl. Somehow she looked, at this moment, particularly short, alien, and very much alone. He wondered how much of this she comprehended or cared about. Yet she had worked hard this night, giving no trouble. He would continue to find a use for her.

  He sighed. “Teecht, go and seal the middle levels behind us. Hihuan cannot reach us now. Not for a time.”

  “It shall be done,” said the technician, but he lingered, his grimy face creased in a frown.

  “Please, revered noble,” said Oliir in his shy, harsh voice, which no amount of training could ever soften. His young, skeletal face showed little expression in the wavering light of the torch Uble held, but Picyt knew how to read Bban eyes. He held his breath as those glowing golden orbs, now lightly tinted with a blue haze, stared into his. “How can we fight?” asked Oliir. “Who is to lead the Bban’jen? Is it not too soon? Have the elders been consulted? Can the tribes be made ready? Will they trust…us?”

  Weariness and a great sense of inadequacy stabbed deep into Picyt’s soul. It would have to be done, no matter how much he quailed inside from the thought. Asan must come forth from the caverns of M’thra. He would have to enter Asan, thus sacrificing his yde-riddled soul to raise the greatest of the Jewels. But he did not want to die just to bring Asan forth. The fear and sense of rebellion that never left him struck anew. Why should he die and give the full glory of the purpose to Asan?

  “Oliir’s questions are wise ones,” he said at last, goaded by their respectful silence. “But I know not when—” He faltered, hesitant to admit his own doubts when courage was so desperately needed. “If only—”

  “Revered noble!” A familiar, unexpected voice rang out from the length of the corridor, a gruff, firm voice filled with triumph.

  Disbelieving, Picyt saw a masked, cloaked Bban striding forth from the musty shadows, dust streaking his uniform and the black sand of the Outerlands still clinging to his boots. The eyes of the figure glowed a fierce scarlet through the mesh guards of his mask. For an instant Picyt clung to the wall, certain yde deprivation had raised a hallucination before him. But no! The others saw the Bban too.

  “Pon Tuult!” said Picyt hoarsely, stepping forward.

  “My noble.” Tuult came to an abrupt halt and knelt. As he did so, he took an object from beneath his cloak and sent it spinning across the stone floor to Picyt’s feet.

  Unsteadily Picyt bent to pick it up and for a moment stared uncomprehendingly at the unmarked mask in his hands. Then hope gripped him. “Tuult,” he said, his voice failing him. “You have—”

  Tuult rose to his feet with a proud gesture. “The n’ka is found!” he said, his voice ringing out over the chanting beyond. “And he lives! The Bban’n stand in honor once again!”

  Chapter 6

  Blaise came back to consciousness slowly with the sun beating down on his back. Around him the sigh of the desert wind blew over the black sand, eddying it in tiny waves. Cold bit under the breath of the wind with a chill that undermined the sun’s warmth. Blaise stirred slightly, dragging one hand through the coarse sand. The cloak tangled up about his neck and head was stifling him. With a groan he stirred again, his mind slowly clearing. The sun, he thought dully. The sun was cooking him in this black gear. Black…black sun…black star…X rays…mask! Understanding dawned. Of course they wore protective clothing and lead-lined masks. Otherwise they’d die of radiation poisoning. As he would, if he did not find his mask.

  With a grimace Blaise lifted his head, scraping his cheek on the gritty sand. This gave him a bleary glimpse of rock-strewn slope, but nothing else. Drawing in a deep breath, he levered himself onto his hands and knees, only to fall again with a sharp cry as agony from his leg washed over him in a crimson wave. Not for several minutes after the pain finally eased to a bearable degree could he bring himself to try again. This time he managed to balance himself upright on his left knee and to cling, gasping, to the gray boulder beside him until the throbbing eased in his head and his vision cleared. Sweat dampened his back, making him shiver as the wind fingered him. Squinting against the glare of the sun, he scanned the slope reaching up to the cave mouth. Ah, there it was.

  Bleakly he stared at the mask, lying half buried in the black sand at least thirty meters away. He wasn’t sure, as he glanced down at the seared, bloody mess of his right leg, that he could even drag himself half that distance. And yet he had to try. Unsure of how many hours he’d lain unconscious, he dared risk no more exposure. Blaise licked at his dust-coated lips. Water was something else he’d better find, although this terrain did not promise much chance of that.

  But the mask was of primary importance. Digging his fingers into the boulder’s pitted surface, Blaise gritted his teeth and pushed himself forward in a slow crawl, dragging his right leg and forcing himself to keep a steady, deliberate pace despite the fire that flamed through bone and flesh. It was like no pain he had ever experienced before. Even a strifer burn did not torture like this. It was as though the blue fire contained a chemical designed to linger in the wound and go on lacerating the tissue.

  Demos! he thought, dragging his quivering body forward inch by inch. Sweat poured into his eyes and his temples pounded. Blaise was not, by profession, a scrupulous man, but he had his own code of honor, and part of his ethics was to make a quick, clean business of killing. But to deliberately maim…He scowled, his lungs rattling harshly as each breath grew more difficult. Whether Hihuan knew it or not, he had made a mistake in leaving Blaise alive, for as he pulled himself along through the choking dust he vowed he would see the Tlar leiil pay for this.

  But as the going grew harder and slower and the mask seemed as far from reach as ever, thoughts of revenge faded, and a fog settled over him. He sagged lower and lower to the ground until he was crawling along on his belly with all his weight pulled by the flagging strength of his shoulders. Dust and sand ground into the raw flesh of his wound. His hands grew leaden. When he paused to wipe the sweat from his stinging eyes, he saw in horror that his hands were bleeding, shredded by the coarse sand that clung to the blood in thick clumps of black granules.

  For a moment Blaise could only lie still with his hot, sweating face buried against his arm. Gloves, he thought desperately, once his fevered mind finally realized that his jen uniform was impervious to the sand’s abrasion.

  Several days ago, in the idleness of captivity, he had stuffed the heavy gauntlets into the toes of his boots to make them fit better. Now they seemed as far beyond reach as the mask. But he would not give up.

  Coughing with a violence that pained his chest, he rolled over onto his back. For a minute or two he rested, his eyes shut against the sun as he counted his uneven breaths. When they had slowed, he clenched his hands and levered himself into a sitting position. Removing the left boot was relatively easy, once his head stopped spinning. Removing the right one was a nightmare that left him sick with pain. And when it was over and the immediate torture faded once more, he could still feel the fire grinding
along the bone in his thigh as though it were gnawing it away. Fear touched him then. Angrily he pushed it away.

  He wiped his swelling hands on the edge of his cloak, leaving red stains that soaked into the black fabric, and grimly fitted on the heavy black gloves. He refused to wonder if he’d ever get them off again. Survival was his field of expertise, an expertise honed to a fine craft since those first terrifying days of escape to a nonprotected planet. And while most of his experience lay with devious city streets filled with the shadow of the sophisticated dangers that lurked inside the deadly circles of the black market, he would not let this desert and its barbaric despot defeat him.

  With renewed determination he rolled back onto his stomach and resumed crawling toward the mask. Either his nerves were giving way to exhaustion or the pain was fading. He did not care which as long as he could keep going inch by slow, straining inch up the slope toward the mask.

  And then, incredibly, his outflung fingers grasped it. With a hoarse cry of triumph he pulled it down to him and lay exhausted with it held against his chest. Perhaps he was in time. Depending on the length and degree of exposure, he might get by without damage. Coughing, he snatched a deeper breath, wincing at the soreness in his chest, and opened his eyes. He noticed that that the grains of sand were crystalline, some the color of smoke, others slightly bluish in tint, and others dark purple. Beautiful, but of no importance.

  Focusing his attention on the task at hand, he forced himself up on one elbow and awkwardly drew up his hood, fastening the mask into place. At once the chill bite of wind and the glare of sunlight were cut off. He sighed, his confidence unconsciously renewed. Then he sat up by slow degrees, carefully stretching out his leg, brushing away the clinging sand from the edges of the thigh-long wound before leaning back to prop his shoulders against the hard surface of a boulder. Idly he brought out the translator from his cloak pocket and stared at it. Round and intricate, the medallion was of no design he recognized. Too weary to be deeply curious, he shrugged and tucked it away, letting his gaze wander out over the vast and lonely landscape around him.