The Children of Anthi: Anthi - Book One

by Deborah Chester

  He caught a faint whiff of her scent, which was nothing like the sour sweetness of Bban musk. Instead it was a fragrant mixture of smoke and wind and warmth. With her unbound mane of hair and lithe slenderness, she was like a creature of the wild, both shy and bold. Slowly he raised one of his clumsy, bandaged hands to caress her throat and the full curve of her breast as she bent to straighten the fur robe covering him.

  At once her gaze sharpened, and she moved abruptly away. “All Henan women are not seducers from the marketplace of Ty!” she snapped. “I am sworn follower of Anthi and the purpose. Touch me not again in violation of my vows.” She walked over to the cooking pot and filled a cup from its contents then returned to thrust it to his lips. “Drink and sleep.”

  Pungent-smelling steam rose from the cup. Puzzled by so angry a rejection, Blaise sniffed at the drink, his mouth watering for anything, even a concoction of medication. He noticed the cup was made of green metal, warm and vibrant in color against the palm of her slim, golden hand.

  He raised his eyes to her glowing, angry ones. “Picyt must be told where I am. Do you understand?”

  “Have I not said I am sworn to the purpose?” She replied sharply. “But the revered noble is not for us to command. Still…” She sighed and lifted her fingertips swiftly to her brow as though warding off misfortune. Her eyes were suddenly troubled. “You are the one he told us would come. The tales are old and hard to believe…or were.” Her gaze shifted uneasily away, and she again held the cup to his lips. “Drink, striped-eyes.”

  He refused, and asked again. “Will Picyt be sent for?”

  Her eyelids, so delicate that he could see the faint tracery of veins across them, dropped to veil her silver eyes. And when at last she spoke, her husky voice was lower than usual: “The dara-elders are old men, fearful of the Tlar leiil and his blue fire, and fearful of the supreme elders of the greater council.” As she spoke her hand gently touched Blaise’s thigh, making him shiver. “They may decide to make you Bban meat, n’ka. But though I be Henan, I am not ignorant. I will send the message to the jen of Kkanthor if you are he whom we seek.” Her eyes blazed with sudden fervor, compelling an honest answer. “Is your coming a herald for the return of the Great Ones? Or are you a lie?”

  For a moment Blaise’s nerve failed him. Perhaps he could get off this planet. Perhaps there would be other worlds, other opportunities; he wasn’t sure he dared risk joining himself to a band of superstitious fanatics who needed a mystical figure to rally around. But he stared at the jeweled brooch, blazing in the firelight, where it held the fastening of her thin leather garment and heard himself say, “No lie, Giaa. The Great Ones will return.”

  She lifted her head swiftly, and he saw her suspicion. Then her face quivered, and he knew she believed him in spite of her distrust.

  “And there will again be justice for Henan and Bban as well as Tlar?” she asked, staring at him. “There will be no more empty bellies to make proud warriors slaves?”

  “On my word,” he said gravely, well aware that his word meant nothing. But at that moment as he faced this slim proud creature through the fire-lightened shadows and felt the hum of fever in his blood, he wished it did.

  “Drink,” she said, and this time he let her tilt the warm, bitter stuff down his throat.

  In moments the pain had subsided, and a warm drowsiness washed over him in its stead. Veiled in her hair, she seemed to grow very far away, her eyes glowing brighter and brighter until she burned through the deepening shadows like a candle flame.

  Disjointedly he wondered about Saunders and whether she, too, had been abducted. With her mining background she was necessary to the success of his plans. He blinked, and it was as though a thousand years had passed. With sudden clarity he saw Picyt again, standing before him as he had that day in the Bban citadel, wrapped in a shimmering blue cloak. There was no return from an exchange of bodies.

  Demos! thought Blaise. What have I done?

  “Need…” he said, trying to lift a hand to attract Giaa’s attention. “Need…” But the candle flame dimmed and finally snuffed out in blackness. He slept, with the chain of the potion holding him deep beneath the nightmarish tossings of his fever.

  Chapter 7

  The caverns of M’thra ran deep below the snow-encrusted peaks of the Tchsco Mountains. “Teeth of the Sleeping Giant” was their name in the Bban tongue. They lay far to the north of the savage desert wastes, beyond the last Bban citadel, brooding dark under an angry season sky of black and purple clouds, the highest peak ringed by cold white fog. Below the mountain ran several narrow valleys, with one wide one cutting deep through the land. It was bottomed by a long, still-surfaced lake that reminded Blaise of Giaa’s eyes. Sitting propped up by the viewing port in the tall-backed, thickly cushioned seat as Picyt’s personal transport jetted him, Giaa, and his Bban guards northward, Blaise rested his forehead against the cold gray metal of the inner hull and watched as the pilot carefully skirted the edges of the lake, bringing them dangerously near ice-coated rocks and skeletal botanical growths as though he had some superstition against flying over water. Their low progress startled a vast, shaggy animal with a bulbous, snouted head. Angered rather than frightened, it reared its massive bulk up on a single, enormously broad hind flipper and extended long claws in a futile swipe as they passed over.

  Giaa touched Blaise’s arm. “Borlorl,” she said, pointing to the heavy fur robe tucked around him. “They are dangerous to hunt but well worth it.”

  It was an effort to lift his head and look at her, but he managed it, trying not to betray how frightened he was, as his leg worsened daily. A fast recovery rate had been bred into him by the Institute; he had never known an illness that he could not quickly shake off. But now he feared that he might not make it to Picyt.

  Giaa sat on the edge of her seat in barely contained excitement, now and then leaning over him to see out through the viewport. “Look!” she cried, her golden face lighting up much as the lightning sparked life from the mountains ahead. “Zantza…an entire herd. Look!” Her finger stabbed at the glass until he reluctantly turned once again to the window.

  Below on the slope lifting away from the valley, the deep white snow rippled and burst with sudden sprays in a complex, rapid pattern of movement. Blaise frowned, unable to see any animals.

  “They are quicker than thought,” said Giaa, her sweet, smoky scent releasing to fill the stale air of the cabin with fragrance. “The flying of snow is when they surface for scenting direction, but you must not strike there, for they are always beyond. To hunt the zantza you must guess ahead of where they will go.”

  Blaise sighed as the transport wheeled and rose above the valley, leaving its animal life behind. He had no interest in hunting game and wondered with a qualm if any part of Ruantl’s population knew how to mine. Of course, labor could be trained in manual excavation, but for his plans he needed the enormous mechanized shovelers of Saunders’s people, great automated machines that could gnaw out the inside of a mountain within hours. He furrowed his brow, and Giaa’s excited description of the slim, white-furred zantza abruptly faltered.

  “You grow tired,” she said, lifting her slim golden hand in swift summons to the steward.

  “No!” said Blaise sharply, disliking the small, cat-footed boy with his watchful eyes and slow, teasing smile. Realizing as he saw Giaa frown that he’d been too vehement, he lowered his voice. “No,” he repeated, glaring at the approaching steward in a way that sent the boy retreating with a grave bow. Rather than answer her look of puzzlement, he tried to shift his position on the seat, winced, and asked rather fretfully, “How much longer?”

  “Soon.” Her silver eyes clouded and shifted to the masked, silent Bban’jen. One gestured curtly at her, and she lowered her eyes at once. A dull copper flush stained her cheeks. “Soon,” she repeated, her fingers clutched tightly together in her lap. She collected herself, hiding the anger from long habit, and lifted her head. “The sacred caverns of M�
��thra are worth waiting for. Only because of you, Noble Blaise, am I to see them.”

  He frowned, shifting again, and did not answer. Nervousness was making her chatter far more than her usual reserve permitted, but he thought also that she was a little afraid.

  The hum of the engines altered, and his pilot’s instincts told him the air jets were being reversed to slow them. The transport came to a gradual halt, hovering before the central peak of Tchsco. Now that they were closer, Blaise could see a gigantic steel wall set into the side of the mountain beneath a jutting overhang of rock. As he watched, it slowly slid open.

  “Bh’ya tel awn ra mere,” whispered Giaa, lifting her fingertips to her forehead with her eyes fixed on the sight. On the right the Bban guards stirred with clicks and guttural comments. “It is the eye of Anthi,” said Giaa, noticing Blaise’s puzzled look. “She opens unto us. Do not fear.” But her hands clenched in her lap until the knuckles whitened, and her fragrant smoky scent warred with the reek of Bban musk, making Blaise cough.

  Slowly the transport jetted forward with short spurts of propulsion that betrayed its pilot’s trepidation and made Blaise long to run forward and jerk the controls from his hands. But at last they were inside the black, moist mouth of the mountain, with the steel door closing behind them so that they were shut in total darkness. Beside him Giaa gasped, her hand gripping his arm hard. Then the cabin lights blinked on, and the steward in his scarlet tunic glided forward to begin opening the hatch.

  Commands were snapped out, some too low and rapid for the translator hanging around Blaise’s neck to catch. The potion Giaa had given him had begun to wear off; he could feel himself fraying at the edges. Soon the pain would be back, pain more excruciating than he could now bear without medication. He must do all that Picyt wanted, he told himself, refusing to worry, or doubt, or think about alternatives. It was either go through with this, or lose his leg and maybe his life. From what he had seen of Bban culture thus far, the thought of amputation at their unskilled hands chilled his very soul.

  Grumbling, the guards surrounded him, picked him up awkwardly in the narrow space between the seats, and none too gently carried him out the hatch and down the short series of steps. Squashing his fierce desire to protest being handled like a crate of merchandise, Blaise let them place him on a litter. Four muscular bearers, half clad in queer garments that covered only the front and back of their bodies, waited to bear it. For a moment his surroundings seemed taken from a hellish nightmare. Bban faces, uncovered and skull-like, hung disembodied around him in the deep shadows masking the interior of the transport bay. Curiosity flickered in their glowing eyes, and he heard snatches of conversation spoken in guttural, clacking voices as torchlight glinted off bony angles of temple and jaw. The stench of the place was horrible, with the scent of dusty rock overlaid by Bban musk, unwashed bodies, animal dung, burning torches, and transport exhaust. Blaise coughed, his muscles drawing up against the intense leaden cold, and at once Giaa pushed her way through the small crowd to throw the fur robe over him. It immediately protected him from the icy drafts blowing about, and he smiled gratefully at her. A small frown creased her brow, and she stared for a moment, ignoring the jostling about them, as though she might never see him again. Her fingers moved gently to his forehead to smooth back his hair.

  “Hu’t!” snarled one of the guards, shoving her roughly aside so that she nearly fell.

  “Hey!” said Blaise in anger, but a command cracked out, and the bearers were already carrying him away before he could finish his protest. Propping himself up on one elbow, he looked back at her where she stood alone and vulnerable among the masked, cloaked cadre of Bban’jen.

  “Let her come with us,” he said, but his guards ignored him, and the bearers never slacked pace as they carried him down a steep tunnel bored through solid rock. The orange flame of the torch ahead turned his half-naked bearers into enormous black shadows, grunting in rhythm with the booted strides of the guards. Then the tunnel opened abruptly onto a tall cavern as narrow and long as a gallery. Great iron braziers, their feet cast as the brassy heads of monsters, supported flames of white fire that shot incandescent light up toward the ceiling where crystalline stalactites hung like multiple fangs. Small, glowing incense burners stood beside the braziers, sending forth fingers of scarlet smoke that writhed about the white flames like sensual caresses. Through the center of the cave lay a long ribbon of water, no wider than a man’s stride, but so still and black that Blaise suspected it was bottomless. He gripped the side of his litter as the bearers wove along the narrow trail that alternately bordered the water or hugged the wall.

  Beyond this cavern lay a tiny chamber filled with formations of translucent stone descending from the ceiling in wide folds as delicate as a woman’s draperies. The torchlight flared in the hands of their guide, tinting the stone with the hue of pink flesh. It was difficult to maneuver the litter through, and Blaise was jostled roughly enough to send him skidding near the raw chasm of reawakened agony. He gritted his teeth, on the verge of an oath, only to choke back an exclamation of wonder as they ducked through another narrow tunnel that wound up and around sharply before opening onto a vast, seemingly endless cavern of crystal, glittering in a blinding myriad of colors by the light of a thousand burning torches. Blinking, Blaise dragged himself up and stared. It was as though jewels had been scattered by a more than generous hand. Were these fantastic crystal shapes, Blaise wondered, the fabled Jewels of M’thra?

  But his bearers did not pause, although the jen guards muttered and lifted furtive hands to their masks in quick gestures of obeisance. The aroma of incense thickened, becoming increasingly pungent. Weakly Blaise lay back on the swaying litter, shutting his eyes for an instant’s rest. He must have dozed, for when he awakened with a start it was to find himself lying on something that alarmingly resembled a bier. The darkness around him was warm, almost alive in its blackness.

  Then, as though something had been activated by his return to consciousness, a faint white glow appeared at his feet, emanating from a small cube no larger than his fist. He blinked at it, brought to alertness by yet another reminder of an advanced culture, one akin to his own, and one no longer dominant here.

  Why had they left Ruantl? Why had they abandoned the colonists? What had gone wrong? Suddenly it seemed important to know these answers. He shivered despite the warmth, unable to overcome a formless sense of unease and dread. What if he were wrong and Ruantl was nothing, had nothing? Like a spoken answer, words formed in his brain. I want this planet, he thought savagely, clenching his fists. I want to have the control of it in my hand. Power, he thought, feeling the intensity of that longing that throbbed through him almost as sharply as the misery in his leg. Absolute power over his own world was the only way to burn away forever the shame of being vat born. He might still be full of doubts and, yes, fear, but he was willing to pay the price of ambition and freedom, willing to enter whatever game of power plays and rebellion Picyt was staging here.

  Now he was tired of waiting and tired of pain. With a grunt he levered himself up, his ears straining for a sound, any sound, to break the oppressive silence. Drafts of warm air crisscrossed him like the breath of an animal hovering over its prey. He shivered and lifted an unsteady hand to wipe away the beads of sweat breaking out along his temples. It was a mistake to sit up; even in the gloom the world seemed to tilt. Gritting his teeth, he hung on.

  “All right, Picyt,” he said loudly into the darkness, his words reverberating off stone and silence. “I’m here. I’m willing to reconsider your proposal. Where are you? Picyt!”

  The light intensified, driving back the shadows slowly. With a start Blaise saw that he was sitting in the center of four oblong boxes fashioned, apparently, of crystal. They should have been clear, but within them an opaque milky gas swirled about, concealing their exact contents. He swallowed hard, turning his head to look at each one. Instead of seeing their intrinsic beauty of workmanship he was drawn by memory
to grimmer, less free days when he had walked through a storage warehouse of laborers frozen away in narrow steel compartments, held until surplus left the markets and full production could begin again in the companies that employed them.

  Frowning, he wrenched himself back into the present and eyed the boxes critically. One of them, he assumed, held the body he was to inhabit. Despite the control he held on himself, he could not relax the tight knot in his stomach.

  Something light, almost imperceptible, brushed his mind. Stiffening in protest, Blaise swung his head around to glare at the far end of the cave, where a tall, masked figure in a blue cloak had appeared.

  “Picyt,” he murmured.

  The priest came toward him, gesturing for those following to remain where they were. Only two black-uniformed escorts continued with Picyt. One was tall and assured despite the frayed edges of his black cloak and the scuffed places on his mask. A scarlet band at his throat marked his rank. The other figure was short, almost squarish in shape, and walked with a belligerent stride Blaise immediately recognized.

  “Omari!” Her loud voice reverberated through the cave, shattering the silence. She would have rushed forward had the Bban not seized her arm and brought her up short. He barked a curt order at her, and she said nothing more.

  Picyt glided on as though he had not noticed the disturbance and came to a halt with one of the crystal coffins between him and Blaise. For a moment he stood still, silently regarding Blaise while the light glinted off the silver tracings on his mask.

  Fever twisted through Blaise, making him shift impatiently under Picyt’s gaze. “Well?” he demanded. “I am here!”

  Picyt lifted his hand gracefully revealing the same silver markings embroidered upon the wide cuffs of his gauntlets. “You are dying, n’ka. There is no recovery from the touch of blue fire.”