The Children of Anthi: Anthi - Book One

by Deborah Chester

  Uble drew back with a gesture of distaste. “Basai, you know I am not sufficiently trained—”

  “I know you dare defy the will of Anthi!” shouted Basai. Again he thrust the goblet at Uble, this time with such violence that part of the dark contents sloshed over the rim and ran dripping down his hand onto the floor. “Drink the yde, coward. You—”

  Tuult strode forward with a swing of his black cloak, and his growl sliced off the argument, leaving a ragged silence in the air. “Leiil Asan is with us, priests. There is no need for this.” Contemptuously he dashed the goblet from Basai’s hand, the clatter of metal upon stone ringing out over the priest’s exclamation as the yde spread across the floor in a thick dark stain. Tuult turned and extended his hand to Blaise, who stood there trapped by their gazes, once again uncomprehending. “Anthi lies within him in the true way,” said Tuult, his harsh voice strident. “He can destroy. He can give life. Truth is in him, not yde.”

  Uble shut his eyes, drooping in relief. Basai, however, flicked a hard, angry look at Blaise before bowing deeply.

  “So be it,” he said, lifting his eyes to glare at Blaise. “If thou art leiil, and not an image of Anthi to soothe us yet again into false belief.” He drew his cloak tightly about himself. “I must go back to the main cavern and see the litanies do not falter.” He inclined his balding head. “By thy leave.”

  Blaise stood aside and he went out, grunting as he bent under the low overhang of rock. The room seemed to shimmer before Blaise. He blinked, frowning as his sense of uneasiness deepened.

  “Ah’hi!” wailed the boy kneeling beside Picyt. He lifted his ugly, scarred face to them, the features contorted even more by grief. “He dies. He dies!”

  Uble turned toward Blaise, reaching out a hand, then hesitated, uncertain how to approach him. “Leiil,” he whispered, his thin face intense with anxiety. “Forgive my unbelief, and act now, I beg thee! Anthi must not withdraw from him.”

  “The rings must be reformed. An.” Tuult took Blaise by the arm and led him over to Picyt.

  Bewildered, Blaise knelt as he was instructed by the impatient Bban and started to place his fingertips on Picyt’s temples, only to draw back with his hands curling into fists. He pulled in an unsteady breath, his heart pounding.

  “I can’t do this!” he said savagely. “I don’t know how!”

  Uble groaned and turned away, but Tuult clamped an iron hand upon Blaise’s shoulder.

  “Thou art he,” he said sternly. “I saw. I believe. The blue fire of Anthi is thine. Give way to her, Leiil, and she will be thy guide to what thou has forgotten.”

  Blaise’s bare flesh crawled at the words, but he bent his head, no longer able to escape comprehension. Unwillingly, aware of Tuult’s nervous hand grasping his knife hilt, Blaise placed his fingertips upon Picyt’s temples. The skin was clammy cold under his touch. Blaise’s face tightened as he waited. Nothing happened.

  He looked up in frustration, conscious of their stares. “What do you—”

  Fire suddenly flamed to life in his veins, making him start and cry out. Gasping at the intensity of that agony, he tried to pull his hands away and could not. He was trapped, unable to move, while the flames shot through him, burning up his brain and dulling his vision behind a fiery blue haze. Dimly he was aware that the others had cowered away, swiftly donning their masks, and huddled as far from him as possible. But they no longer mattered. Even consciousness of his own pain faded as a part of his mind crossed a threshold into a place of vastness where all seemed tiny and indistinct. Unnameable things bumped into him and swirled about. Then an icy clarity gripped him. He saw the entire molecular structure of all that made up Ruantl—the planet, the atmosphere, the system, the dimension in space and time. It was all there around him, in him, and in its perfect logical order. And he saw a twisting, a shifting, as he found Picyt the focal point of a growing distortion. It was like looking at a black hole on tactical graphics, yet far beyond that. For an instant he knew a temptation to let himself surge forward and be pulled down into that vortex. But to enter the depths of Picyt’s soul was not his desire.

  He knew now what to do and stretched forth his center of calmness, expanding the source of the blue fire within him until sheets of flame swept over the hole of distortion to seal it off. A faint cry came to him, but he ignored it. Then the fire retracted through his veins, leaving him cleansed and exhilarated.

  He blinked, dropped his hands from Picyt’s head. Lifting his eyes to meet the masked faces of the other three, he said, “The rings are restored.” And his deep voice thundered with the awesome power he had just experienced.

  Uble and the Bban boy dropped to their knees, bending in prostration upon the floor. “We give thee the thanks of our blood and our life,” said Uble, the boy soundlessly echoing his words.

  But Tuult, although he knelt, did not bow. “Leiil,” he said, his masked gaze upon Picyt. “The revered noble still suffers. Will thee not take mercy on he who guided thee to life again?”

  Blaise stared at him, robbed momentarily of breath. Didn’t they realize who he was? Surely they could not believe the original Asan had returned. And yet, why should he expect them to deny the evidence they had seen? He wore Asan’s body and had the ability, however limited, to use Asan’s powers; only Picyt knew his secret, and if the priest remained ill and unable to denounce him…

  Blaise stared down at Picyt’s unconscious face. “The Noble Picyt,” he said slowly, revolted by the drug-riddled body before him, “must make his own recovery.”

  Suddenly consumed by hunger, Blaise rose to his feet, but with a leap Tuult blocked his path.

  “Where is Tlar justice?” he cried hoarsely. “Thou must—”

  Blaise threw up his hand to cut him off. “Why? Why do you want more? Picyt will not die. In time he will overcome what the drug has done to his body. But justice lies in allowing him to pay for self-abuse.” He frowned. “Step aside, Tuult. I must have food and clothing and time to—” He broke off, unwilling to admit how shaky his mental balance still was. To be Asan, not Blaise or even BLZ-80-4163, was going to take some adjustment. “Let Giaa tend him, and come with me. I’m not going anywhere after this without trustworthy protection.”

  From the sudden tension in the room, he suspected he had perhaps gone too far. What constituted insult here? he wondered, watching Tuult’s hand clench. Tlar leiil or not, and whatever else he might now be, he was not safe. Tonight’s attack had shown him that.

  “Leiil, please—” began Uble, his green eyes clouded. “We accord the truth of thy words and bow to their wisdom, but time—”

  “There is no time!” cut in Tuult with a savage gesture. “Soon the horde of the Tlar’jen will rise. Picyt must be restored now.”

  Anger flared once again in Blaise, lifting more than adrenaline through his blood as challenge-readiness stirred.

  Perhaps Tuult read that in his eyes, for he stiffened. But this time his gloved hand did not reach for his knife.

  Conscious that he was tempting that forbearance possibly further than it could stand, Blaise did not let his eyes waver from the Bban’s mask.

  “Why,” he repeated angrily, “must Picyt be restored now? Can you not prepare the army, Pon Tuult?”

  The boy gasped, and even Uble lost color.

  Tuult’s chest expanded, and when he spoke it was with an explosive clicking: “I think my Leiil would test me too far! But, Lea’dl, is the answer forgotten in the mists of eternity that have held thee, Great One? The Bban’jen must have Picyt to father us. We can wait no longer.” With those words, he reached up both hands to pull off his mask, revealing a narrow bony face puckered by crossing scars. His glowing scarlet eyes, deep-set beneath a jutting ridge of browbone, bored into Blaise with inescapable intensity. His voice dropped to a husky, broken whisper: “If thou wilt not permit the revered noble to father us, wilt thou then take the act unto thyself?” He knelt as if removing his mask had removed the last measure of his fierce pride.
“Father us, Great One, into Tlar. We have served thee long for this promised reward. Give us now the hand of Anthi, who rules us so harshly, that we may know freedom from the oppression that crushes us.”

  “Yes, good Leiil!” said Uble eagerly as Blaise gaped at Tuult. “Tuult speaks well. The Bban tribes must be summoned at once for their transference. The purpose must be accomplished.”

  Blaise furrowed his brow. A buzzing seemed to impair his hearing. He gave his head an impatient shake, certain he was not hearing this correctly. “Explain the purpose,” he said.

  Uble opened his mouth, but Tuult rose swiftly to his feet, his scarlet eyes blazing.

  “Deny not Anthi’s will!” he shouted. His hand clamped hard upon his knife hilt. “Even the Tlar leiil may not refuse Anthi. Father us, or restore Noble Picyt. That is the choice laid before thee.”

  Chapter 8

  Hihuan pushed aside his ty-boy in sudden boredom and left the silken cushions. Throwing on a crimson robe, he crossed the room to lean against a fluted column and stare at the leisured courtiers strolling by the fountains that splashed on the colonnade below his balcony. Their muted conversations and laughter floated gently up to him, accompanied by strains of bailanke music, as mournful and delicate as a sisen’s call across the wild lakes. He frowned, pain rippling through him at the remembered beauty of…home. His fingers dug into the tracery carved in the stone of the column. What had dredged up that old memory?

  “Leiil?” The ty-boy’s voice called, throaty softness mingled with pleading.

  Hihuan turned his head, but even as he glanced at the slim Henan youth, golden-skinned and perfect as he lay upon the purple silk of the cushions, crimson and turquoise smoke curling over him with caresses of costly incense, his heart hardened. He was bored with desire and too restless for passion. Almost absently he cooled the practiced emotions stirring his blood and averted his cold eyes from the boy’s smoking gaze. It did not matter that he had raised the boy to the fifth level, which if unfulfilled would soon plunge his hireling into agony. Even the most costly pleasures meant nothing as long as Picyt coursed the Outerlands like a mad chaka.

  Hihuan’s supple hand clenched and abruptly he whirled away from the balcony to gesture at the boy.

  “Wine would please me,” he snapped. “Rise and fill my goblet.”

  “My Leiil.” With a gasp at this unexpected show of temper, the ty-boy slid off the cushions with sinuous grace and moved to a small, triangular table where a silver ewer and jewel-encrusted goblets waited. His slim hands trembled slightly as he poured, making the tiny silver bells tied to a silken cord about his wrist tinkle in tremors of sound. Several times his glowing scarlet eyes shifted to Hihuan, who stood again upon the balcony in a brooding stance.

  “Hurry!” said Hihuan with a snap of his fingers, and with a bow the boy glided to him.

  Taking the proffered goblet, Hihuan glared at him, contemptuous of the mingled expressions of fear and longing on that delicate mixed-blood face and pleased with the headiness of holding absolute power over this small creature of pleasure. That was as it should be, absolute control over every being that inhabited Ruantl. Hihuan lifted the goblet to his lips and tipped back his head, drinking down the heavy rich wine thirstily. But his power was challenged as long as Picyt ran unchecked, spreading his disease of rebellion and revolt throughout the Outerlands. Hihuan’s eyes blazed, and he threw the emptied goblet at the boy, who caught it and stood quivering and pale, his naked body drawing up as if he expected to be struck.

  “Please, my Leiil,” he said, his trained voice still soft and persuasive despite the distress that had drained his face until the bones stood out sharply under his skin. “If thou would permit a tye-maid to join me, I am certain we could please thee greatly.”

  Distracted from his thoughts of the priests, Hihuan looked on the boy in fresh anger. “Miserable Henan dung,” he said contemptuously enough to make the boy flinch, “do you expect me to pay your master double for doubly wretched goods? If I desire a maid, I have a court full!”

  The ty-boy hid his ashen face and dropped to the floor in a low crouch. “I crave pardon,” he whispered, his voice without breath. A tremor shook his slim body. “Please, Leiil. Allow me to finish—”

  “Silence,” snapped Hihuan, tired of his sniveling. It would have taken only a flick of thought to release the boy from the fifth level, but instead Hihuan stepped around the wretch and struck the chime of summons with a small gold-encrusted mallet.

  In less than a minute the Pon Fflir stood saluting before him, the bronze badge of the Tlar leiil’s personal cadre gleaming upon the black tunic of his jen uniform.

  “Service to my Leiil!” he snapped out smartly.

  Hihuan eyed him with petulance, wishing to see what smug expression lay behind that black mask. He knew well that the Tsla leiis had preference for this piece of arrogance, and even the thought of Zaula’s soft, musky flesh given to any save his own boiled his blood to the point of challenge. But he curbed himself, for he had need of the pon just now. Later, when Picyt and his uprising were dust ground before the boiling force of a black devi, he would see that Fflir received exactly what his insolence deserved.

  None of these thoughts betrayed itself in his voice, however, as he faced the pon with his crimson robe slipping negligently from one broad, fleshy shoulder. He even managed a slight smile, although his eyes remained as cold and black as the blood coursing through his veins.

  “I would have news of your progress,” he said over the faint strains of bailanke music still being played below the balcony.

  Fflir hesitated, casting a pointed look at the ty-boy, who still huddled on the floor of polished, red-veined jate stone. “Hirelings can carry tales beyond the palace walls, Leiil.”

  The ty-boy had begun to weep, silently, of course, but Hihuan was aware of his misery. He lifted his head proudly, shaking back his hair so that it brushed his shoulders. Some faint stir in the air shifted the colored smoke his way, and for a moment incense stung his nostrils.

  “The boy does not matter,” he said, impatience rising again within him. “He will not leave us before the morrow. Now, pon. What news? Or do you offer us yet more failures?”

  Fflir stiffened, his gauntleted hand flying to the jeweled jen-knife at his belt. “Good Leiil, we have captured two lesser houses of the Kkanthor-kai along the Ddreui plains and destroyed them. The prisoners will be brought here as soon as season abates.”

  Hihuan’s black eyes brooded upon Fflir’s jen-knife, knowing the perfumed hand of the Tsla leiis had given it to him. Again the Tlar leiil’s blood burned within his veins.

  Through his teeth he said, “And what will we do with these few priests you have captured, Fflir? They will not share their knowledge of the heart of Anthi. And their deaths will bore us, no matter what clever device you invent to bring it about.” With the back of his hand he struck Fflir’s chest, rocking him slightly off-balance. “Do you think these petty efforts appease us?” he shouted. “What of that merdar Picyt? Has he been found? What of the caverns of M’thra? Have your forces been stationed at the valley pass to guard it? What do you, Fflir, on these things?” He stepped back with a snort and gestured, sending the ty-boy scurrying to the table to pour more wine and bring it to him. Hihuan snatched the heavy goblet from the boy’s shaking hand and shot Fflir a glare. “You do not answer our questions, pon,” he said coldly, filling his rich voice with menace. Fflir would never tremble and quake before him, but there were other ways of impaling the officer on his will.

  Fflir stood now at attention, breathing rapidly, the symbols of family, house, and caste glittering on his mask. He raised his head. “Good Leiil, I do not fail in my duties. We cannot transport jen to the northern peaks now, with the black devis tearing up the desert in between—”

  “Excuses,” snarled Hihuan, gulping down his wine. It settled heavily in his stomach, swelling it to the point of discomfort. The taste cloyed his tongue with sticky sweetness. He frowned a
nd set the goblet down, half emptied. “You—”

  A chiming for admittance made him whirl around, further angered by the intrusion as three courtiers entered in the wake of a cringing servant. Infuriated, he opened his mouth to scream dismissal at them, then swiftly controlled his temper as the foremost removed his brown mask.

  “Aabrm,” said Hihuan, raising his brows. Despite the wine and the presence of the ty-boy, his senses were not so distracted that they could not catch the secret signal from his counselor. Something was very amiss. Aabrm’s lined, pouchy face was carefully devoid of all expression, which in itself said much. “Speak.” Hihuan extended his hand palm up, and at once Fflir sheathed his drawn jen-knife and stepped back. “We give you leave.”

  Aabrm inclined his head, expelling a faint sigh. He had doubted his leiil’s temper would stand the strain of an unrequested audience. But he did not delay matters with his usual habit of portentous preamble. “Leiil,” he said, still somewhat out of breath from his brisk entry. “The spies in the House of Soot’dla report that Dame Agate has sensed the opening of the mysteries of Anthi—”

  “No!”

  That cry of protest wrenched itself from Hihuan. For a moment he stood frozen, locked in the grip of horror. That Picyt could be such an insane, reckless fool stunned him past thought. And yet…in his inner self he had known Picyt would dare this blasphemy to the rings of life from the moment he had escaped the palace. Lea’dl, but the very thought of this shook the blood. Clenching his fists, Hihuan raised his head. He must know more.

  “Let there be silence,” he said, sweeping out his hands as Aabrm opened his mouth to continue. Slowly, reluctantly, Hihuan brought his fingertips together and shut his eyes, concentrating on his inner being and the rings that formed his circle. When they were grasped, he focused harder, bringing them into a clarity almost painful to consider, and extended the rings, brushing them past the others, who flinched, and on, farther and farther past Altian, past the forbidding cliff holdings of the Soot’dla overlooking the Sultzah River, which bordered the wastes, past the Bban citadels, and still farther to the Tchsco Mountains at the northernmost rim of the world. Strained and shaking, with the sweat running down his back beneath his robe, as he forced himself to the discipline of holding his senses spread fully, Hihuan paused for an unsteady breath. He hesitated, wary of the danger that could meet him so swiftly there among the priests who lived constantly on this plane. But he also knew they did not suspect he possessed so complete a grasp of his powers. They thought him undeveloped in the ways of Anthi, and those who underestimated him would find that mistake costly.