“Oh, damn you!” she burst out, no longer caring what she said. “And I had begun to wonder if Asan were a god. What a fool I am!” She put her fists on her hips, her cloak spreading over her arms. Scorn and hurt ground knives into her, and she stared at him in disgust, hating him and hating herself even more for having believed in his death. “So you don’t lie when you say you always have a way out. Now you’ve even escaped death. How—”
“Enough!” He swept out his hand imperiously to silence her.
But she did not want to be silenced. “How did you do it, Omari? I suppose now you—”
She broke off with a gasp as invisible iron bands suddenly squeezed about her, clamping her arms to her sides, cutting off her lung power, and compressing her throat. She tried to move, to scream, to do anything that might shake off this paralysis, but she was utterly helpless. Raging inside, she glared up at him, only to blink—her fury dashed from her—at the sight of his blue eyes blazing incandescent light. He was doing this to her. Fright shook her as the bands tightened. She began to gasp for air, blinking against the spots blurring her vision. Please, no! she tried to scream, but her voice was throttled, and the words merely echoed around and around in her head.
Abruptly the pressure ceased. She dropped limply to her knees, lungs heaving, and brushed tears of pain from her eyes with the back of her hand. When she dared look up at him again, his eyes were normal, but hard in a face set in stern lines. Unease rekindled in her, chilling her despite the perspiration soaking the sides of her tunic. He was not just Blaise Omari behind a different face, she told herself dazedly. She must be careful.
“Now,” said the deep, commanding voice, and she flinched. “You have been much with Picyt. What are his exact plans?”
“Of all people, you should know!” she retorted, hating him for making her afraid.
“I have sources of information,” he said bleakly, the initial warmth in his voice long since gone. “I know the summons to the Bban tribes has gone out, but by what means? Has he some sort of call beacon, or more direct communications?”
Her heart convulsed in fear. He must not discover her beacon! Useless as it had proved to be, she knew that were it found, she would die.
“Yes,” she said in a low voice, not daring to meet his eyes, wondering if he could read her mind. “There is a general signal.” Think of something else! she told herself, but the more she tried the more the thought of her beacon hammered through her brain.
“Well, then,” he said. “Sabotage it.”
Surprised, she rose to her feet and faced him with a frown. “Why? If the full contingent of tribes doesn’t arrive soon, we won’t have a prayer against Leiil Hihuan and his forces.”
“If the Bban’jen are not here, there will be no battle,” he said, sweeping out his hand. “I cannot permit Bban slaughter for something as worthless as—”
“I thought Blaise Omari would be the most eager to help liberate—”
“It is not freedom Picyt offers the Bban’n, Saunders, but death! He has taught these people to believe in a goddess that in reality is just a machine. He has deceived them into adopting a set of rituals they think is worship to Anthi, but all they have done is teach themselves mental surrender to whatever Picyt wants them to do.” He gripped her arm with a hand like steel, his eyes so intense it was painful to meet them. “Deep in this mountain lie more life support containers like the one that held me. More than eight thousand, Saunders!”
She gasped, astonished by the number. “Eight—”
“I’m not exactly sure what type of species the Tlar are, but they regenerate themselves by selecting other species with mental abilities compatible with theirs, using them as catalysts to—”
“I understand,” she said quickly, looking away with a queasy tremor at the all too vivid memory of the process. “I saw it happen to you.”
“Yes.” His voice softened, and his eyes grew thoughtful, darkening with memory. “You did see. By fluke, by strength…somehow I survived. But I wasn’t meant to, Saunders,” he continued. “Asan was not resurrected to lead the Bban’n to freedom. He was resurrected to lead them down to those eight thousand capsules and sacrifice them to the regeneration of his race. Picyt knows I intend to stop him. That’s why I need your help.”
“To sabotage the summoning so that the tribes won’t come,” she said slowly, attempting to comprehend his incredible story. She considered believing him, trusting him. But he is Omari, she told herself. Omari, even inside that magnificent body, could never be trusted. “But wouldn’t it be faster to just pull the plug?”
“What?” He frowned.
“To pull the plug. Turn off the life-support computer maintaining the capsules.” She thought of Aural crumbling to dust and shuddered.
A smile, wry and infinitely bitter, touched his lips. For a moment she saw centuries of age in those blue eyes. Then he said very quietly, “The cases are empty. Asan, Picyt, Hihuan, and the rest all came to this planet to make the preparations. But the Tlar never arrived. Saunders, Picyt has been waiting here for hundreds of years.” He gripped her shoulders, and the strength in his hands frightened her. He could crush her if he wanted to. Before they had been well-matched; now he had the advantage.
“I think he has finally gone mad,” continued Omari. “Too much yde, perhaps, or maybe he just can’t face facts anymore. But he has blocked those empty cases from his mind. If we don’t stop him, he’ll transfer the Bban’n into nothing. Can you imagine a more horrible death?”
She could not imagine it at all. Something within her snapped, and she looked up at that imperious golden face, her decision made. If Picyt were stopped and the support machinery destroyed, her chance to become Aural would be gone forever. And if someone like Omari could survive the transfer, then why couldn’t she? She lifted her chin. If she had to spend the rest of her life on this miserable, sand-blasted rock, crawling through caves like the miners she’d escaped long ago for the glory of the stars, then she’d do it as Aural and not as Saunders the n’dl, without caste or respect.
“Yes,” she said swiftly, brushing aside second thoughts. “I’ll help you.”
“Good.” His smile was warm and open, so unlike Omari’s arrogant grin. But she barely noticed it as she nodded and hurried away, so intent upon reaching Picyt now with her request that she never saw the pair of scarlet eyes glowing from the shadows of a niche cut in the rock, or the cloaked, hooded figure that slipped behind her to follow Asan’s striding figure with the furtiveness of a finger of smoke.
“So you seek the honor of raising Aural, Enchantress of the Winds and Keeper of the Blood,” whispered Picyt hoarsely from his bed of deeply piled cushions.
Saunders still had not fully recovered from the shock of seeing the serene revered noble transformed into a living skeleton, his bones sticking out sharply beneath pallid, sagging flesh. His dark eyes, like holes cut in a death mask, were the only thing alive in his face. They glittered strangely at her as she inclined her head, and she felt as though something had crawled across her skin.
“Yes, Noble Picyt,” she said, trying to hide her revulsion.
He grunted and lay back upon his pillows, half hidden in the shadows cast by the canopy over him. Two motionless, masked jen guards stood flanking the bed, their feet braced apart and their arms crossed over their black tunics. Flames of light glowed and flicked like orange tongues from the mouths of brass creatures hung upon the wall, and incense burned with belches of purple smoke from the small brazier standing behind her. She could not smell the stuff, but as she breathed in the smoke it stung and dried her throat. Resisting the need to cough, she stood motionless, waiting with the patience she had learned was necessary with the priest. His sunken eyes remained closed in thought. The suspense seemed endless, and she wondered if he had fallen asleep. But she did not relax.
Finally he opened his eyes and pierced her with an unwavering gaze. “What is your reason for this request?” His once deep, resonant voice now
rattled and cracked with every strained word.
She kept her eyes averted. “I…” She paused and swallowed hard, trying to curb her rising unease. “I want to be beautiful,” she blurted out finally, her face very hot. One of the guards clicked his jaw behind his mask, and she glared at him.
“And so beauty attracts you now, does it? We find this pleasing to hear.” A ghost of mockery flitted through his voice, making her raise her head sharply. “Yes,” he continued, his long supple fingers wandering over the coverlet of white and silver fur mitered in a rich pattern of texture and pale color. “Aural’s spirit is legend. Her heart is flame, her soul fire. She shines from within.” Picyt raised his sunken black eyes slowly to Saunders’s. “Do you understand what Aural is, n’dl?”
Saunders stifled an involuntary burst of annoyance at being called by that term. She knew that quite simply it meant not a daughter of the planet, but the subtle inflections of insult still lashed across the raw wound of her pride. She looked at Picyt, who had always treated her with kindness but not with honesty, and raised her chin high.
“No,” she said curtly, biting off the words. “I do not. Legends mean nothing to me.”
“Yet you would be one,” he said, steepling his fingers. “Why?”
She realized he meant to refuse her request and was merely toying with her now. Anger shot through her, and she nearly shouted the truth. Then at the last moment caution choked her. She knew then that she would not betray Omari and despised herself.
“Aural is by right the true Tsla leiis,” said Picyt softly, his sunken eyes glittering in a way she distrusted. “She is the wife of the Tlar leiil, and the mother of the heirs.”
“No.” Breathing the word, Saunders drew back a step. Mate with Omari? Never! But Picyt must be lying. Aural was one of the four. She must be more than a royal brood mare. Saunders shut her eyes, beads of perspiration streaking her face from the heat, smoke, and tension. Picyt was twisting this, trying to manipulate her as he had done before, but she could not find his motive.
“Do you fear Asan?” asked Picyt.
Saunders answered shortly. “I know he is Omari.” But was he? asked a sudden voice of doubt within her. Or was that another lie? Confused and trapped in a maze of lies and half truths, she stood there, exhausted. She’d be damned if she’d cower before Picyt or anyone else! “He is Omari,” she repeated so firmly her voice rang out through the room. “Not some god or king you serve, noble, but Blaise Omari, murderer, thief, sel—”
“You do not truly fear these petty actions,” said Picyt, his ravaged mouth curling in a small smile.
“They are serious crimes, and he must pay for them!” she said, even more vigorously.
“Then how shall you pay for your crime?” Picyt leaned forward suddenly from his cushions. He pointed his forefinger at her in an accusation that froze the blood in her veins and robbed her legs of strength. “Betrayer!”
He knows, she thought in despair, shrinking back from the dark eyes glaring at her so wildly. Everything inside her shriveled. Desperately she opened her mouth.
“Deny nothing!” he said, gesturing her to silence while the guards slapped ready hands to knife hilts. “We bargained, n’dl, but you have betrayed your word with this creation.” He lifted his finger, and a slave hobbled forward from the shadows, bearing a small metal box in his gnarled hands.
Saunders stared at it. She tried to swallow and could not. “I gave you no word on this,” she said in a strained whisper. Defiance surged back. “You betrayed me first, Noble Picyt. And upon that occasion you told me a second vow cannot bind the first.” She spoke carefully and without sign of the fear hammering through her. “My first allegiance is to the Galactic Space Institute. Duty requires that I seek every means to obtain rescue from shipwreck, so the Institute does not lose any able-bodied—”
“Enough,” he said impatiently. “Empty words, Saunders.” He gazed at her for a long moment. Then the old wry expression of cynical knowledge and infinite compassion crossed his face. He smiled in the way that had half won her liking for him from the first. Troubled, she stared back at him. His smile faded. “This Institute you speak of so often, this that claims your blood loyalty, has shown you nothing in return. No ship of rescue has come.”
Unwanted tears of chagrin stung her eyes. She blinked fiercely and shook her head.
“We have offered you life, Ryhi,” he said softly, turning his palm up at her surprise. “Yes, I remember your private name. I know many things about you, and I have long admired your spirit and intelligence.”
The gentle words tore at her in a way she did not believe possible.
“Ryhi,” he continued, his dark eyes searching her face so intently that she wondered why he did not seek to read her mind. “Your place is here now. Old vows can no longer claim you. They have not answered your call. They do not care about you. But I care, Ryhi.” He gestured, and the slave approached Saunders with a bow, his aged face averted carefully. He held out the beacon to her.
“Silence its call,” said Picyt gently. “You have come asking to be Aural, to join us in the completeness of the rings of Anthi. And this we allow with gladness. It pleases us to grant your request to become her, for Aural has use in this time.”
He is mad, Omari had said, and not to be trusted. The words echoed through her brain. She did not understand Picyt, who was first malevolent and mocking, then kind. He refused her, then gave permission. And what did it matter who silenced the beacon? Its signal had done no good. She stared at it with disgust. Slowly she reached out to take it, then abruptly drew back her hand.
“What use do you plan for Aural?” she asked, facing Picyt directly. “Besides…I won’t be Omari’s mate!”
“Asan’s mate,” said Picyt with a smile that chilled her. “But Omari’s betrayer. You are clever at deception. And with my instructions to guide you…Yes, perhaps this is wise. There is time now while Hihuan’s forces are held at bay in the wastes by the black devis.” He extended a hand. “Silence the box, and let us prepare you.”
Fear, nameless and unreasoning, struck at her. “No!” she said sharply. “No, I won’t destroy Omari, not like that, not with a trick. I asked to be Aural for another reason, not this.” She stepped back from the slave, who shuffled his misshapen feet and shivered.
Picyt narrowed his eyes. “Yes, you seek to be Aural in order to take your own vengeance upon him. That is not permitted. Chi’ka!” Swiftly the guards stepped to either side of her. Tensing, Saunders whirled, but at a gesture from Picyt the guards seized her arms and turned her back. “Ny!” snapped Picyt, and now in his eyes the black fire of purpose and determination blazed. “I am sworn to the raising of the blood. I am sworn. The Tlar will rule again.” He sat forward, the incense curling thin fingers of colored smoke about his shoulders. “Not just this world, but all worlds of this new galaxy.”
Saunders’s eyes widened. “Impossible!” she said with scorn. “You have lost your technology. And the Institute as well as the Commonwealth of Planets would—”
“Defeat us?” he finished. “Fool! I and these few others are spent and feeble. The true blood flows in those such as Asan, mightier than any your race can throw against us.”
She snorted. “Even eight thousand Asans are not enough to conquer—”
“Merdarai! You know the number in Anthi’s heart?” He glared at her with terrible eyes. “You? Then he has spoken with you to poison your mind against me. And did he make you ask to raise Aural?”
“No,” she whispered. Run! screamed her instincts, but the guard beside her had his knife drawn. Desperately she said, “Noble Picyt, I—”
“You were safe as long as you obeyed what was asked of you and stayed out of the move of events. But this meddling, n’dl, shall cost you dear!” He held out his thin, trembling hand. “We shall silence the box for you. But you shall serve me henceforth, and in the manner of my choosing. You shall bring Aural forth and make her serve me too.”
Sau
nders whirled to make a dash for freedom, aiming a hard blow at the guard who blocked her way. But he was quicker and dodged, seizing her arm and wrenching it behind her so roughly that she nearly screamed with pain.
“And suppose I don’t survive like Omari did,” she said. “Suppose the real Aural comes forth. She’d be on Asan’s side…against you.”
Picyt’s smile was evil and utterly merciless. “Which of you does not matter. For you, Ryhi Saunders, are mine to command, and this will make sure of Aural’s cooperation.” From his sleeve he drew forth a small vial of fine blue powder.
Saunders stared at it in horror. “No,” she said, pleading and not caring that she did so. “For God’s sake, Picyt, not yde! I don’t want to die like that! Like y—” She stopped herself, but he knew what she had nearly said.
His eyes were as small and cold as black pebbles. “Anthi shall choose your life or your death,” he intoned, raising fingertips to his brow in a gesture copied by the slave and guards. “But you shall always know how Anthi’s fire shivers through your veins. You shall obey or suffer worse torture than the seven deaths of Merdar’s shadow land. And Asan will know destruction by the hand of his beloved Aural before the next dawn. It is sworn.” Drawing in a deep breath, he spread the fingers of his right hand. “Put it down her throat, Jutuu.”
The slave took the vial and hobbled over to Saunders, who struggled to free herself. The guard’s grip clamped down harder, making her cry out. Omari had not lied, she thought wildly, her heart pounding so rapidly that the rush of her blood made her dizzy. Oh, she had been a fool to come here. Her determination to get Omari had made her blind. Cursing her own stupidity, she tensed as both arms were pinioned behind her. The other guard took the vial from Jutuu and unstoppered it. She could not smell the drug, but its potency was evident by the way the guard swiftly drew back. He spoke curtly to his fellow, and Saunders cried out as the excruciating pressure on her shoulders increased.
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.
The Children of Anthi Page 22
