Requiem for Anthi: Anthi - Book Two (8 page)

But as she backed up, she collided with a muscular chest. Her smallest rings flickered against Unar’s, and sparks struck in a friction that made her shiver with excitement. She turned quickly to face him, smiling into his eyes.

He smiled back, his handsome face relaxing from its stern lines. His gaze roamed, savoring the beauty of her lithe body. Pleased, she tilted back her head, basking in his worship. Unar was a straightforward man, ambitious and sufficiently short on conscience. He was very easy to lead.

“My Unar,” she murmured, her voice husky. Her rings enticed his to level one, darting, teasing to level two. She heard the breath tangle in his throat. “Battle armor. Guards around you. Rationed fuel flaming in every hearth. Is all this display just to impress the Soot’dla?”

His eyes were beginning to glaze. She watched the struggle in his face as he sought to control himself away from her seduction.

“There—there is no time for anything less,” he said thickly, averting his gaze from hers. “A regency must be declared. The houses must unite now before the Bban horde strikes again. Then we’ll show those curs how the true Tlar’jen fight!”

“You sound as though you have been practicing those ringing phrases in your chamber.”

He frowned. “Now that Asan the usurper is dead—”

“Not dead!” she said swiftly. “I feel his life. How he has escaped yet again, I don’t understand, but—”

Unar gripped her arm hard, making her wince. “You told me you did not rebond after your resurrections.”

“We did not! Don’t doubt my word.” Angrily she pulled free. “If he died now I would be safe, but I would still know it. There are times, Unar, when your jealousy is tiresome.”

He started to answer, but in the reception hall a gong sounded. His eyes flickered past her.

“It is time,” he said, pushing her aside. “Go and bring the child. They will insist on seeing her.”

Furious, she lifted a hand. “I am no nursemaid, to run and fetch! I am—”

“Bring her,” he said, and entered the reception hall with his guards behind him.

She clenched her fist, tempted for a moment to strike him dead. Her long hair, burnished ruddy gold in the flare of torchlight, swirled and lifted about her with a crackle of static electricity. She could destroy this place, hurl it to rubble with not one stone left lying atop another. She could leave these tiny men who dared call themselves descendants of the mighty Tlartantlans to perish out in the cold desert of a barren world. She could expel her breath and lash the winds to a fury unmatched by the black devis of Kathra season.

Her rings spread, dark with anger, and a low rumble shook the citadel beneath her feet. The walls trembled. Dust rained down from the ceiling, and a crack split the mosaic pattern of celadon and amber tiles set into the jate-stone floor.

“Thus…” she breathed, laughing to herself, and spread her fingers.

The tremor stopped, and the silence within the reception hall broke into a confused babble of voices. Dame Pasau called out, demanding a return of order. A pair of guards ran past Aural, their footfalls heavy, their shielding rattling beneath their cloaks.

Dame Agate—the tall, emaciated matriarch of the infamous Soot’dla—appeared in the doorway to face Aural. Behind her, there were still requests for order and no cessation of the noise.

Aural stared at Dame Agate, hating her on sight. Agate had the haughty curves in nose and cheekbone of the oldest bloodlines. Her hair was scraped back tightly from her face and kept hidden beneath a cowled hood of leadweave. She wore tattered work clothes of leadweave and leather, nomad clothes, Bban clothes. Aural’s nostrils wrinkled back from the scents of sweat, dung smoke, and animals.

Agate’s gaze caught the movement of swift revulsion. Her eyes glittered.

“Thy powers have not been forgotten by all, noble leiis,” she said. Her voice was raspy and low. She turned her head so that Aural glimpsed the house mark burned into her right cheek. “I have met thy ring-mate on the plains of Ddreui—”

Aural swept her palm down. “That union is dissolved. We walk no more together.”

Dame Agate shrugged as though the denial was unimportant. Her eyes grew distant with visions. “The mighty Asan. Tall, handsome, powerful. Straight from the legends of my girlhood, unchanged and no disappointment. Now, I meet Aural. Another legend come to life. Will all the Jewels of M’thra rise?”

“Of course. We are the true race. We have been sealed away too long.”

“Is Asan dead?”

Aural half turned away. “Your questions are impertinent, old one.”

“He must reactivate Anthi.”

Agate’s choice of words made Aural glance back. She frowned at the old woman, who spread her fingers wide.

“I am not superstitious, like the Bban tribes, nor am I lazy, like my fellow Tlar’n. We need Anthi to work again. The food will not grow properly—”

“Food.” Aural lost interest.

“Has thou lost the need to eat? Has thou lost the need for warmth? Are thou so strong thou needs no planetary defenses to protect thee from those who have come in spaceships?”

“What do you know of those?” demanded Aural sharply.

Dame Agate smiled and turned over her hand. Her palm was crossed with thin scars. “My rings of sight are strong, noble leiis. I require no
yde
to help me see what is happening around me.”

Aural drew in her breath with a hiss, unable in that moment of fury to speak.

“The houses must unite around the infant. We must bargain a truce with the Bban tribes in order to face whatever has come to our world.” Dame Agate paused, a frown creasing her face. “The last time a ship came to Ruantl, Asan was the result. And thyself.”

“And the destruction of Altian.”

“Complex patterns,” said Dame Agate, turning her head as someone shouted within the reception hall. Then she stared right at Aural. “Our world is our own, noble leiis. Do not give it away.”

To be read as easily as though she were a Henan slave…Furious and somewhat alarmed, Aural gathered her cloak around her and seizerted to the central chamber of the citadel. The safest, most defensible area, normally it held a generator to power the stronghold, but none of the equipment worked without Anthi. It had been converted into a nursery, with two attendants stationed there at all times to regulate the fires burning in the braziers and to care for Cirthe’s needs.

The attendants were gone. She knew that even as she materialized in the oval room hung with tapestries and carpeted with white borlorl fur. Her feet sank into the thick fur, and she almost stumbled as she ran to the tiny bed carved from rose quartz. Lined with the softest, costliest fabrics in the Mura-an treasury, it too was empty.

Cirthe was gone.

“No!” shouted Aural.

Panic snapped her rings apart. She stood there blind and shaking, unable to think. Unar could have sent a servant to fetch the child. Just because Aural planned to spirit Cirthe away did not mean that another had done so first.

Drawing in a deep breath, she focused herself, forcing calm to her rings as she re-formed them one by one. She quested first through the reception hall, delicately, well aware of the agile minds gathered there who could sense her intrusion. No, Cirthe was not there.

Again a sense of panic destroyed her concentration. She cursed and continued her search, level by level, desperation making her faster and less cautious.

Cirthe!

It was as though the infant had ceased to exist. There was not even a ghost ripple of Cirthe’s patterns fading among the overlapping structures of time and essence. Where could she be? More importantly, who had taken her? Who was strong enough to conceal Cirthe’s unique patterns?

The answer whispered through her mind, a vision of the Soot’dla scar entwining with her thoughts. She clenched her fists inside her wide sleeves. While Dame Agate had delayed her with conversation and insolence, Cirthe had been abducted.

Aural’s lip curled. She would teach the old woman to meddle.

Gathering herself, she seizerted into the reception hall with a flash of blue fire. Startled, several warriors stumbled back from her, their hands reaching for weapons they had removed before entering the citadel’s inner walls.

On the dais at one end of the hall, Unar shot to his feet in spite of the hand Dame Pasau clamped on his forearm.

“
Lea’dl
, noble leiis! What is this—”

“Treachery!” said Aural, her voice ringing out. She swung, pointing at Dame Agate, who sat encircled by her warriors, hands folded, eyes glittering. “She has taken—”

A tremendous clap of sound, like thunder only sharper, cut her off. The walls shook, and several people cried out in alarm. The noise grew louder, rumbling overhead as though the heavens themselves were falling upon the citadel. Torches snuffed out with loud pops.

Suddenly Aural couldn’t breathe. She gasped, struggling with lungs that were paralyzed. Around her men began choking, their hands at their throats, shaking themselves from side to side.

Aural staggered toward the dais. The world wavered and darkened around her. She had to seizert out of here.

But there wasn’t time. She was losing control. Her rings were fuzzy shadows swirling away from her. She stumbled into someone. A hand clutched her arm. She blinked and focused. It was Unar. His face was contorted and a queer shade of brown. He tried to speak. It came out as a gargled sound.

The humans! she thought. The treacherous fools would pay for this.

Her body arched back in a last convulsive effort to breathe. Then she was falling, unable to hear anything more, and conscious only of a fading sense of rage that death should be so swift.

Old dreams chased Asan. Dreams of drone labor in the steaming slop pits on Dix IV. Dreams of being hunted down by city patrollers, of not being able to run fast enough, of being held back and trapped, helpless and quaking, a shard of stolen metal clutched ready in his hand, the tremor of his heartbeat thudding out of control…

Asan sat up with a choked cry. “No, you
flins!
You won’t take me!”

“Noble leiil.”

A strong hand gripped Asan’s shoulder, shaking him. Asan blinked, coming abruptly out of the dream. He frowned at Saar’s ugly face inches from his own. Saar’s scarlet eyes burned into his.

“Noble leiil?”

“Yes.” Asan lifted an unsteady hand. “I’m all right. It was just a dream. A…”

His voice trailed off and he stared past Saar, only now taking in the stone walls around them. There was very little illumination coming from a smelly torch burning just outside the barred opening in the cell door, and in the gloom he saw a metal cot identical to the one he was lying on and a short metal stool. The air was cold and held a suggestion of damp.

He frowned. This wasn’t the Bban dara.

He swung his legs off the cot.

“Easy, noble leiil,” said Saar, trying to stop him. “Not yet. Rest a moment.”

Asan shrugged off Saar’s hand, yet he remained sitting there without attempting to stand. His fingers curled around the edge of the cot. He had a sense of disorientation, of having missed an essential block of time. His mind quested back, seeking it, and found nothing but darkness and a confused impression of travel.

He swallowed, conscious of intense thirst.

“Where have they taken us, Saar?”

Saar growled and pushed himself upright to his feet. His pon uniform was dirty and torn. His boots were split at the soles. A half-healed scar marked his cheek in an angry pucker.

He spat, his body tense and half seen in the gloom. “
Ah’hi
, noble leiil. We are in the citadel of the Mura-an. Sold as spoils of war to Tlar-dung. My blood is a pool of shame.”

“Sold?” Asan’s head came up in surprise. “Why?”

“Thy words were true. The humans have come in war. Tlar’n and Bban’n have made truce—”

“Good!” Asan stood up, but the room spun around him. Dizzily he sank back down and put a hand to his head. “What did Ookri hit me with?”

“A gong mallet. Thou has walked close to the shadow land for many days.”

Asan grimaced. “I’m not in Merdarai yet. Have they given you a water pail?”

“Water? A Bban warrior is not worth water. But if thou are in thirst, I can call the guard.”

“In a moment.”

With more caution this time Asan got to his feet and walked to the door. He was so weak his knees wavered, and his muscles were stiff and awkward. His stomach was a knot of hunger, and a small but persistent ache remained in the back of his skull. Bit by bit, however, he felt some of his strength returning.

He reached out and touched the scarred iron door with a wary fingertip. The energy charge crackled, and he jerked his hand back, his finger tingling from the shock.

“A weak field. We could get through it.”

“Thou are not strong enough yet to seizert. And where would we go?”

Asan glanced at Saar sharply. “You would follow me?”

“Thou are leiil. I serve thee.”

Saar saluted stiffly, and Asan returned it.

“You have my thanks, Saar.”

Saar growled, turning away as though in embarrassment. “I have learned the meaning of a true leiil. The elders sold this warrior, who had served them with honor to the blood. They are no different from the Tlar-dung they sought to destroy.” Saar glanced back at Asan, his scarlet eyes troubled. “I beg thy pardon, noble leiil. My words are clumsy. Tlar-dung are those such as the tyrant Hihuan and his—”

“I understand.” Asan grasped his forearm for a moment. “I give the care of my blood to your loyalty, Pon Saar. Now let’s see about getting out of here.”

“Again I ask thee. Where will we go?”

“To my ship. The
Spitfire
.”

“Thou has not that much strength. It is hard to seizert so far. Let us wait until they have brought food.”

“Good point.” Grinning, Asan returned to his cot and sat down. “How long?”

“Soon.” Saar stationed himself at the door. “Rest again, noble leiil. I shall give thee warning.”

Asan stretched himself out, pillowing his head on his interlaced hands. Tlar’n and Bban’n finally believed the humans were a threat. Whatever the humans had done to teach them that lesson, Asan knew more men had been lost. And right now, with the shaky, almost nonexistent technology here, he was not only outnumbered, he was outgunned. He couldn’t take on the GSI and win.