Free Requiem for Anthi: Anthi - Book Two by Deborah Chester

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