The Children of Anthi: Anthi - Book One

by Deborah Chester

  There were measures to resist forced ingestion, and she tried all the Institute had taught her in self-defense, but the pain was relentless. Finally with a gasp she gave up her struggles. Powerful fingers gripped her jaw, forcing open her mouth despite her attempts to bite. The bitter, acrid taste of the powder filled her mouth, stinging her tongue like a thousand red-hot needles. She coughed and tried to spit it out, but the guard clamped his hand over her nose and mouth, choking off her air until in desperation she gulped and swallowed. His hand fell away and air rushed into her heaving lungs, but that no longer mattered. A queer blue haze smothered her. Then agonizing pain shot through her arms and legs as her veins seemed to burst. The last thing she heard before she slipped screaming into the black void of unconsciousness was the sound of Picyt’s hoarse laughter.

  Chapter 11

  He was still being followed. Frowning, Blaise slackened his pace as he drew near his quarters. The shadow had joined him some distance from Anthi’s chamber; he knew only that it was a Bban, one unknown to him personally. Blaise’s frown deepened. Tuult would deal with him.

  But Tuult no longer stood guard outside his quarters. Blaise stopped in the passageway. Warily he approached the door, wishing for a weapon as he eased himself inside the main chamber. A light cube burned brightly, revealing the overturned table and scattered chairs. The coals in the crystal brazier flickered like baleful red eyes.

  “Giaa?” he called softly, but no answer came.

  Fearing a trap, he moved silently toward the alcove, where he stopped again and listened, not daring to use his higher senses. Nothing.

  “Giaa!” Suddenly he flung aside the curtains and burst into the alcove. The colored smoke of incense curled about torn, scattered bed cushions, and on the floor spread a dark puddle of wine spilled from an overturned ewer.

  She was gone. She had been taken.

  Loss wrenched through him. Quickly he returned to the main chamber as sudden fury raged through him, and he swept out his rings with a snap, seeking to capture the man who had followed him. But the creature was gone. He seemed to be alone in this sector of the caves.

  “Demos!” he said aloud. Fool! echoed a sneering voice within him. To care for someone always meant to open a point of vulnerability to the enemy. He had learned that the hard way years ago.

  Blaise’s eyes grew cold as his anger burned itself into a hard core of fire. No matter what he might look like now, he was still the same Blaise who always survived because he moved quicker, thought more coldly, and held no attachments to anyone. Picyt meant to strike him through Giaa, but she was just a slave girl. He would not walk into a trap for her.

  Blaise moved about the room in search of a weapon. It was time he left this place. He owed the Bban’n no allegiance or favors. He would not be drawn further into their problems.

  On his way out he bent to pick up the overturned table, and as he did so he caught sight of a small object glittering on the floor. He picked it up and turned it over, his detachment shattering as he recognized Giaa’s gold brooch. It was a favorite talisman with her; she always wore it. He closed his fist over it, and worry for her returned. Then, as clearly as though he actually saw her, she appeared in his mind’s eye, her lovely face contorted with grief and pain as she stood bound to a narrow metal pillar.

  Where?

  He clutched the brooch, the metal cutting into his palm as he concentrated on focusing her image. He saw the glint of torchlight on her golden hair, and she turned her head. He glimpsed the sheen of tears on her face. His heart twisted as sharply as though a jen-knife had been thrust there. She was suffering because of him. He must go to her.

  He pressed his fingertips together, cupping his hands around the brooch so as to not lose her image. He shut his eyes and concentrated, trying to reach her mind with his in hopes of finding her location. Instead, as he made the demand on himself, blue fire exploded through his veins with a force more intense than ever before, whirling him about so that to his annoyance he lost the image of Giaa. He tried to regain it, then realized with a pang of fear that he’d been struck blind and motionless. In the next instant the sensation passed, leaving him breathless, dizzy, and as cold as though he had lain in snow.

  “My Leiil! Oh, my Leiil, you have come!”

  Still dazed, he opened his eyes and blinked in astonishment. He no longer stood in his quarters, but in a rough-hewn chamber of rock. A smelly torch flickered out barely enough light to illuminate Giaa’s incredulous tear-stained face.

  “Merciful Lea, you have come!” she cried, her soft voice breaking. For a moment she smiled at him, half incoherent with relief. Then her gladness faded. “It is a trap,” she said with a gasp. “They—”

  “Hush,” he said, recovering from his amazement. How many other powers did Asan have? he wondered distractedly as he hurried over to her, checking to be sure that she was unharmed. He brushed away a tear from the curve of her cheek and smiled. When she smiled tremulously in return, he nodded and circled behind her to work on her bonds. They were fashioned of thin webbed fabric, incredibly tough and just elastic enough to prevent them from being snapped.

  “Who took you?” he asked, keeping his voice low as he frowned and wished for the ability to produce a jen-knife out of thin air.

  “Pon Tuult,” she said, a catch still in her voice. “I had just awakened and found thee gone from me when the curtains of privacy stirred. I thought it thee returning, but instead it was that piece of dung.” She turned her head in an effort to see Blaise’s progress, long strands of her hair brushing over his forearm. “It is madness. Does he not serve thee, my Leiil?”

  “He serves Picyt.” Blaise redoubled his efforts to free her, using the sharp pin of her brooch to jab and tear at the straps. But progress came with agonizing slowness, for the soft gold metal tended to bend against the tough fabric. He swore under his breath, desperate to get her out of here before they were discovered. “I was a fool to trust Tuult,” he said savagely. “I should have known Picyt would lose no time in acting against me.”

  “Against thee?” she echoed as the strap began finally to tear. “But why? Thou are the great leiil now. The revered noble is thy servant before Anthi—”

  Blaise snorted, thinking of the emptiness Anthi guarded. The straps gave way, and he pulled them from her wrists, moving around the pillar to draw her into his arms and hold her close.

  “I do not understand,” she said as he rested his chin on top of her silken head, wondering how he could have even considered abandoning her. “All is not as has been proclaimed in the litanies. Nor as told by—”

  “No,” he said sternly, drawing away. He needed to concentrate on getting her out of here. She was no longer a tool of the Bban elders, and he would not let Picyt have her either. But the door was certain to be guarded, and he did not know how to take her out by the way he’d got in. He sighed, keeping one arm about her. “The litanies are wrong, very wrong, but Picyt does not intend to acknowledge the mistake.” He glanced about, measuring the room, then looked down at her. His eyes softened at the trusting bewilderment in hers. “Here, you’re shivering.” He threw his cloak of white fur about her and immediately felt the bite of chilly air through his thin tunic. Her feet were bare and mottled with cold, and she wore only the scant covering of her tabard.

  “Now listen carefully,” he said, still frowning as he considered the risks. “I am going to deceive the guards outside the door into not seeing us as we pass.”

  She seemed puzzled, but her large silver eyes remained trusting.

  “You must make no sound,” he told her, beginning to gather his inner forces. “How many guards are out there?”

  “Four,” she said and at his start of dismay, added, “But it is the usual number this near the Jewels of M’thra. They must be protected always.”

  Blaise moved warily to the door, listened for a moment, then motioned for her to come to his side. He pressed his fingertips together and extended his mind-touch cautiously, co
nvincing the guards to unlock the door. There was less resistance than he expected; the bolts ground back, and the door swung open.

  “Now,” breathed Blaise, concentrating on narrowing the two of them to slivers of existence. He stepped slowly outside with Giaa at his heels, only to stop at the sight of Picyt standing there smiling with Uble and Basai beside him. Each of the three priests held a fire-rod aimed at Blaise. Behind him Giaa’s breath came out in a muffled sob.

  “So you have learned to seizert,” said Picyt in a harsh whisper of a voice. “It pleases me to praise you. The skill is not easily learned.”

  “Or remembered?” retorted Blaise, meeting the mockery with some of his own.

  Picyt narrowed his dark eyes, but his sinister smile did not fade. “You speak truly, Leiil,” he said softly, his ruined voice whispering about the stone walls of the caves in echoes as light as the brush of batwings. “I shall not seizert again. But now perhaps you see I am not entirely without resources.” As he spoke he lifted the fire-rod almost negligently while Uble and Basai stood like statues, their aim never wavering. Blaise thought to speak to the younger priest but held back, stopped by the anguished yet determined expression in those unblinking clear green eyes.

  Weary of verbal fencing, Blaise drew erect. “Why did you have Giaa taken?”

  Picyt raised his brows. “It was not by my order.”

  Blaise swept out a hand impatiently. “There is no need to lie. She was taken by Tuult, who is your right arm. Why? What do you want with her? To get to me? I have no intention of running from you.” He frowned as he spoke, unable to believe he was spouting these words of bravado. Of course he meant to clear out. Anything else was stupid.

  Then he realized such thoughts were pointless. The old Blaise was gone. And what had replaced him and Asan was somehow a combination of the two, king and thief. Giaa drew nearer to his side, and he felt a surge of protectiveness. It was his fight. His place was here. He must stop Picyt somehow. He must.

  Picyt spread the fingers of his left hand, and a muscle suddenly twitched in his pallid cheek. “Tuult does not always act by my rule,” he said with a sneer. “He is Bban first and a pon second. But perhaps I understand his reasons.” As he spoke Picyt stared at Giaa, a queer expression in his eyes. “By the ancient rites—now forbidden—of Lea and the moons who are her sisters, any conqueror of the Bban tribes must lie with a Bban’dl of the highest honor, giving her a child as a gift in exchange for the loyalty of the tribes. You did this once long ago, Leiil Asan, and thus the first Henan was born.” Giaa returned his gaze as though mesmerized. “It would appear custom has been served again, though incorrectly. I wonder why a Henan woman was substituted for a Bban’dl. No child can result. Perhaps I had better speak to Tuult concerning this matter.”

  “But, revered noble, I cannot be the one!” cried Giaa in fear, her fingers digging into Blaise’s arm. “It is against the law of the rites. I was not purified. I have no caste to be defiled unto sacrifice—”

  “Giaa,” said Blaise in warning.

  A gleam appeared in Picyt’s eyes. “The supreme elders,” he whispered, clenching his fist. “Do they dare rebel against the will of Anthi? I will have answers, girl!”

  He reached out for her, but Blaise stepped between them. “Leave her alone, Picyt.”

  Picyt lifted his finger, and one of the guards, who had not stirred before, snatched Giaa from Blaise’s grasp. She cried out, and with an oath Blaise swung at the guard, only to freeze as a blue bolt of fire crackled out, marking the stone floor scant inches from his feet. He wanted to ignore the warning of that shot and act, but he remained motionless, his heart thudding uncontrollably as he remembered the awful searing pain of his previous wound. The frustration of his own fear enraged him.

  He glared at Picyt, who lifted his fire-rod in a small salute.

  “The girl will not be harmed,” said the priest, “unless you make another foolish move.”

  Blaise glanced at Giaa, who stood huddled in the gauntleted grip of the masked guard. Her face had drained of all color, and her silver eyes were dull with a resignation that infuriated him.

  “What are you going to do with her?” He lifted his fist. “By Demos, if you hurt her—”

  “It does not please me to see my Leiil so distressed,” said Picyt sardonically. “She will not be harmed, provided you cooperate.”

  “Of course,” said Blaise dryly, wondering why it had taken the priest so long to reach this expected point. “One intrigue after the other.” He shrugged, conscious of Giaa’s anxious, tear-filled eyes upon him. “So what is it you want me to do, Noble Picyt?” He stood there, wondering if he really would surrender the Bban race for Giaa’s sake. Everyone would soon find out exactly what kind of grit Blaise Omari was made of, and how much of it belonged to Asan.

  Picyt smiled, turning his head within the frame of his tall, fan-shaped collar, and extended his hand. “It pleases me to request thy help in raising Aural, Noble Asan.”

  It was so far from what he’d expected, at first Blaise could only stare at him. “What?” he asked at last, stupidly.

  “Is it so difficult, this request?” demanded Picyt impatiently, misinterpreting Blaise’s reaction. “It is the will of Anthi that she be brought forth.”

  By now Blaise had recovered his wits. “Is it? Or is it the will of Picyt?”

  The other two priests gasped at this blasphemy, and even the guards clicked rapidly behind the anonymity of their masks.

  Picyt turned over his palm, his eyes meeting Blaise’s without any attempt to dissemble. “Does it matter?”

  “No,” said Blaise shortly, watching Uble and Basai exchange startled looks. “But who do you intend using in this procedure? Not Giaa!” he said more sharply than he intended.

  “No.” Picyt’s smile was too smug to be reassuring. “By now you should be aware that Henan’n are of little use in any meaningful facet of life.”

  Blaise’s temper flared, but he kept it under control. He did not dare loose the blue fire lest the guard at his back kill Giaa. Helplessness raged through him.

  “Then let us be about it!” He stepped forward, gesturing for Picyt to lead the way.

  “My…Leiil?”

  Giaa’s quavering voice stopped him. He looked back, desperately trying to keep his face expressionless, and met her strained silver eyes. She tried to smile, but began to weep instead.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “May Anthi protect thee.”

  “An!” snapped Picyt impatiently, and Blaise had to turn away, leaving her uncomforted and alone with the guards.

  Once again he passed through the narrow high-vaulted cave with the path that bordered the bottomless ribbon of water. But this time he was not carried helplessly along. This time he strode through, his muscles strong, his stride easy and sure, unlike Picyt’s. The priest limped slowly, leaning on Uble’s arm for support. His elegance and serenity, which had once been so marked, were gone, ripped from him as though in losing the life of his rings he had lost more than health and power. Only hatred pulsed strongly in his bent, drained body. Blaise shivered slightly in the dank gloomy air and wondered as they squeezed through the drapery formations if that hate was what now kept Picyt alive. A ripple of tension crossed Blaise’s back. He must not let his guard down for an instant. And he must stay poised, ready to seize the first opportunity to defeat Picyt.

  It is my fight now, he thought as he walked erectly along, ignoring the fire-rods aimed at him. He thought, I really am a part of Asan, more than I originally suspected. There was no going back to being the old Blaise, even if Giaa had meant nothing to him. He had acquired an altered set of values and a burden of responsibility along with a new body. And in facing himself squarely, he knew he did not really want to go back. Even his old personal war against the Institute no longer seemed to matter.

  His keen hearing picked up the cadenced sound of chanting, low and clear priestly voices blending with the shrill, off-key ones of the Bban’n. An
elemental part of Blaise stirred in response. It was a litany of worship, and despite himself his spine straightened, his shoulders came back, and a pleased glow swept his blood. Even his rings stirred and would have spread out in answer, but he held them in check. Picyt glanced back at him, and Blaise met his eyes levelly, betraying nothing. The priest would not catch him in this way.

  A cheer broke out as he entered the cavern of M’thra, and even the priests could not keep to their order as perhaps a hundred worshipers rose from their knees to rush toward him. Picyt scowled and swept out his hand, but Blaise’s own instinctive displeasure made him quicker. The adoration of slaves was hardly flattery.

  “Ny! Chi’gra!” he snapped. “The time is not yet upon us.” He spread his fingers in dismissal, and with chagrined bows the Bban’n covered their heads and hideous faces with folds of their coarse, tattered garments and drew back into the shadows, where stalagmites stood like silent sentinels.

  Tuult stood with the guards ringing the three remaining cases. Recognizing the masked officer at once, for he now knew how to discern stance and build and body scent, Blaise stiffened and barely stifled a reprimand for Giaa’s abduction. Instead he stopped and stood very still, his face as expressionless as any mask while he swept his cold eyes over Tuult from hooded mask to scuffed boot-toe. Involuntarily Tuult came to attention, but he did not salute, and Blaise did not speak to acknowledge his existence. Tension rippled between them, close to the level of actual blood challenge.

  Picyt paused beside the case containing Aural and dismissed Uble and Basai with a low command.

  “It is past daybreak, my Leiil,” said Picyt in a breathless croak, his dark eyes glittering. “Nearly time for the service of blood oath to thee.” He nodded at the murmuring group huddled in the shadows. “When the warriors of the Bban tribes come, they must swear to thee. Their fathers and fathers’ fathers were sworn, but an oath of inheritance is not sufficient for what lies ahead.”