The Children of Anthi: Anthi - Book One

by Deborah Chester

  The yde was acidic, bitterly so, with a sickeningly sweet aftertaste. His aching stomach burned from it, and he hoped he might throw it up. But already lassitude spread over him, dulling the fire in his veins and flattening his rings. He tried to fight it with all the strength left in the last lucid corner of his mind, but it was like hitting water. He could do nothing but lie there, helpless and frantic, as his long body shook uncontrollably with the progress of the drug through his limbs.

  “His hands,” said Hihuan’s voice from far away. “Place them upon Anthi. It will not be long now.”

  Blaise tried to scream at him, but he could not speak. Words, disjointed and meaningless, floated through his brain in a swirling babble. He…must…stop them…must…

  To his surprise, the lethargy began slowly to clear away, freeing his mind once again. For a moment relief raced through him as his rings snapped out full and sharp and whole, only to die as he realized it was just the enhancement of the drug. That effect would not last long, and then he would fall back into the vague shadows of dependency, needing more yde simply to remain lucid.

  But his anger did not keep his mind from extending freely in all directions, sweeping through the caverns of M’thra before crossing the valley where the Bban tribes massed for battle. A new banner unfurled above the rest there. He paused, puzzled by the sight of it, and curiosity drove him into the large tent where a tiny, masked, shrunken figure sat regally in a chair, guarded by her Tlar warriors, discussing battle plans with a hostile council of Bban’n. A flicker of hope kindled within Blaise. Had the Soot’dla, those few Tlar rebels against Hihuan, come at last to join the Bban tribes? If only they would advance now, while Hihuan was still unprepared! But before he could attempt to warn them he was swept on, driven by the drug to reach out farther across the wastes, to Altian itself, lying in uneasy slumber beneath its dome with the silent slums sprawling around it. The Tsla leiils slept there, life in her womb. And intrigues in other shapes crawled through the city. But now he must return; the vision was fading.

  His body jerked spastically, and once more he plunged into confusion and disorder, losing grasp of his mind bit by agonizing bit. No! He must…he must have more yde.

  But his inner core of stubbornness refused to surrender to the mounting torment of his craving. He groaned and twitched, his body writhing in contortions, but still he would not cry out for more.

  “He dies!”

  “No,” said Hihuan grimly. “Not yet. Put his hands again upon Anthi. Keep them there.”

  Blaise felt nothing but his own torture as his brain seemed to unravel, strand by strand, into a vortex of stripped nerves and horrifying nightmares. Beneath lay the compartment that guarded Anthi. He must not release that! Loss of that final bit of control was what Hihuan had gambled on, but Blaise did not mean to give it to him. His back arched, and he thought he screamed as white-hot pain burst through him. Yde! No, he must not have more!

  Then, to his horror, Anthi stirred within him, disturbed by the chaos tearing him apart. Blue fire, cool against the greater heat of pain, flickered along his veins, strengthening him for an instant. He opened his eyes and saw a faint glimmer of life spark deep within the crystal. No! With all his might he held it back, and the light dimmed away.

  “Almost! Almost!” cried Hihuan in triumph.

  That was when Blaise saw the answer. A way out did exist. But, oh, Demos, it meant giving up his very soul, his psyche, everything that was him. Such total surrender of identity was something he had always fought, first in his dangerous childhood, against the regulations of conformity dictated by the Institute; then in his reckless life of blackmarketeering; even during the transference into Asan’s body. But now Anthi held his escape from Hihuan, from betrayal of those damned Bban’n, and from the addiction to yde, provided he gave himself up to whatever Anthi chose to create of him.

  Fear burned through him, for a moment more overpowering than the pain from the drug. There had to be another way! But the only other alternative was death, and he was still unwilling to die.

  Grimacing as once again Anthi flicked through his body, causing the crystal to flame more brightly this time, Blaise made his choice. With the last dregs of his strength he threw himself inward to Anthi, submerging himself in her power, which flamed up in blinding force to devour him. And beyond Anthi waited the other, who had lain quietly all these days, biding its time. Awesome, dark, cold, it engulfed Blaise, who even now could not help but struggle. But it was too late to make a different choice. He fell, spinning helplessly into a terrifying void, and as he vanished beyond the point of no return his last coherent thought was of Giaa and what could have been…

  Chapter 15

  Asan returned to consciousness slowly, his mind clearing almost at once, although the weakness from the drug still sapped his body. He frowned at this, swiftly regulating heartbeat and respiration to a better rate, and warily permitted one eye to flicker open.

  He was lying sprawled like an abandoned plaything against the wall of Anthi’s cave, still garbed in his Bban mail and tunic. Anthi blazed with life, humming with purpose. Hihuan and his henchmen were gone. Picyt lay on the floor beside Rim’s capsule, gripping a transference rod in his clawlike hands as Aural called on the will of Anthi and bent to place her palms upon the dome of the capsule.

  “Blasphemous fools!” shouted Asan, anger flaming his blood to the fifth intensity. Even as Aural gasped and whirled, her face draining of color, Asan rose to his feet. Anthi flashed blue light over them all as he raised his hand in command. “Stand away from the crime that you would dare, Aural.”

  “B-but how?” she whispered, still staring at him, stunned. “Even were you not really dead, the drug would—”

  He smiled faintly. “Aural, Aural,” he said gently, “you are not yourself. Do you not know your true Leiil when he stands before you?”

  She gasped, her eyes widening as recognition dawned. “Asan!” she breathed, shame flickering across her face. “The n’ka is gone!”

  “No, not gone. He has stepped aside for me.” Asan lifted his head high. “You may no longer deal with me in the manner you used with him.”

  She flinched at his sternness and started to speak, but a ragged moan from Picyt brought her attention back to the priest. “He has not much time left!” she said. “I must be quick—”

  “No.” Asan stepped forward, frowning now. He pulled her away from the capsule, glancing only once at the priest, who was now in the final stages of deterioration.

  “But he is Tlar!” she protested, stiffening in Asan’s grip. “He is Picyt, your faithful servant. If he dies—”

  “He died long ago, Aural,” said Asan, staring at her, recalling a happier time when they had walked together and he had refused no wish of hers. Brushing aside old memories, he did not relent. “Picyt died on the day he permitted himself to forget the true intent of our purpose.”

  She jerked free, her blue eyes flashing angrily. “The purpose is to preserve our kind!”

  “We are all that is left to preserve!” he said heatedly. “You, I, Rim, and Vauzier. We are the last. Picyt and Hihuan know that. All Tlar know it. Picyt kept us imprisoned here in these caverns for centuries, driven to madness by his own quest for immortality and his fear of achieving it. Had he and Hihuan not fallen into a power struggle, we would sleep still.”

  “Then give him gratitude for raising you,” she said urgently. “Let him enter Rim.”

  “He is not worthy to join my brother’s soul—”

  “And were the ones who raised us worthy?” she shot back furiously. “If he dies, that is one less to fight the Bban’n—”

  “We do not fight our own children!” said Asan firmly, his look quelling her when she started to protest. “Yes, Aural, ours! They were Tlar once, until we put them here. And now we have come to this world as beggars. There shall be no war here. You are too wearied to think clearly. But soon, I promise you, it shall be over.”

  Angry tears welled
in her eyes as Picyt fought for breath, his withered body shuddering at their feet. “And who shall give me yde if he dies? He commands the growing—” At last she believed the refusal in Asan’s eyes. With a snarl she broke off and whirled, throwing herself at the capsule with outstretched palms.

  He threw his rings before her, stopping her just short of the capsule. She sank to the ground, racked with weeping.

  “Fiend of Merdar!” she cried with hatred enough to make him flinch.

  Hardening his expression, he pointed at the door. “It is not Rim’s time. The question is finished. Now go. I intend to seal this chamber from all who would abuse it.”

  Even as Asan spoke, Picyt loosed a long rattling sigh, and his hands slid limply from the transference bar. The scent of death lifted into the air.

  “I shall go,” said Aural with a break in her voice. She dragged herself up to face him with eyes that were cold with hatred. “But I swear upon the blood that once bound us, Asan, I shall not forgive.” Stumbling slightly, she left on unsteady feet.

  He shut his eyes for a moment, the weight of responsibility crushing down on his shoulders as heavily as the counting of the centuries. Then he shook his mind clear and opened his eyes, gazing down at Picyt’s body for a long while.

  “Anthi,” he said at last. “By the will of Asan, preserve the Noble Picyt n’Kkanthor dl’Mura-an with the honor due his house.”

  Anthi pulsed in acknowledgment. Blue light glowed forth over the priest, bathing him in its radiance. As Asan watched, Picyt’s ravaged face smoothed and filled out, the flesh growing once again firm and peaceful, as though he slept. The lingering resentment within Asan was put away. If this small act counted as a sign of forgiveness toward the man who had robbed him of years, manipulated his subjects, alienated his leiis, and sought the destruction of an innocent race of beings, then so be it. He could not give more.

  Grimly Asan spoke once again to the crystal. “Anthi,” he said, “preserve Rim and Vauzier until their time. And seal yourself against all who would enter without my right. You must serve no other purpose.”

  “Anthi shall obey,” replied the computer.

  Inclining his head, he gathered his strength and strode from the chamber, closing the great doors behind him with a hollow boom that echoed down the passageway.

  Instinctively he turned left, moving rapidly along the narrow tunnel without need of artificial light, for he walked by the sight of his senses through the complete darkness. Finally he reached Picyt’s quarters, having encountered no one. It was as though the entire maze of caverns lay deserted. But Hihuan and some of his men might still be here. They must be found.

  Without hesitation he pushed his way into Picyt’s chambers, where Uble still lay in a drugged trance. Asan walked over to him and lightly placed his fingertips on the youth’s forehead, releasing him from that bondage. Uble stirred and fell into an uneasy sleep, and Asan turned away with a grim expression. The sword that had been Giaa’s gift still lay on the floor where Hihuan had tossed it, the hole where the transmitter had been gaping black in the hilt. Asan picked it up, running a finger along the blade, which hummed responsively. He half smiled and sheathed it before gathering up his cloak and mask and donning them.

  “My…my Leiil?”

  Startled, Asan turned sharply to find Uble awake and propped up on one elbow, frowning at him through the dim light from the coals in the brazier.

  “Fear not,” said Asan gently as Uble’s eyes widened. He raised his force field and, through the blue shimmer of light, smiled sadly. “You are free of the service of Anthi. Picyt is dead, and the House of Kkanthor stands dissolved upon my order. Do you understand? Your life is yours now.”

  “I…” Uble rubbed his hand over his eyes in a dazed fashion. “But what is to be done? Where are we to go? Art thou our—”

  Asan inclined his head, pitying this young man who had been led all his life. “Farewell.”

  Gathering himself, he seizerted, rematerializing in the midst of the Tlar camp on the plains of Ddreui. Dawn had just broken like a banner of bronze and scarlet, and the wind blew coldly over the frost-covered ground. Asan stood where he was, feet braced and force field shimmering between the dying light of two sentry fires. One of the sentinels jerked awake from his shivering doze and cried out sharply in alarm. At once men sprang from tents, stumbling, half asleep, and shaking with cold as they pulled on pieces of battle gear and clothing.

  “It is Asan the Mighty!” cried someone, and perhaps half the men faltered and dropped to their knees, only to be prodded angrily back to their feet by their fellows.

  “It is the impostor!” jeered another. “Let us test his—”

  “Silence!” roared an arrogant voice, and an officer appeared, masked, cloaked, and armed over his sleeping robe. “What means this disturbance? Are you fools, to bring the Bban’n down upon us before the day is begun?”

  As the men reluctantly fell back, muttering among themselves, Asan looked briefly toward the towering mountains. A faint glimmer of light glowed at the foot of the slope. He frowned. So the Bban horde had moved, and swiftly, too, to be in position by the light of dawn. His nostrils quivered over the crossing of scents in the frosty air. Battle was not long off. It must be stopped. He had brought the purpose here to this planet. But the purpose was over. He would not carry the weight of these fools’ deaths too.

  His gaze returned to the officer who stood, fists upon hips, boldly regarding him.

  “You do not know me,” said Asan flatly.

  The officer flipped over his hand. “Should I? If you are an emissary from that treacherous hag, Agate, I warn you—”

  “What is your name?” asked Asan with sudden impatience.

  The officer stood stiffly erect. “Pon Fflir. And yours, bold one? You dare much entering this camp—”

  “I am Leiil Asan. I come to lay challenge to Hihuan.”

  “Asan!” A mixture of emotions betrayed themselves in Fflir’s voice. “But that is myth—”

  “I come to lay challenge!” snapped Asan, grasping his sword hilt. He had no time to depend on the reactions of these soldiers. Like Picyt, Hihuan was a troublemaker, unworthy of the position he held. “Summon your master.”

  With a jerky bow Fflir turned and gestured savagely at a gawking sentry. “Inform the Noble Leiil. Challenge is laid!”

  “And accepted,” said a deep, petulant vice from the shadows. Fflir moved aside hastily as Hihuan came swaggering into sight. The Tlar leiil eyed Asan without expression, although his breath seemed to come a bit shortly. “I left you dead.”

  The sun was rising rapidly, a brazen ball over the horizon. Wind whipped in noisy gusts across the plains, sweeping the wiry grass flat.

  Asan smiled grimly behind his mask, building his rings one by one in preparation for this battle of blood. “A mistake, Hihuan,” he said lightly, and unsheathed his sword. Some chance trick of the sunlight caught the blade and reflected blindingly off its length, as though the sword had suddenly taken life of its own. The jen drew back in awe, but with an oath Hihuan dragged off his cloak and called for his weapons.

  “My Leiil!” A sentry came running, his fire-rod drawn. “The Bban’jen! They come!”

  “Form ranks!” shouted Fflir, and the men ran obediently to seize weapons and battle shielding. “By the grace of Anthi,” swore the pon in disgust, pulling on his gauntlets. “Can they not even allow us food to fight on?”

  “Bban have no honor,” said Hihuan with a sneer, before returning his gaze to Asan, whose eyes had narrowed. “Well, challenger? Will it be your pleasure to wait until this matter is finished?”

  “Blood does not wait,” snapped Asan. “An!”

  He seizerted to a point midway on the plains between the Tlar camp and the approaching Bban horde, taking a stance on a rising knoll, the tip of his sword in the earth, both hands resting on the hilt. Every muscle was coiled in readiness. Doubtless Hihuan would use all means of treachery available. Asan’s lips tighte
ned, drawing on the hate within the other for additional strength. For blood challenge he was not above trickery himself.

  Blue fire flashed through the air. Hihuan appeared, his force field in place, a long straight sword, almost slender in appearance beside Asan’s, in his fist. He glanced about, the sun glinting off his bronze mask, and gestured in displeasure.

  “Will you have us run down by their attack?” Faint yells of the approaching horde could be heard now. Soon the porters would come skimming down upon them.

  “They will not interrupt blood challenge,” said Asan with assurance, his heartbeat quickening as he watched for the slightest move from his opponent.

  “You planned this, did you not?” asked Hihuan with anger. “Just when victory is assured us, and the Bban threat about to be ended for all time, you—”

  “Two leiils cannot rule the Tlar,” broke in Asan grimly, his blood rising to the sixth intensity as the fire in his veins blotted away all other considerations. “The place was given you for a time, but rightfully it is mine. Do you surrender now?”

  For answer Hihuan hurled a mental attack, seeking to break Asan’s rings of concentration, but Asan was prepared for that and held firmly. He swung up his curved sword with both hands, sunlight flashing along the blade. Already the first ranks of the Bban’n were upon them. They came to an astonished halt with howls of rage as the porters wheeled just short of the knoll, bucking like living things on sputtering jets of air. A javelin hurtled down at them to shatter harmlessly off force fields as Hihuan and Asan sprang at one another. The clash of sword blades rang out loudly through the air, silencing the enraged howling of the Bban’jen.

  Hihuan was stronger than Asan had expected. Gasping for breath, he strained against Hihuan’s weight as their blades slid with a screech of metal to lock hilts. His heels dug deeply into the soft earth for purchase, for already the ground was thawing beneath the heat of the morning sun. Soon it would be a morass of mud, and the ranks of infantry would be unable to maneuver against each other. Asan smiled grimly to himself, hoping his battle would be done long before then.