The Children of Anthi: Anthi - Book One

by Deborah Chester

  “Picyt!” he tried to call as vision failed him, but no sound came from his throat. Death faced him, not as he had imagined it, not as he had minutes before fought it, but strangely like some…

  With an ear-splitting screech the crystal dome lifted. Blaise opened his eyes to glimpse Picyt’s ashen face, lined with fatigue, bending over him.

  “My life to thee,” he whispered hoarsely, placing his cold fingertips upon Blaise’s cheeks. “Anthi speaks. Take her calling unto thee and live!”

  His dark burning eyes suddenly glowed with a blue flame. Energy crackled into Blaise’s veins. He felt them expand fully as though they had been shriveled for an eternity. His heart began to beat with new vigor. His lungs filled, exhaled, and filled again. The awful, final coldness faded, driven back by Picyt’s strength. Relaxing, Blaise basked in it, letting it wash over him entirely. For a moment he seemed surrounded by rings of wholeness, strength, and life. He grasped them gratefully, then felt the support recede, bit by slow bit, giving him time to steady himself.

  A strong hand slid under his shoulder, lifting him to a sitting position. Blaise shut his eyes and drew in several more breaths, amazed by his new sensitivity to every powerful expansion of his lungs, to every heartbeat. He seemed to be able to feel the blood surging through his heart. And smells…never, even with his keen senses, had he noticed so many. They bombarded him almost overwhelmingly, yet he could sort through them all, identifying the perspiration-soaked scent of Saunders; a fainter, acrid, almost chemical odor hanging upon Picyt; a hundred variations of the Bban musks, Henans, and…

  Suddenly Blaise opened his eyes, only to be stunned by vision suddenly clearer and far sharper than ever before. He could see across the cavern, even through the shadows beyond the hot lights, to observe the jagged stalagmite formations piled along a curve of the wall. He frowned and raised his hand to stare at it. It was lean and supple, the fingers long and tapering. There was a large black-stoned ring encircling his right forefinger.

  No…He gave his head a slight shake. It was not his hand. His fingers were thin and dark, his hands small and scarred. Blaise narrowed his eyes, seeing the long, muscular arm attached to the hand that was not his. On the inside of the sleek, golden forearm a lengthy white scar marred the skin. It was not his scar. It was not his body.

  Faced with it, expecting it, prepared for it, still Blaise could not believe it had actually been done. Wildly he sat forward, despite the many steadying hands, and noticed the shriveled, unrecognizable thing lying on the central bier before him. A craggy-faced priest, shaven-headed and garbed in a stained brown robe, threw a cloak over the carcass and gestured for two slaves to bear it away. Something twisted within Blaise. They bore him away.

  No! He must get a grip on himself. The body was gone, but he existed. That was all. He grew aware of the total silence surrounding him, and for the first time turned his head to gaze into a face.

  Less than a hundred individuals formed the watching, awestruck crowd. At once he picked out Giaa. She had crouched upon the dusty floor, her hair hanging over her face and her shoulders shaking. He stared at her, and as he did so she raised her head, her hair swinging back to reveal her tear-streaked face. Then her eyes met his and widened, shocked into enormous silver pools of light. She lifted a trembling hand, and slowly the light of astonishment filled her face, brightening to worship. Others around her began to sway and bend and kneel, Bban and priest alike. A few feet apart from them Saunders stood rigidly, held by shock. Or was it disbelief?

  Then a young priest lifted his hands into the air and in a clear, trembling voice began a chant that was taken up by the others. Blaise frowned, turning his head away as the adulation began to pour forth. It was wrong. They should not look at him like that. He wasn’t Asan; he was…

  A flicker of excitement reached through his shock. He had survived, and now he was their leader. The first step to getting what he wanted had been successfully taken.

  He turned around abruptly, startling those who steadied him, to stare at Picyt. The priest stood pressed against the edge of the bier. His face had lost color, and the straight, serene features had shrunk in as though the firmness had been drawn from his flesh. Deep lines of exhaustion carved down from his dark slanted eyes to the drooping corners of his mouth. But he lifted his blank, blue-filmed gaze to Blaise’s own questing one, and his eyes gradually sharpened their focus as he drew forth one last bit of strength long held in reserve. He blinked, and his own questions trembled on his sagging countenance with a naked eagerness that shocked Blaise.

  Picyt had not believed the transfer could really happen! All of his assurance and monumental serenity had been false! Realizing that he had let himself be a guinea pig, Blaise sat more erect, pulling away from the hands upon him. Anger swept him with sudden violence.

  Damn you, Picyt! He tried to speak and found he still had no voice. The anger swelled, frustrated by having no outlet. Then suddenly the words crystallized in his mind and burst forth like an explosion.

  He saw Picyt flinch and reel back. The dark eyes widened, and with a mental force that rammed steel splinters through Blaise’s skull, he said: My…leiil?

  No! retorted Blaise, fury enabling him to adapt swiftly to this new telepathic ability. I am not your leiil or your Asan! Damn you! You lied, Picyt! You knew I was not supposed to survive transfer. You deceived me into being your experiment, when all the time what you really wanted was the original Asan back. Blaise gritted his teeth, his eyes hot as he glared at the priest. Forget that, priest. Asan’s body is all you have. The rest is me, and now you’re going to accept my plans and my—

  He did not survive? Picyt’s thoughts jumbled around Blaise in distorted sequences. The time span was too great. Ah…A spasm of grief twisted Picyt’s features, and he lifted his fingertips to his brow, a gesture hurriedly copied by all those surrounding them. But when Picyt’s eyes met Blaise’s again, they had lost their eagerness and their fear. You survived against Asan, the most powerful of all wills. Anthi was right; I…He swallowed with obvious difficulty. I could have survived. I could have been the one… Hatred blazed from his eyes, darkening them to a black fire. Your plans? he said with a mocking laugh. He swept his hand out angrily. Never! You are mine to command. You shall obey me, n’ka!

  Here is my enemy, thought Blaise, his own anger overwhelmed by the degree of hate unleashed against him.

  Then, without warning, the priest’s eyes flickered, and he crumpled soundlessly into a limp heap on the floor.

  “Revered noble!” The priests surrounding Blaise hastened to their fallen leader, only to be shoved aside by Tuult, who knelt to gather Picyt up tenderly in his arms. He stood, half turning to Blaise so that Blaise had a clear, unpleasant look at Picyt’s hanging head.

  “Leiil,” said Tuult’s guttural voice, gruff yet pleading.

  Blaise drew back involuntarily. They were all staring at him, looking to him to take charge just as moments before they had looked to Picyt. Nervousness rippled through Blaise. Suddenly his stomach hurt and his eyes burned from the lights. A wry sense of disgust twisted within him. This was his chance, and he could not take it. He did not know what to do.

  He started to speak, then hesitated, unsure of his voice and realizing that without a translator he could not communicate at all. Even if he lifted a hand, it might convey the wrong gesture.

  Taking a deep breath, he reached out and drew the cloak from the shoulders of one of the priests beside him. At once the man guessed what he wanted and helped wrap the cloak about Blaise. The heavy weight of the long folds of cloth were oddly comforting. Carefully, none too certain his legs would support him, he edged himself off the bier. Again quick, reverent hands steadied him.

  “Leiil. The Tlar leiil. Great One. Asan.” The words lifted high and low through the chanting, and the worship came at him like a wave.

  Blaise lifted his head, drawing himself erect to stand poised with one foot braced slightly ahead of the other. Suddenly it seemed n
atural to stand thus, like a king. He gazed out at them all, savoring this new feeling of power that began to reach through his sense of disbelief.

  With a quick look at Tuult, who still waited with the unconscious Picyt in his arms, Blaise swept out his hand palm up, imitating a gesture he had seen countless times.

  “An,” he said, and to his astonishment a voice of tremendous strength and resonance vibrated forth from his throat.

  A collective sigh gushed out from the crowd. Tuult inclined his head, and even that simple gesture held a mixture of reverence and impatience that caused Blaise to pause.

  He took an uncertain step and then another, his muscles stiff. Tuult fell into step beside him, carrying Picyt effortlessly. The Bban warrior emitted an even stronger arrogance, almost as though he had won a victory. Around them a phalanx of brown-robed priests and black-cloaked jen gathered, and the small, tattered crowd parted for their passage with whispers and many bows.

  What have I done? Blaise wondered, beginning to be awed himself. The quivery soreness in his legs faded as each step grew stronger and lengthened into strides that amazed him with their rapid ease. His head lifted, his nostrils flared at each crossed and blending scent emanating from the crowd. A queer, restive excitement stirred within him. He frowned at the sensation, not understanding it, then suddenly he whirled around. His eyes blazed, questing over the crowd swiftly as he sought the woman whose scent, Bban sweet and heavy, rose above the rest. Ah, there she knelt, a huddled figure in a tattered robe and cowl. He halted, his nostrils quivering as his blood heated in a compulsion to approach her.

  “Leiil!” said Tuult’s gruff voice, breaking the spell. As Blaise turned to the warrior, he blinked at the fierce scarlet glow shining through the eye guards of Tuult’s mask. “Ny rol’an tu r!”

  The rapid string of words blurred through Blaise like a language known long ago and forgotten. Understanding tickled along the corners of his brain, but he could not grasp it. Annoyed at this inability to communicate, he turned away from the woman and drew his borrowed cloak more closely about him. The rough cloth scratched his skin, and his blood cooled abruptly, leaving his flesh chilled.

  Tuult strode on, and after a moment of hesitation Blaise followed, with a final glance at the woman. She lifted her bowed head as he passed by her, and the cowl slipped back to reveal a hideous Bban face, the eyes glowing with a horribly fascinating allure. Blaise averted his face and strode on, appalled by his desire for her. For an instant, as they left the cavern to enter a passageway formed by one gigantic slab of rock leaning against another, he thought he would be sick. Then, with a desperate wrench of will, he forced himself to forget what had happened. Obviously the Tlar had no compunctions against mingling with Bban, or there would not be creatures like Giaa—disturbingly lovely yet cursed with those strange silver eyes. Something deeper than his own revulsion stabbed through him, and by instinct he realized that his new body had lived under firm discipline once and must again be brought under control.

  The passageway narrowed ahead, forcing them all to stop and squeeze through one at a time. The torchbearer went through first; plunging them into deep shadow. The weight of rock pressed heavily overhead, and as he watched Tuult struggle to maneuver Picyt’s limp body through, grunting in the effort, a tickle of unease stiffened Blaise. The Bban’jen pressed closer about him in the darkness, the second torchbearer lowering his torch to his side so that the flame flickered almost to extinction. It was a good place for an ambush, Blaise thought, his instincts honed by years of danger. Faint pricklings rose up and down his arms, and, feeling half foolish at his own suspicions, he moved to place his back against solid rock.

  That shift of weight was all that saved him from a quick stab of a knife blade. It scraped his ribs and tangled in his cloak, missing him by so narrow a margin that his stomach froze in disbelief that he was untouched. Furious, he sought to clamp the wrist of his attacker, who moved in swiftly, blocking the dim light from Blaise’s vision as he pinned Blaise against the wall.

  “Tuult—”

  Blaise’s cry was cut off as powerful hands gripped his throat, the fingers digging in, trying to rip it apart. His air choked off, Blaise tore at those immovable forearms, unable to free himself even with the greater strength of his new body. Dimly, as his brain spun and his lungs heaved desperately, he was aware of other Bban’jen shuffling about, masking the silent, deadly struggle between him and his attacker.

  Blaise shut his eyes, gasping for the air that could not reach past those viselike hands. A tremor ran through him; he felt his consciousness slip.

  But then, as his own failing faculties permitted others to come to the fore, he dropped his hands and ceased struggling.

  “Ah!” His attacker shifted one hand to grip Blaise’s hair and jerk his head back in an effort to snap his neck.

  Even as pain flashed through Blaise’s spine, a deep anger focused within him, rising up to explode and burst forth.

  With a high-pitched scream the attacker fell back, dropping his ruthless grasp on Blaise as he staggered into another Bban.

  “Ny! Ny!” he screamed, collapsing to writhe on the floor.

  Blaise glared at him with burning, merciless eyes, aware of nothing save the rage that consumed him. Then the Bban gave a final choked cry and moved no more. Blaise lifted his head and swept his gaze at the remaining Bban’jen, who threw their knives on the floor and fled. A bolt of blue fire crackled through the passageway, cutting them down. Screaming, they fell twitching in the dust as the stench of burning flesh rolled back across the air. The flame in Blaise’s eyes faded as his anger abruptly died. He blinked, dazed, and lifted a hand to his throat. His eyes ached fiercely, as dry as if the moisture had been scorched from them. With another blink he squinted down at the attacker before frowning at Tuult, who was tucking his fire-rod back into his belt.

  The Bban paused to look up at Blaise, his mask a formless blur in the shadows. Blaise caught a sense of growing respect in the man, overlaid by urgency.

  “Thou art the Tlar leiil,” Tuult whispered, his voice rough with grudging belief. Then he gave himself a shake and swept out a hand. “Great One, come! The revered noble has need of thee.”

  But Blaise did not move. He slid his hands behind his back to press against the damp, gritty surface of stone. Once before he’d been attacked while in Tuult’s care. And the fact that the officer had just killed two of his own men did not make Blaise any more willing to trust him. Death meant nothing to the Bban’jen. They killed their own kind as readily as they killed anyone else. Blaise had no intention of stepping into another trap.

  He suspected that the fact that he could now understand Tuult was related to the mental force that had shot from him and killed his attacker. His eyes narrowed.

  “Who were these men?” he asked, his words those of Ruantl. He gestured at the dead Bban’n lying sprawled in the passageway, trying to deny the tremor going through him. If his thoughts alone could kill, how could he ever learn to control his powers?

  Tuult’s gloved hand tightened on the hilt of his jen-knife. He coughed with a queer barking sound. “Leiil, the time is not for questions. Come. I beg it. I did doubt thee, but thou hast the true power of Anthi.” As he spoke he lifted his hand quickly to touch his mask, but it was a perfunctory motion, lacking the respect it was supposed to signify. “Thou art the Leiil Asan. Have mercy and do not let the revered noble die.”

  The pleading in that rough, proud voice pulled at Blaise. But he held off sentiment, tired of being constantly on the defensive, never quite understanding all the moves made by those who sought to use him.

  “I will have my answers first,” he said, resisting Tuult’s growing impatience, which was strong enough now to be felt as one of his own emotions. He could also smell Tuult’s musk beginning to intensify. Blaise’s senses went on alert, and he shifted his feet, poised, wary. “Why was I attacked? Who were they?”

  Tuult clicked his jaw rapidly behind his mask, a sign of ner
vousness he seldom displayed. “Leiil Hihuan knows of thee now, Great One. All Bban’n are not loyal to the revered noble.” He extended his hand. “An, Great One. Please. As a pon of the first cadre, possessing full honor, I give my blood to thee in this request.”

  Blaise stared at him, surprised by such a vow.

  “He dies, Great One. Time is small.”

  Blaise frowned and reluctantly stepped forward one pace. “What is wrong with him?”

  Tuult sighed. “To serve Anthi is hard, my Leiil. Thou knows it. He gave all of himself to bring thee forth. Save him now in return.”

  “But I don’t—” Blaise’s frown deepened, and he broke off as something queer brushed his mind. A small part of him seemed to ebb away.

  Tuult whirled as though struck, his hand flying instinctively to his knife hilt. “Lea’dl, the circles of all wholeness are breaking. We lose him!”

  He ducked through the low place, already running, and Blaise followed in spite of an urge to go the other way. He had to crouch lower and lower as the passageway narrowed, and he cursed as he failed to keep pace with the Bban. Abruptly Tuult pulled to a halt and darted beneath a low overhang, from which spilled golden light. Panting, Blaise bent down and scrambled after him into a small, overheated chamber filled with light and argument.

  Picyt lay on the stone floor with his blue cloak spread beneath him. Ashen-faced, with the flesh shrunken below his sharply ridged cheekbones, he seemed scarcely to draw breath. Beside him knelt a young Bban, unmasked, with the cowl of his brown robe thrown back, grieving in an anguish clear in every line of his rocking body. Two men—one old and pudgy with lines of discontent and arrogance carved into his sallow face, the other young with thin, sharp features—stood over their leader, arguing heatedly.

  “You must, Uble,” the old one was saying as Blaise ducked inside. He held out a goblet, its gold-encrusted sides winking brightly in the intense light flaming forth from the braziers in each corner. “I am too old to withstand the effects. If you do not seek to enter his mind and reform the rings of union, all will be lost. All! Contact with Anthi must not be broken.” He glared at young Uble, his jowls quivering with vehemence.