The Children of Anthi: Anthi - Book One

by Deborah Chester

  For a moment she seemed to struggle with herself, but instead of the angry retort he expected, she said, “Yes, soon you will be gone. To war, Hihuan. And if you do not return, who shall stand as heir to your throne?”

  With a cry he whirled on her so fiercely that she drew back, lifting one arm protectively. His black eyes blazed. “Lea’dl, but you dare much, woman! I wonder you do not raise your force field as you say such things. Whose fault is it? Whose?” Then he collected himself and said bitterly, “You know who has the strongest rings after mine. He shall—”

  She gestured scornfully. “Is that a true heir? An heir of your body, Hihuan? Forget the rings. This is what is real.” She held out her hand. “Flesh against flesh.” She seized his hand, and she pressed her palm against his sweating one. She drew nearer, and the perfume anointing her wafted up, clouding his senses, making his head spin. Her eyes held his. “My way, Hihuan. This once. Please,” she pleaded softly, her husky voice making him shiver.

  His anger fled, leaving his blood stirred in a different, more pleasing way. She was so beautiful, so alluring… His hand tightened around hers, and he reached forth the ring of passion, only to have her draw back.

  “No!” she said sharply, then at once softened her voice, pressing her pliant body against his armored one. “Please, Hihuan. Not the rings. They will bring pleasure but no child.” Her face tilted to his, the ripe lips parting invitingly. “I know what happened to the ty-boy last night. And I have not the mental strength to meet you in the way you want, to keep myself from being crushed as he was.”

  Hihuan frowned, amused by this confided fear, and started to tell her the truth of that death. Then he did not. Perhaps at last she did fear him enough to surrender. He touched his lips to hers in a cautious kiss, not yet daring to believe her. One of his muscular arms encircled her, drawing her nearer and feeling her quiver responsively.

  “Why does this please you so?” he whispered, kissing her again. “This pleasure in the way of lesser creatures than we?”

  “Oh, Hihuan,” she said when he finally allowed her a breath. “Please. Look upon me with truth and know I do not lie.”

  Startled, he stopped kissing her smooth cheek and gazed deeply down into her eyes, seeing there the fire of desire sharpened by fear. Sudden confidence swept him, and he laughed.

  “No, I believe you,” he said, certain that at last he did rule her. And what would it hurt, to grant her wishes this one time? His next kiss was harder and deeper, and she began to respond with increasing passion.

  Her hand slid across his chest, unfastening his cloak, which fell to a shimmering heap of bronze at his heels. His blood flamed at the touch of her cool fingertips upon the back of his neck, and he began to kiss her eyes, her lips, her throat, with increasing urgency, his hand sliding inside the delicate bodice of her gown to curve around full warm flesh that trembled and responded to his touch. She was unbuckling the straps at his back that held the battle shielding in place, and with a low laugh at her eagerness he lowered his lips to the pulsing spot between her breasts, one finger gently parting her gown there as the fabric tore softly to her slim waist. The cloth fluttered down about the curves of her hips just as she succeeded in undoing the last buckle. The shielding encasing his back and torso slipped, and he pulled it off, tossing it to one side and laughing as it clattered on the floor. Her cool hands slipped inside his silk tunic, sliding across his flesh, which quivered at her touch.

  “See?” she murmured, her voice so throaty it seemed to throb through his body. “Is this not pleasing, my Leiil?”

  His kissed her for answer as he helped her remove his tunic. All thoughts of war and the treachery of his subjects faded from his mind, replaced by a rising exaltation. He had never, from the hour of their first battle, realized the extent of her naiveté. Her refusal to use her rings had seemed willful defiance; now he knew it was but ignorance on her part. His hands caressed her, making her moan softly as they slid downward to the hidden parts of her. In moments she would learn that it was not simply one way or the other, either mental or physical, but both if one intended a child. Passion throbbed through him as she pressed nearer, willing and pliant and his at last. For a moment he lost all sense of himself, his need for her overwhelming him entirely. Calling her name softly, he bent to pick her up, intending to carry her into the small adjoining room, where he was sure she had prepared everything for their pleasure. But even as his arms tightened about her, a shadow swift and deadly struck from behind.

  The shock of the knife skidding across his left shoulder and plunging deep below it was like a hammer blow, stunning him for a frozen instant before the agony, white and blinding, began. He staggered, barely hearing a hoarse cry of challenge mingled with Zaula’s scream. For a moment he could see nothing, do nothing but feel the pounding intrusion of metal in his back. Then it was yanked out, and his blood spurted with it. Moved by the instinct of self-preservation, he whirled on his attacker in fury, extending his rings into a force field of protection. His mind snapped out, crushing the other mercilessly. Screaming, Stregth clutched his temples, dropping the bloody knife. He sought desperately to recover and counter Hihuan’s mental attack, but Hihuan was too strong. Stregth contorted under the pressure, his lips drawing back from his teeth as he fell to his knees. His face drained of color as his rings shattered, and his eyes started, bulging hideously. “Death,” he gasped, writhing uncontrollably as Hihuan crushed him. “Death to the tyrant—” He fell, sightlessly staring at Hihuan’s leg. Drawing in a ragged breath, Hihuan let his force field drop.

  “Mercy of Lea!” cried Zaula, sinking to the floor by the dead man. The beauty in her face had drained away. She clutched herself, unconsciously trying to pull her ruined gown back up about her shivering flesh, but the cloth shredded in her fingers. “Who was he?”

  “Stregth of the Soot’dla,” said Hihuan coldly. He glared down at her, all belief and trust trickling away with the quickening drip of his blood upon the floor. “But surely you knew him, Dame Zaula.”

  The edge in his hard voice made her look up. She saw the blood and gasped. “No.” Then her eyes widened, and she jumped to her feet. “No! You cannot accuse me—”

  “Can I not?” Using his rings to temporarily seal the wound, he gripped her arm roughly, not allowing her to wrench free, although her struggles sent agony through him. “Who else insisted I flatten my rings so that I should have no warning? Who arranged the meeting here in this unguarded chamber? Who persuaded me out of my shielding at just the right moment?” Weakness dragged at him, blurring his vision. Hating her, he shoved her away with such violence that she fell sprawling. She began to weep, but he did not listen as he picked up his tunic and ripped it apart. She flinched at the tearing noise, shrinking away when he approached her and threw the cloth in her lap.

  “Get up and bandage me,” he commanded.

  She gripped the cloth between her hands and sat there, shaking. “It was no conspiracy. I swear—”

  “These lies insult both of us. Get up!” He hauled her to her feet. The pain made him reel, but with effort he subdued it. “Bandage me, or I vow that you’ll share Stregth’s death.”

  The threat turned her so pale that he thought she would collapse, but after a moment she knotted the cloth together and awkwardly began staunching the flow of blood.

  “It is deep, my Leiil,” she whispered, her voice so unsteady she was barely intelligible. “The healer must be summoned.”

  “I have not time to lie in bed for days,” he snapped, barely keeping his rage against her in check. He hoped she knew how close to death she stood, for by the four moons he meant to see her pay for this morning’s work.

  She pulled the bandage tight enough to make him stiffen in pain and stepped away, hampered by the tatters of her gown still hanging from her waist. She stared at the floor, and her breathing was quick and shallow.

  “You will die if you do not lie down and receive care,” she said at last. She looked up at him, he
r eyes filling with tears. “I am not a part of this! I swear! Please—”

  “Slut,” he said, his voice a whipcrack of scorn. “You are no better than a Henan woman selling herself on the streets to Bban warriors. But you bear my rank and my name and my honor, and by Anthi’s grace you shall bear my child also.”

  She stared at him for a moment in disbelief, then began backing away as he started toward her.

  “No!” she screamed, her face a mask of fear and hate. “Stay away from me! I am cold, Hihuan.” She dodged his hand, only to trip on her gown and fall. She began to weep, but as he gripped her arm and dragged her upright, her eyes still flashed defiance. “I am cold!” she screamed furiously. “You shall find me ice. I will give you nothing!”

  One hand still gripping her arm, he smoothed the other over her breast, watching dispassionately as she cringed.

  “Your flesh is warm,” he said, his voice hard as his black eyes burned into hers. Indeed, it was very warm. He pulled her nearer, ignoring his weakness from the wound as she again tried to wrench free. “You are on level five, Zaula. Do not deny it. And you are rising to six.”

  “No! I shall not! I hate you! I despise you! No!” But she moaned the last word, sobbing as she averted her face. “Oh, Anthi have mercy, no!” she cried, stiffening as he extended his senses, inflaming her despite her desperate struggles to hold her own rings flat and lifeless. Before, she had always managed to spurn him, but this time she failed. Her rings formed, extending under the brutal force of his guidance. Zaula shuddered under his touch, her flesh on fire as the strength of her defiance faded.

  He gathered her unresisting body in his arms, his strength reaching beyond loss of blood and the agony still raging in his back, and carried her into the room where silken cushions waited beneath the heady fragrance of burning incense. She moaned, trying to escape, but she could not. Her mind was his, for now he controlled her nerve centers. Soon his mind would be hers. He laid her down on the cushions and pulled away the remainder of her gown to reveal the full perfection of her body. They would be one entity, their rings merged completely. Then she would feel his pain and beyond that his hatred of her, and if she survived true union, then she would bear the child she had asked for.

  Her eyes, enormous dark pools of terror and passion, stared up at him through the scarlet and turquoise smoke of the incense. Her lips parted, and she whispered, “Please, Hihuan. Please let me live—”

  But he narrowed his black eyes, unmoved by her pleas or her horror. His arrogant face twisted in a sneer. “The time for begging is past, my treacherous Zaula. Did Fflir ever raise you to the seventh level? Or Stregth?” She gasped, her lips forming a soundless, desperate denial. Hihuan smiled, not believing her. He would never believe her again. “No, I think not. Know it now, my dear.” And he put his hands upon her, laughing as her screams pierced his mind.

  Chapter 9

  Alone, Blaise drew a slow, unsteady breath. Glancing down at the waxen face of Picyt, he frowned. Nervousness rippled through his stomach, but at least if he failed now, it would be in private. That much, at least, he had won.

  He might as well get it over with.

  Sighing, Blaise knelt beside the twitching priest, bracing himself for what was to come as he cautiously placed his fingertips on Picyt’s temples. The flesh was clammy and loose. He waited, and without delay the searing blue fire blasted through him like an explosion of power. Stifling a cry, he shut his eyes and held on until the lash of energy calmed and began to surround him in a shimmering sea of blue light. The vision of Picyt formed in his mind as he looked on the inner structures of this particular point in the universe. There was the seal he had applied. With trepidation he reopened it, feeling Picyt jerk under his hands even as the order blurred with distortion. This time Blaise plunged into the vortex, going deep into Picyt, ignoring that part of him that cringed away. Cold, alien blackness sucked at Blaise. Then he suddenly felt the tremendous force of Picyt’s mind and emotions, the pain, the delirious distortions of yde withdrawal, the terror, and the dark hate lingering at the bottom like some malevolent growing worm. It sprang at Blaise, seeking to wrap itself about him and crush him, but blue fire encased Blaise like a shimmering seal of safety. Nothing could pierce it.

  “Picyt!”

  And in answer the buffeting emotions cleared, permitting Blaise to enter the awful clarity of Picyt’s very center.

  They faced each other, formless and shrouded in blue fire.

  “Enemy?” said Picyt, pulsing with dim energy against the vividness of Blaise. “Or friend?”

  Was the priest afraid? “I have come to restore you,” said Blaise. “Show me how.”

  For a moment he had no answer. Then with great weariness Picyt said, “I prefer release, n’ka. The service to Anthi has been too long. I am tired. I seek the long darkness of Merdarai.”

  “You must live!” said Blaise savagely, knowing that Tuult would not accept the information that Picyt wanted to die. “You have manipulated all of us to this point, and you cannot desert us now that the Tlar’jen are coming. The Bban’n want birth, whatever that means, and I—” He broke off, unable for a moment to master his own inner confusion.

  “Perhaps Hihuan will not come,” murmured Picyt, growing dimmer. “He is young and selfish. He may not care what we do.”

  Blaise snorted. “You could lie to Omari, but not to Asan. Hihuan knows, and he cares. He has already tried to assassinate me.”

  “False! He has not enough skill to reach this far!”

  “You delude yourself,” said Blaise with impatience. “If I do not restore you, Tuult will kill me—or try—and Uble will have to come here to save you.”

  “Uble is a fool. Unskilled—”

  “Basai will push him into it. Show me what to do!”

  Twisted, bitter amusement rippled forth from Picyt. “You have already crippled me. If you know enough to seal off my rings, you need no more instructions.”

  “Don’t be a fool—”

  “You are the fool!” shouted Picyt. “I gave you life! I gave you the power of Anthi, and in return you have destroyed my rings of completion. I will not go back, to stand with lesser men and face—”

  “You mean you have lost your powers,” said Blaise slowly. “You cannot—”

  “I cannot give the Bban’n Anthi as promised. I cannot rule the order of life, maintain control of the serenity of Kkanthor, or guide the neophytes to understanding. If I am restored to life, I can no longer serve as First Honored. I cannot bring the Bban’n any further, and there will be no more steps taken toward the day of fulfillment. You did this to me, with your ignorance and your refusal to control the gift of Anthi within you! Do you think such power contains the freedom to wield it madly, thus endangering the rings of all around you? N’ka, you defile the form of Asan, and I regret upon my blood that I put you in him.”

  Anger stirred in Blaise. “You sought to trick me. You meant to destroy me. I was expendable in Asan’s resurrection. And now that you’ve failed, you blame me for it. You will live, Picyt, power or not, rings or not. And you can explain your failure to the Bban tribes whom you’ve deceived! Live!” Fury guiding him, he swept forward, engulfing the struggling Picyt. For a horrible instant they mingled, entwining into one being, and only then did Blaise realize that Picyt’s protests had been more deception, lengthening this mental contact in order for Picyt to draw upon Blaise’s strength and trap him.

  Again the blackness sucked at him. Blaise trembled and with all his might wrenched free and retreated, dodging Picyt’s attempts to snatch him back into the connection.

  With a shudder Blaise came out of it, his heart thundering at the narrowness of his escape. He jerked his hands away from the priest, who still lay unconscious. But his color was improving. Blaise’s fingers curled, reaching for Picyt’s throat.

  “Is it done, Leiil?” asked a gruff, eager voice.

  Startled, Blaise pulled back his hands and stood up, stumbling slightly as he steppe
d forward to meet Tuult.

  “Yes,” he said bleakly. For a moment he considered telling this loyal, forthright man exactly how his master had meant to betray all of them. But as Tuult pushed past him to stare down at Picyt, Blaise compressed his lips and held back. He would not be believed.

  Weariness swept through him. “I will rest now, Pon Tuult,” he said. “And I must eat.”

  Tuult straightened with new briskness. “All is prepared, my Leiil,” he said. With a bow he turned and summoned others to come and attend to Picyt before personally leading Blaise away to a large, private chamber, worn with the centuries yet undimmed in grandeur.

  Despite his preoccupations, Blaise caught his breath as he entered. It was as though he stepped into the heart of living flame. In the center of the room stood a brazier fashioned of a breathtaking piece of clear crystal, hollowed smooth inside and faceted outside so that it spun the light from blazing coals about the room in a dazzling burst of color. The chamber was round and thus had no corners save where a shadow-hung alcove extended off opposite the doorway. Heavy, magnificently detailed tapestries in rich hues covered the raw stone of the walls, and several tiny, obviously precious wood tables stood about supporting the light cubes that glowed out soft clear illumination. Thick carpet, woven with the blue symbol of Anthi, took the chill from his bare feet, and on the ceiling blazed a bold burnished coat-of-arms of plumed crossed swords over a triangular shield. A gilded ewer and goblets stood waiting for him beside a covered tray of food, and clothes were folded neatly on one of the chairs.

  After an initial stunned second, Blaise walked nearer to the fire, unconsciously giving a nod. More opulent than any of the spartan surroundings of his past, the chamber pleased him and seemed even…fitting. With a sigh he sat down in a low-slung yet comfortable chair and stretched out his long, tapering hands to the fire’s warmth. Sniffing the hot spices in the food, he had reached out to uncover it when Tuult became suddenly alert. Pausing, Blaise watched the Bban walk toward the alcove on swift, silent feet, one hand drawing his jen-knife. Tuult hesitated, then flung back the curtains to reveal a figure kneeling in the shadows. She sprang up with a cry, and Blaise got to his feet.