“The slaves are being released. Why?”
The question came up again and again in the low-ceilinged room of council, its earthen walls smoke-blackened from the torches blazing fitfully in each corner. In the center of the room, three elders sat around the fire pit—honored thus by being closest to its warmth—and were encircled by the rest. All five merchant guilds stood represented, and the orange torchlight in that windowless room flickered off scarred Bban features and the rich colors of green, russet, gold, crimson, and purple cloaks shining somberly from the shadows. Eyes glowed fiercely at the elders, one of whom sat erect with a silver cloak spread out from his shoulders, his legs folded under him, both palms held flat upon a small glass viewscreen that flickered a dim picture of the black palace walls and the activity surrounding them. A grim cadre of battle-shielded Tlar’jen was herding wailing slaves forth from the crescent of villas, pushing them out into the unprotected vectors of the city, where their starving cousins or the savage Henans fell upon them fiercely, stripping away garments, gold anklets, and sometimes even the collars of slavery as loot, no doubt to barter in exchange for food.
“Has yde rotted their minds at last, that they do this?” said someone with a growl worthy of his desert cousins. “They cannot live without slaves.”
The tallest elder lifted his silver gaze from the viewscreen, and said in a deep voice that filled the room: “Kuubral, it is my thought that these slaves should be brought within our walls.”
The elder on his right, a Bban so old that his scant scarred flesh had blackened and dried to the texture of a mummy’s, nodded once. “This is wise, Ggil. They will die in the unprotected sectors.”
“And,” said the third elder with a bob of his head, which he covered to hide the deep cleaving scar across his eye, “they have knowledge of the Tlar that would be useful.”
“They are spies for the Tlar, their masters!” spat a member of the council. “They would betray us!”
An angry murmur arose, not silenced until Ggil lifted his thin, long-fingered hand, smooth-skinned for a Bban, from the viewscreen. The picture at once scrambled with static that did not clear until he replaced his palm upon it.
“It is they who have been betrayed,” he said quietly, his deep low voice once more filling the room. “They are Bban’n; they will not forget this treatment.”
“What say you, Ookri?” asked Kuubral.
The scarred elder inclined his head. “I say that the Tlar mean to depart Altian and do not trust Bban’n in their holdings while they are away.”
“Depart? Where? Where?” asked several of the council.
A harsh voice jeered, “They fear those puny slaves will find the courage to make use of their hoarded food and perhaps their smooth-skinned wives.”
“Enough!” said Ookri sharply, as Ggil and Kuubral exchanged glances. “We know the House of Soot’dla does not stand with their brethren. We know that Dame Agate has seen the heart of Anthi open.”
“Then the Tlar legends are true,” said Kuubral, widening his eyes.
“True indeed,” said Ggil, thinking of his daughter so far away in the frozen north. She had forgotten his teachings; she had allowed herself to be seduced by lies. But guilt rather than anger pained him at the thought of her, for he had let the seduction take place. She believed in Anthi and the lies of Picyt because he had not protected her. And now…Beneath his hands the viewscreen flickered, no longer showing the palace but instead the forbidding peaks of the Tchsco Mountains. The others crowded around.
“By the moons, what do they do?” asked a breathless voice in awe.
A cold anger filled Ggil. Abruptly he removed his hands from the screen, letting it go black as Kuubral said, “Picyt, deceiver of the Outerlands, has called the Bban’jen to his hand. He is the betrayer of all Bban’n, for he would have us become what is not to be. And now, by the warning of Dame Agate, we know he has raised things from the beyond, ancient things not to be brought forth again. Evil taints our land, my kai, great evil.”
Ggil raised his head high, his silver eyes burning with a deep anger. “So do I now declare unto you that Leiil Hihuan has raised the Tlar’jen and sent it north to destroy the deceiver.”
Ookri’s one yellow eye glowed fiercely as the murmurs rose up again. “Rejoice not, for the Tlar leiil will destroy the Bban tribes who gather to Picyt’s call. It must not be allowed!”
A furor ensued, and angry voices argued for several minutes until sentinels from outside ran in with warnings to be quieter.
Kuubral raised his hand, and gradually the noise subsided. He said mildly, his ancient bones seeming almost to rattle as he drew breath, “The training of Anthi is strong within the tribes. But as we of the true way have taken on the guise of merchants to the Tlar in order to keep our power hidden, so are we yet stronger than all suspect, for our strength is unknown to the followers of Anthi. Let us raise our own call across the wastes, that the tribes do not go north.”
“This is wise,” said Ggil, but Ookri shook a fist at the murmur of agreement.
“Wise, yes, but not sufficient!” he said angrily. “What are the tribes if the jen is lost? Already it bows to Picyt’s hand. And the Tlar’jen will spread the blood of our warriors upon the sand. Jen-knives and lances are no match for the fire-rods.”
“You speak of physical war,” said Ggil, clicking his jaw with impatience. “With the Tlar, battle will be with the circles of their true power. With the mind they will slay, not with the hand.”
“Even more reason why we must act in many directions,” snapped Ookri. “We must journey to the Outerlands.”
Kuubral poked at the fire, stirring the singing coals to fresh flames. “If we act on the mental plane, we are lost. All is lost. We have forgotten too much of the old ways. Let us go to the Outerlands, yes. But let us also find one who will betray Picyt. And,” he added swiftly as Ookri started to interrupt, “let us act against Leiil Hihuan in the same way.”
“How?” asked Ookri as Ggil narrowed his eyes in thought, concealing dismay. “He is Tlar. He cannot be touched.”
“He can be if he is kept on the physical plane,” said Kuubral dryly.
Ookri drew in a sharp breath, but it was Ggil who spoke with a rising flare of excitement: “Dame Zaula!”
“Yes!” Kuubral leaned his thin body forward, his scarlet eyes ablaze. “Was not your daughter once her slave, Ggil? Did Giaa not tell you of the Tsla leiis’s empty womb? Unlike the leiil, she does not use her mind, and there has been no union between them.”
“By Lli herself, Kuubral, we all know the Tlar can mate either way,” snapped Ookri, shifting himself closer to the fire and sending Ggil a sharp glance. “What use is court gossip—”
“Of much use,” said Ggil slowly, refusing to let his musk release as he fought down anger. Long ago in the fierce vigor of his days as a warrior of the dara he had been a member of a raiding party that fell on one of the fields of the Mura-an. There he had taken a Tlar woman as his booty, mating with her in the savage wilds of the Outerlands. Defying the laws of his tribe, he had kept her, and when she had born a Henan child, dying in the birth of it, he had kept Giaa, refusing to break her neck as commanded. Eventually, to save his honor he had been forced to sell the child to a villa in the city, but Bban’n memories ran long, and although he now stood as one of the supreme elders, there were those who still looked hard upon him for what he had done. Now he sat erectly, refusing to betray his thoughts as he considered what plan Kuubral was proposing. He knew—they all knew—who would have to carry it out. “If the leiil could be distracted physically,” he said reluctantly, clicking his jaw, “he would lose considerable mental force.”
“Yes!” said Kuubral eagerly. “And since he must be the focal point for full Tlar power—”
“Understood,” said Ookri’s voice, rasping with impatience. “But we cannot guide his actions. We learned that when we tried to influence him to accept the Soot’dla assassin back within his court. We cannot forc
e him to approach his wife. Especially not now, with his thoughts on war.”
Kuubral’s eager scarlet eyes gazed steadily into Ggil’s silver ones. Distaste flooded Ggil, but he knew what must be done. And the fact that of all the elders he was the only one who had joined completeness with a Tlar made him the one to do it.
“She will approach him,” said Ggil softly, staring into the fire.
Ookri’s hand tapped his arm, and he flinched, startled. “You are willing to do this?” he asked gruffly, his single eye unwavering.
Ggil looked at him. “We are agreed that it must be done,” he said harshly. He lifted his head in pride. “I shall do it.”
“And the danger?” persisted Ookri, cocking his head to one side so that the firelight glinted off his empty eye. “Should the Tsla leiis turn on you, Ggil—”
“I do not fear the risk!” began Ggil hotly, but Kuubral lifted his hand.
“Gently, gently,” he said, clicking his jaw in reproof at both of them. “Who shall be Picyt’s betrayer? Surely the priest is doubly guarded now, both by that chielt Tuult and the ancient one that has been raised to life.”
“Asan,” said Ggil, narrowing his eyes as the old blood in him stirred. “He has no right to walk the sands of our world. Let us destroy him first.”
“In what way?” demanded Kuubral.
But Ookri was slapping his hand on the packed earth in comprehension. “Giaa!” he said, hunching his shoulders forward. “She is there. She shall be made to do it. Yes. That is just.” As he spoke his single eye burned at Ggil.
“Then we are agreed,” said Kuubral. “Let us first seek the Tsla leiis.”
Slowly he stretched out his fist toward Ggil, as did Ookri. Intense silence fell over the room of council, broken by not so much as a stir, click, or uncertain breath. Ggil’s extended fist touched the others’, and he closed his silver eyes and focused inward, unsettled for a moment as the forceful rings of Tlar psionic power made themselves felt upon his awareness. Then he grew steady and intent and sure. Building a picture of the palace in his mind, and harnessing the strength of Ookri and Kuubral into his own focus, he went there seeking the court of women.
“The direction of the black devi is being tracked closely, Leiil,” said Pon Fflir in a stiff tone. Masked, cloaked, and battle shielded, he stood at attention before Hihuan, who paced about the vast triangular chamber of state with ill-concealed impatience. “It caught only one transport, and although damage was severe, more than half the troops aboard are still functional.”
Magnificently arrayed in bronze cloak and tunic with intricately hammered battle shielding fitted upon his torso, Hihuan ground his teeth together.
“And they were only Henans, Leiil.”
Hihuan whirled to glare at Fflir. “Fool!” he snapped. “They are expendable in battle, not elsewhere. We need every possible Henan to attack the Bban’jen. Without that distraction, the Bban’n will never permit themselves to drop guard against the rings—” He broke off, hearing a footfall behind him, and turned haughtily to frown at this courtier who dared interrupt him.
The man bowed, obviously not relishing taking on a task reserved normally for slaves. “Forgive this intrusion, my Leiil, but the Noble Aabrm desires me to inform your greatness that the Tsla leiis requests audience.”
Startled, Hihuan lifted his eyebrows. “Now?”
“Indeed, now, my Leiil. She is reported most anxious to speak with thee before thy departure.”
Hihuan sneered. He had not slept, spending the remainder of the last night giving orders and planning strategy. Now it was dawn, and half his forces cowered stranded in the wastes of the Outerlands, seeking to avoid the vast devi that could cut the transports to ribbons with its lashing force. The rest of his army had yet to set out at all. He had no time or patience to deal with an unfaithful wife.
“Inform the leiis it is not our wish to grant her audience,” he said, unable to resist a glare at the unmoving Fflir standing by the crystal mapboard. Malice darkened Hihuan’s eyes. “Perhaps you would care to comfort her fears, pon?” he said softly.
Fflir swung out his hand in surprise. “My leiil, I—” He collected himself. “Yes, I shall obey thy wish.” He stepped toward the courtier. “Conduct me to the Tsla leiis.”
Jealousy blazed in Hihuan’s heart, blackening it to a shriveled knot. What did she see in this stripling, to make her look on her leiil with less favor? He clenched his fists.
“No!” he shouted as Fflir reached the doorway.
Startled, both men turned to look back at him. Catching up his mask from a low-slung chair, Hihuan strode forward, his bronze cloak billowing out behind him.
“See to our transport, Pon Fflir,” he said, shouldering past the officer. “Well?” he said to the hesitant courtier. “Where is she?”
The man bowed, his eyes shifting furtively to Fflir, then away. “This way, my Leiil.”
They had scarcely turned down the corridor when a figure in a plain cloak and mask stepped from an alcove to block their way.
Infuriated by this audacity, Hihuan drew a sharp breath, and his escort said fiercely, “Fool! Stand aside for the leiil’s passage.”
“Please, my Leiil,” said the man, not moving. His thick muscular body was taut with urgency. “I beg word with thee.” Quickly he pulled off his mask, shoving back the cowled hood of his cloak to reveal a craggy, middle-aged face. It was firm of jaw, with hard ocher-green eyes set deep beneath heavy brows. A peculiar but well-known burn marked one cheek. He stood there, his eyes never wavering from Hihuan, who frowned in sudden understanding.
“Yes, Leiil, I am Stregth n’Dubrk dl-Soot’dla, banished once by thy hand to the Outerlands, but reclaimed to honor by my house.” He turned his branded cheek so that Hihuan could see the mark more clearly. “I beg thee, Leiil, show mercy and reverse thy displeasure that I may once again bear weapons for thee.”
“More likely you would bear weapons for our betrayal,” snapped Hihuan, looking at him with such open contempt that Stregth flinched. “We know well of your words against us and of your blooded friendship with the traitor Picyt. Do not approach us again, merdar, or your blood shall spread across these stones!”
With a sneer Hihuan strode on, the courtier hastening to keep step beside him. Stregth was left white-faced and trembling with a terrible fury in his eyes. For a moment he stood still in the center of the corridor. Then, flinging his cloak over one arm, he turned and hastened away in the direction opposite to Hihuan’s.
Aware of all this, for he had no liking to put his back to an enemy, Hihuan relaxed and slowed his pace a fraction, permitting the gasping courtier to catch up. Stregth was a coward as well as a fool. Whatever prompted his desire for reinstatement to the court after years of open rebellion could not be trusted. Hihuan inclined his head.
“While I speak to the Tsla leiis, you will inform the guards that Stregth is to be denied all future admittance to the palace.”
“It shall be done, my Leiil,” said the man with a vehement gesture. “With pleasure. Rabble of that kind have no place here.”
Zaula had chosen neutral ground for their meeting, the chamber a private one located neither in her court nor in his. Dismissing his guide, Hihuan entered with an assured, arrogant step and stopped, his black eyes appraising her as she rose from her chair, laying aside her bailanke to kneel and bow low to the floor. As she did so her shining jet hair swept forward, then swung back as she rose, giving him a clear glimpse of the curve of her full breasts and the golden flesh between them. She was not tall by the standards of their race, coming barely to his shoulder, but it hardly seemed a defect in view of the rest of her attributes. Her gown, fashioned of handwoven pria cloth and so fine that the least careless touch could tear it, swathed her in shimmering amethyst, the gleaming threads taking fire in the light so that with every movement—whether the swell of her breasts as she drew breath or the shift of a leanly curved thigh as she stood up—she flashed with color and brilliance like a
faceted jewel held up to the sun. Her skin was dark, tawny gold, softened with scented ointments, her lips full and ripe, her eyes liquid brown with a fiery hint of russet in their depths.
As always, the very sight of her aroused him. He swept out his rings, seeking hers, and found them held flat about her, lifeless, as usual. Furious, he drew back and turned away from his wife and leiis, the only woman he could not excite.
“Hihuan,” she said quietly, her voice a curious husky mixture of music and fire. “I beg you to hear my words.”
He caught the urgency in her then and turned back, reluctant and impatient. “What would you say, Zaula, except no?”
“You go to war!” she said as though her throat ached. Her eyes, widened and anxious, stared up at him, and the ruddy glints seemed to swirl in their depths.
But he held himself cold against her charms. “Yes. Perhaps soon you will be free of me.” He clenched a fist. “Free to claim openly the one you claim now in secret!”
She came forward to lay her fingers upon his fist, her touch cool, light, and electric. “Please, Hihuan. Do not let this rage eat at you. I am your wife.”
He snatched his hand away from hers, fearing the weakness her very touch put in him. “You give yourself to Fflir!”
She faced him, her eyes steady, seemingly without fear of the rage that choked him and urged him to strike her down. One thought, and he could destroy her.
“I have never opened my womb to him,” she said.
“Nor to me!” he shouted.
“Yes.” She frowned, and now anger that matched his stirred in her face. “Yes, Hihuan, always to you.”
“Liar!” He gripped her arm and shook her. “Will you deny the rejection dealt a moment past?” She flinched at that, and he swung away, releasing her. “What gain is this meeting, Zaula? You vowed once never to willingly see me again, and because I am not as cruel as you think me I have permitted this defiance. Now you change!” He turned his head to glare at her. “You seek me out. You lie baldly. For what purpose? In an hour I shall be gone, and there was no need to stir up yet more hatred between us.”
The Children of Anthi: Anthi - Book One Page 18
