The Children of Anthi: Anthi - Book One

by Deborah Chester

  But how?

  The stench of Bban musk thickened. He coughed, and at once a hush fell as masks and glowing eyes were turned to him.

  “It is a bad omen,” whispered someone, and crossed fingers were raised in quick furtive signs of warding.

  The crowd was small but intense. Blaise’s breath shortened as he desperately sought some way of seizing this moment and turning it to his advantage. Hoping to play upon the Bban superstitions, he raised his hand swiftly to halt their murmuring.

  “Hear me, Bban’n!” he said, his voice ringing with authority. “The tribes come—”

  A cheer rose up, but with a savage gesture he cut it off.

  “Hear me! They come to their deaths—”

  “Approach the Noble Leiil!” shouted Tuult’s voice.

  Whirling, Blaise saw a full cadre of purposeful, swift-moving Bban’jen moving through the crowd toward him. At the mouth of a side passageway cut into the rock, Tuult stood with black cloak thrown back over his shoulders and his fire-rod drawn.

  Blaise’s heart thudded at the sight of that weapon. He tensed, looking for a way out, but it was too late to run. The ragged crowd was parting. The jen were nearly to him. He could see the gleam of torchlight off sleek black tunics and hear their intent breathing behind the masks. Their booted feet rang out on the dusty stone floor. The nearest one reached out a gauntleted hand for his arm.

  Holding his breath, Blaise shut his eyes. “Forgive me, Giaa,” he whispered and snapped his inner rings, letting the fire of Anthi explode through him. He felt the desperate clutch of strong fingers just as the force of seizert jerked him from existence.

  He blinked, regaining consciousness an instant later in the corybdium-lined chamber where Anthi glowed and flashed in a pattern of blue light. Panting, still not quite able to believe he’d managed to elude the Bban’jen, Blaise lifted his hand unsteadily to dash away the perspiration from his forehead. He knew Picyt would direct Tuult to search for him here; he had not much time to open the doors leading to the rows of empty capsules. And he must collect himself and decide how to best explain Picyt’s treachery. If the Bban’n could not be made to understand, then—

  “Asan?” boomed the voiceless hum of Anthi into the center of his being. “Asan has come?”

  “Yes,” he answered, his hands on the double doors. He glanced over his shoulder at the large formation of crystal, its function masked by the beauty of geometry and color. “I have come.” On impulse, he turned from the doors. “Anthi, help me. I am in great danger. The purpose is in danger.”

  “Asan,” said Anthi with a rapid flashing of light at the pointed tips of her formations. “Come. My knowledge is thine. Come.”

  Was it the heightened awareness of his rings or his keen hearing that detected the faint clatter of running footsteps? His heart lurched. He had less time than he had thought. He stepped up to Anthi, his eyes squinting against the glare of blue light emanating from her center in steady radiance. The vibration intensified, lowering into a powerful throbbing that overwhelmed him completely. Numbly he drew yet closer and held out his hands.

  “Asan,” said Anthi, piercing him with the sound of his own name. “Permission requested to surrender guardianship.”

  “When I understand,” he said tightly. The vibrations were growing harder to endure. His very bones seemed to be crumbling. Why must Anthi delay when time was running out? “I must have help!” he shouted. “By the will of Asan, Anthi, help me!”

  A faint film of transparent energy dissolved from around the surface of the crystal. The light blazed forth with even more intensity, bathing him in its radiance. He shut his eyes, and still he could not escape its brilliance.

  “My shields are lowered. By thy will, touch me,” said Anthi.

  He pressed his trembling hands flat against the surface of the crystal. To his surprise it felt warm to his touch, almost like living flesh. Anthi’s blue light bathed him, merging with his rings, until her light became his fire. The warmth beneath his palms increased until his hands were seared with heat. He jerked, his entire body shaking, but he could not pull away. Something vast and terrible seemed to crush him.

  “No!” he cried, falling to his knees. “No!”

  “Fear may not lie between us,” said Anthi into his whirling brain. “Release Asan. Nothing is lost.”

  The stubbornness at his core refused to give way to the immense, overwhelming weight. Despite the desperation of the moment, he could not bring himself to cross that final threshold of acceptance of what he was now and what he might yet become.

  “I am…Blaise…BLZ-80-4163,” he grated out, the muscles in his neck cording with the strain of resistance.

  His rings nearly buckled. Then to his relief he sensed Anthi withdraw. The blue light within the crystal flickered and dimmed. From outside came the noise of scraped metal and the shriek of forced bolts. But Blaise was too exhausted to notice. He gasped for breath, defeated, and let his head rest on his forearm.

  But his palms still remained in position on the sides of the crystal. And in that moment of dejection, he felt something deep within him stir as a longing and a need were reawakened.

  “No,” groaned Blaise as Anthi pulsed back into life in response.

  But he could not fight forces both outside and within himself. His rings spread as that part of him that was truly Asan merged with Anthi to form a complete wholeness that buffeted Blaise, then swept him along into the depths of a fiery vortex. He thought he screamed from the blast of it, but even so he was conscious of the door being slowly, inexorably forced open behind him. The strength of Anthi poured into his ravaged soul before filling his mind with knowledge and visions that staggered him. For the first time he saw what the Tlar really were, and what he was, and the true nature of the purpose. He accepted it.

  Only then did Anthi withdraw, to become muted light once again as at last the door gave way and the jen came running inside to surround him.

  “Defiler!” shouted Picyt in a hoarse voice. “Seize him! Let his blasphemy be told by the spreading of his blood!”

  Blaise was grasped roughly and his arms twisted behind him with force enough to make his shoulder joints grind painfully. He was jerked to his feet, and Tuult held aloft a jen-knife, the green blade gleaming in the light as it poised in the air, ready to flash down deep into Blaise’s throat upon Picyt’s command. Blaise stared at it, still reeling from the force and magnitude of what he had absorbed.

  Anthi flashed. “Permission requested to surrender guardianship to Asan.”

  The jen-knife trembled, and Tuult hesitated, turning his masked face to Picyt, who stood leaning on Basai’s arm, his ravaged face twisted with astonishment and shock.

  “No!” he shouted. “No, Anthi! By thy will, I, Picyt, command no such—”

  “By the will of Asan,” said Blaise, regaining his wits. “Request granted.”

  A single focused beam of light shot from the pointed tip of one of the formations, aiming at the double doors leading to the chamber that held the capsules. As the doors slowly slid open, shocked exclamations burst from the Bban’jen. Some even sank to their knees, and Tuult stared transfixed, the jen-knife forgotten in his hand.

  Blaise took advantage of their stupefaction to sweep out his reformed rings, snapping them hard at the mind-dampening force holding the Bban’jen enslaved by the priests.

  “No!” cried Basai, staggering as Picyt flinched back against him. “Release them not!”

  But Blaise swept on, seeking Teecht and his group of technicians, who were among their machinery directing the violence of the desert storm. He struck again, shattering the focus of their power, and withdrew, satisfied. Then he saw the light from Anthi stretch forth into the vast cavern beyond, shining into the nearest of the empty capsules. It faded, as did the center of radiance within Anthi. The formation of crystal stood dark and silent behind Blaise, and for an instant absolute silence held everyone there in a feeling of emptiness and loss as if Anthi’s shu
tdown took something tangible away from them all.

  “The purpose,” said Blaise, drawing in a breath as he lifted his head high, “has failed.”

  With a wordless cry, Basai buried his face in his hands and turned away, staggering blindly to the wall to huddle there. Picyt stood frozen, staring at nothing.

  “What have you done?” demanded Tuult, gripping Blaise by the arm and shaking him.

  The confusion buffeting the Bban struck at Blaise through that touch. He deflected it, pulling free, and did not dare attempt to look on the Bban with truth at this moment.

  “That which was purposed is ended, not to be completed,” he said sternly. “Anthi has withdrawn herself from you, judging you unworthy of her presence. She is no longer the guardian of life.” He gestured toward the chamber of capsules, his eyes steady and sympathetic as Tuult took an uncertain step in that direction. “Go and look upon the deception the House of Kkanthor has practiced upon you. It is over, Pon Tuult. There shall be no birth.”

  “Over?” The Bban raised his hand and slowly let it fall. He looked at the other guards, then at Picyt. “It had but come to the beginning. By’hia! Are we left, to drink no more comfort from the goddess? Revered noble, what has happened? How have we failed?”

  Picyt shuddered, then looked up, his eyes blazing with hate. “Betrayal,” he whispered. “Asan has destroyed Anthi and left all Bban’n at the mercy of the Tlar’jen. Death! Death to him!” Even as he screamed the final words, he seized a stone from the ground and hurled it.

  Caught off guard, Blaise tried to duck, but the stone struck his temple. He was momentarily stunned. He felt as if he had been plunged below water and could move only with extreme slowness. Blood, warm and wet, began to trickle into his left eye. He shook his head and tried to speak.

  “Tuult—”

  “Kill him!” screamed Picyt.

  A blow from behind drove Blaise to his knees. He skidded to the black edge of unconsciousness, hauled himself back, and clenched his fists in an effort to strike back. But the jen had surrounded him, and more brutal blows thudded into flesh and muscle. Furious, he gritted his teeth and rose, swinging out blindly as blood obscured his vision. His knuckles collided with something hard, and he heard a muffled grunt of pain. Then with howls the Bban’jen set upon him in earnest, their musk overpowering. He warded off a knife, was struck hard in the ribs, and fell heavily. For a moment he was blessedly far away from all feeling, then he dragged himself back toward consciousness one last time.

  “I hold Anthi’s power,” he said in a croak. “If…I die, what hope…have you against…Hihuan?”

  The beating stopped, and for a moment he heard only the sound of his own tortured breathing as he lay upon the rough stone floor with his fingers groping clumsily over his scraped and stinging cheek. It was such a small pain compared to the rest, odd that it should be felt more…

  “Choi’hana, Tlar-dung!” snarled Tuult, and a vicious kick sent Blaise spinning out into blackness with a last burst of agony.

  Chapter 13

  Slowly Blaise dragged himself to a sitting position and leaned his back against the wall to blow his breath forcefully in and out, before pushing himself to his feet. For an instant he swayed, fighting off dizziness, then crossed the room on unsteady feet, one hand pressed to his side. At the armored, bolted door, he paused, closing his eyes for a second to make the world stop tilting. With a grunt he bent to pick up the tray that had just been shoved through the bottom slot. The cell was a small niche cut into stone, and he bumped his head on rough ceiling as he straightened. But in his eagerness he paid no attention as he carried the tray back to the battered metal table and stool that were his only pieces of furniture. He snatched the cover from the small black pot, scorching his fingers and dropping the lid with a clatter. A heavenly aroma of stewed meat and pungent herbs rose along with the steam. His mouth watered, and his stomach growled in need. Wiping his grimy fingers perfunctorily on his torn tunic, he dipped them into the greasy mess and gingerly tasted it.

  It was so hotly seasoned that he could not be sure if it had been laced with yde. Bitterly disappointed, he dropped the dripping chunks of meat back into the stew, swallowing hard as hunger rose like a wild beast within him, urging him to forget caution and eat. Shaking, he picked up the lid and slammed it back on the little stewpot, clutching the warm metal surface until the joints of his fingers whitened.

  Demos, but this could not go on much longer! He was going mad with hunger, locked away in this filthy hole and forced time after time to shove back, untouched, the offering of food. He wondered how long it would be before his willpower broke and he let himself be poisoned. Soon his mind would go, even as his battered, dehydrated body was failing him now, and he would not be able to control himself further.

  He coughed, his parched throat grating as he swallowed. He moved to grasp the goblet with trembling fingers. He picked it up, unsteadily enough to make the contents slosh out.

  “Merdarai,” he whispered, seized by a desire to lick up that precious escaping water. But despite his overwhelming thirst, he could smell the yde in it. They had made no attempt to disguise it as they did in the food, no doubt certain that thirst would undo him long before hunger.

  He sighed raggedly and set the goblet down, licking his dry, cracked lips with a tongue nearly as rough. The left side of his face itched, and absently he scratched at it, his fingernails scraping away at the dried blood still encrusted there. Picyt would not get him, he vowed, anger welling up with fresh strength at the memory of his beating. He would not take yde and become Picyt’s slave as Aural was, as all the deluded Bban’n were. Nor would he give up and die here.

  With an oath he picked up the tray and stumbled back across the cell to shove it vehemently through the door slot. Then, panting, he sank down on his stool, wincing at the catch in his side. He was too weak to seizert to freedom. And without food he could never regain the strength required. He shivered with cold, longing for his cloak, which they had stripped from him, and cupped his hands about the burning torch, willing to be scorched just to gain a little warmth.

  From listening to his guards through the food slot he knew that Hihuan’s army had come at last to the plains below the mountains. Suppose he reached out to Hihuan with a call for help? But no. That idea faded quickly as he recalled the sharp memory of Bban hands around his throat. Hihuan had reached out from Altian to cause that attack. He could not be trusted.

  Blaise narrowed his eyes. And why could he not do the same thing in turn? It was Tlar nature to command and order all lesser things. He might have scruples against letting the Bban’n die for no purpose, but anything else was useless baggage.

  He pressed his fingertips together, forcing hunger, pain, and thirst from his thoughts in order to concentrate. But it was like staring through darkness, and to form even one ring left him sweating and weak. He did not give up, however, and focused himself first on his guards outside the door. He had not lied when he told them he was their main hope against Hihuan. Obviously they had at least half believed him, or they would have killed him at the base of Anthi. But he must increase that belief in their need of him and amplify it until he meant more to them than Picyt did. Breathing deeply, he put all of himself into the effort and at last reached into the mind of one of the guards, forcing himself not to shrink from those rough alien patterns of imagery and concept. Exhaustion sapped him; for a terrifying instant he shook, certain he was going to be sucked into the guard’s power. But what he had learned from Anthi steadied him, and instead he began to draw strength from the guard, using that in turn to shape the guard’s thoughts. And from there he leaped to the next man and to the next and on until all four guards stirred and muttered uneasily around the tray of rejected food outside his door.

  Bit by bit he wove images of himself as their leiil into their minds, a strong, just leader of courage rather than a priest of slyness and intrigue. He stirred the fiery centers of challenge and warlust in their blood and m
ade them see afresh the threat of the Tlar’jen, with their weapons of mind and rings that Bban javelins and knives could not destroy. He made them see their need of him, and then he withdrew, leaving them with a touch of his own real exhaustion and suffering.

  Blaise blinked, once more conscious of the grim, shadowy cell about him. He shivered, holding onto himself desperately as he waited with his rings of reception trembling and barely formed. Then, just as he lost hope, a glimmer of a questing thought touched him in return. It was alien, Bban, but possessed strong patterns of intelligence and ability. Triumph filled Blaise, but swiftly he suppressed it, projecting instead his true worth to the future of the Bban tribes. They did not establish a direct communication link, out of distrust and caution, but at least his message was given and received.

  Suddenly Blaise’s strength failed him, draining away as his rings broke apart, splintering one by one. He slumped from his stool, and distantly he felt the jolt as he hit the floor, reopening the wound at his temple. Warm blood gushed across his forehead. “Please,” he whispered, feeling the awful vortex of infinity sweep near him as the distortion of order from which he had once saved Picyt swirled for him. So this is death, he thought wearily, and in the far recesses of his soul he heard laughter. He stiffened, unable to quest for it. Was it Picyt? Or Aural? The vortex pulled him away, down and down into the void of its center.

  And what did it matter anyway? It was not his fight, not his world, not his people. The laughter came again, mocking his death even as the distortion centering on him shook the room and caused a slight rain of dust and stone to patter down upon him. His anger stirred. By Demos, he would not go tamely!