The Warrior Returns - Anteros 04

SUMMARY:
For those who thrill to the adventure and wonder of The Anteros, here is the book where all the secrets from KINGDOMS OF THE NIGHT are finally, dazzlingly, revealed. For new initiates, this tale stands alone, entry to a world of intrigue, high drama, derring-do . . . and, most of all, magic!All of Orissa believed that Rali Emilie Antero, legendary warrior and sorceress extraordinaire, was dead, lost at sea during some grand adventure gone wrong. In fact, Rali was not dead, but left entombed in ice to dream for eternity--until a goddess needed her for one last quest . . .Novari, a beautiful succubus intent on achieving ultimate power, had swept the world by storm. All the Anteros had been assassinated--save one : a golden, magical child named Emilie. Novari had succeeded in taking Orissa. Now she had only to sieze little Emilie, as well.She never counted on the return of Rali Antero . . .

PRAISE FOR THE
ANTEROS
SERIES!

"Glorious swashbuckling
...
Absolutely riveting."
—Locus

"A
thoughtful and well-crafted epic fantasy."
—Publishers Weekly

"An excellent fantasy adventure."

—Science Fiction Chronicle

"A lively fantasy
...
Genre fans will enjoy."
—KLIATT

By Allan Cole

Published by Ballantine Books:

THE WARRIOR RETURNS

(Coauthored with Chris Bunch)

THE FAR KINGDOMS

THE WARRIOR'S TALE

KINGDOMS OF THE NIGHT

The Sten Adventures

STEN

THE WOLF WORLDS

THE COURT OF A THOUSAND SUNS

FLEET OF THE DAMNED

REVENGE OF THE DAMNED

THE RETURN OF THE EMPEROR

VORTEX

EMPIRE'S END

A RECKONING FOR KINGS

A DAUGHTER OF LIBERTY

Books published by The Ballantine Publishing Group are available at quantity discounts on bulk purchases for premium, educational, fund-raising, and special sales use. For details, please call 1-800-733-3000.

Allan Cole

A Del Rey® Book BALLANTINE BOOKS · NEW YORK

Sale of this book without a front cover may be unauthorized. If this book is coverless, it may have been reported to the publisher as "unsold or destroyed" and neither the author nor the publisher may have received payment for it.

A Del Rey® Book Published by Ballantine Books Copyright © 1996 by Allan Cole

AH rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

http://www.randomhouse.com

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 96-93071

ISBN 0-345-41312-1

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Hardcover Edition: April 1996 First Mass Market Edition: May 1997

10
987654321

To all those who know why Janos laughed. And to Kathryn who suggested the Rali stories.

BOOK ONE

The Lyre Bird

CHAPTER
ONE

The
Citadel
of
Ice

My sword is a pen My ink the blood of men My paper the hearts of my foes. My words are your fate If you stray past the gate And my book is the sum of your woes.

you know me
as Rali Emilie Antero. In my first life I was a warrior. In my second a wizard. And then I slept for fifty years until my lady Maranonia came to awaken me from my lover's arms.

Though she is a goddess whom I revere above all others, I did not awaken easily.

My tomb was ice. The castle that held that tomb was ice, and it crouched in a realm of frigid stone washed by frozen seas. But in my dreams I dwelt in a land of eternal summer where my lover Salimar was queen. We lived in a crystal palace with jetting fountains and gardens of roses, pink and red and yellow. It was a life of laughing days and sweet sighing nights and I was loath to leave it.

But the goddess said leave I must.

I was angry. "This was my reward, O Lady," I said, "for all the suffering I've endured in your service."

Maranonia smiled, and that smile lit the vast chamber with its brightness. My ship gleamed silver, my chests of jewels gave off a rainbow glow, and my weapons racks were sharp, glittering steel. I rubbed my good eye, disturbed by all that light. Beside me Salimar stirred in her down coverlets and whispered my name.

My left arm throbbed and I groaned from the ghost pain. The pain made me angrier still. I'd sacrificed an eye and a hand for my goddess and my people. A golden eyepatch covered the right socket, and a small scar cut that same cheek. I had a magical golden hand in place of the living one, which I'd lost in the mines of Koronos.

Although it worked much better than the one I was born with, it was a hurtful reminder of all I'd suffered to earn this sleep.

I dared to turn my back on the goddess, snuggling close to Salimar. I was determined to drift away to our land of summer dreams. There, I was whole. There, I was fresh. There, I was free of all trials. There, my only concern was the daily gift I'd choose for my lover. Would it be a bouquet of wild meadow flowers to grace her hair? Perhaps a songbird to enchant us that evening before we freed it to bless our embrace.

Maranonia's voice rang through: "Rise up, Rali," she commanded. "Your sisters have need of you."

The Guard in peril? I bolted up.

I hid my alarm with a snarl: 'Tell them to seek another."

"There is no other," the goddess answered.

"I've done enough," I said. "Let me rest."

But I swung my bare legs over the lip of the coffin of clear blue ice that held our bed.

Behind me I heard a sob. It was Salimar, weeping in her sleep.

Maranonia was tall, her peaked helmet nearly touching the vault's distant roof, black tresses tumbling to her shoulders. In one hand she held the torch of truth. In the other her spear of justice. Her boots were gold, her tunic shone white under her light mail. Her eyes glowed like an armorer's hearth. The air crackled with her power. But I did not fear her. I have defied the gods before.

The goddess sighed, her breath filling the chamber with the scent of violets. Then she laughed, and it was the sound of distant bells tolling the news of war. "Why do I put up with you, Rali?"

I touched the eyepatch with my false hand. "I could ask you the same question, my lady," I said. "I've honored you all my life. I've permitted my body to be mutilated in your service."

I turned, gesturing at the restless form of Salimar. Silver teardrops fell from her closed eyes. Her lashes were dark fans against smooth olive cheeks. The coverlet came away, exposing her sweet breasts to the chill.

I covered her tenderly, saying, "Why can't you let us be?"

"Your sisters will die," the goddess answered.

My reply was an accusation. "Death is no stranger to the women of the Maranon Guard, my lady. How many souls have I delivered to you myself? Thousands? Tens of thousands? When will you be satisfied?"

Maranonia ignored this. "Orissa is in danger, Rali."

I shrugged. "So get my brother. Amalric never seems to weary of his civic duty."

We both knew my harsh words were lies. There was no one—even Salimar—whom I adored more than Amalric. Our mother died when he was very young, and I'd heaped all my love on that redheaded child. That thought made my lips curl into a wry smile. No matter his age, no matter his accomplishments, Amalric would always be a child to me.

"Your brother is dead," the goddess answered.

Her reminder gashed open a wound I'd thought long healed.

In a vision I'd seen my brother and Janela Greycloak take their own lives. Although their death pact had been joyous, its purpose to gain another life in a world of splendors beyond, my heart still bled for him.

I tried to hide my pain from the goddess.

"Get another Antero, then," I said. 'There's plenty to choose from. I come from a family of breeders."

Except for myself, I thought. I like children well enough. As long as they are the children of others. My own maternal stirrings are meager.

But I was standing by the tomb now, naked and shivering in that vast chamber of ice.

"All the Anteros are dead," Maranonia said. "Save you
...
and one other."

I stumbled back from that bleak news. What catastrophe could have overtaken my family?

The goddess gestured and I was suddenly warm. I glanced down and saw that I was dressed in the cloak and tunic and leggings of the Maranon Guard. My captain's badge was pinned to my shoulder. I felt earrings dangling from my lobes. I didn't have to investigate to know what baubles my goddess had chosen. There would be a miniature of Maranonia's golden torch in one ear, her spear in the other.

I sighed. "Show me," I said.

The goddess gestured again.

A cloud of purple smoke swirled up, then parted like a curtain. I was peering into a chamber. A child cowered in a bed. Two armed women in the uniform of the Guard were posted on either side.

They were gray-haired women—soldiers well past their prime.

I could hear shouts and the clash of weapons nearby.

The child had Amalric's red hair. It was long and framed a delicate face with porcelain skin and eyes the color of sun-kissed seas.

"She is your murdered nephew's child," Maranonia said, voice gentle.

"They've named her Emilie—for your mother."

I shivered, this time not from the cold.

There was a crash of magical thunder and the child cried out, holding up a small trembling hand as if to ward off a blow. Instinctively I took a step forward to confront whatever it was that threatened her.

Smoke swirled and the image vanished.

Questions flooded my mind. Who would harm such a child? And why?

The goddess, as if reading my thoughts, said: "Emilie carries the seeds of great power, Rali. Power even greater than your own.

"With
her
rests all of the hopes of Orissa. If she is slain, all that you and your brother sacrificed so much for will be lost. Perhaps forever. For where will I find another Antero when you and she are gone?"

"Who has done this thing?" I asked.

As I waited for the answer, my eyes flickered over the weapons rack, picking over the tools of my old warrior's trade.

"You know her," the goddess said, "as the Lyre Bird."

The shock was like the collision of two mailed giants. "Novari? But I killed her!"

The goddess ignored this. "When next the snow falls in Orissa," she said, "the child Emilie will reach the first level of her powers. Our enemies are determined to prevent this."

I was aghast. "I have one year?" I said. "That's all?"

Then I babbled, testing my goddess' patience, no doubt, for it was obvious my decision had been made. "Why, it might take that long just to reach home!"

"Nevertheless," Maranonia said, "that is all the time I'm permitted to give you."

"Who sets these limits?" I bellowed. "What fool commands the heavens these days? Show me his holy face so I can spit in it!"

But my wrath hammered on emptiness. The goddess was gone.

I conjured stores and loaded my ship. She was a fleet-footed little thing, single-masted and easy for one person to manage in any seas. The sails were silver, like the body of the ship itself. I called her my
Ilumna.

I chose my weapons carefully, wrapped them in oilcloth, cast a spell to further prot
ect them from rust, and locked th
em in a trunk in the cramped cabin that did double duty as my quarters and a sail locker.

When I was done, I approached the ice tomb. It was clear, like blue-tinted glass. Salimar looked small in the vast down bed that had contained us both only a short time before. Her auburn hair was spread out on the pillow and I ached to tangle my fingers in it. We'd twine our legs and arms and I'd be cast into that dream world again where we'd play forever and a day. A frown marred her beautiful face, and I kissed the wrinkles to smooth them away. She said my name and opened her long slender arms.

But I couldn't stay.

I whispered a promise I wasn't certain I could keep. Then I kissed her again and closed the curved ice lid to lock her away from all harm.

I mounted the deck of my ship, grasped the tiller and cast the spell.

Lightning crashed and thunder drummed, drowning out my final whispered farewell.

Then I was sailing on seas of ice, the wind at my back and hate in my view.

I
never dreamed
I'd write another journal. The first—a history disguised as an adventure—gave me much difficulty. I'm not a scholar like my brother, so I used a scribe to pretty up my barracks manners. It must've worked, for the bookstall merchants sang my praises for many a day, all to the merry tune of rattling coin boxes.

This time I've dispensed with scribes. They are a prickly, shortsighted breed who drive me mad with their romantic ravings. The first fellow is long dead, and I have no intention of breaking another into my ways. Besides, I like to think I might have improved after more than fifty years. My words may not be pearls, but they aren't rodent droppings, either.

Be forewarned: this book is not for the gentle-hearted. And if you are offended by my same-sex inclinations, turn away now. Love is as much a part of this tale as its warnings.

You would be advised, however, to appoint someone in your household to read these words and inform the rest of the warnings they contain.

For I speak for Maranonia, and the goddess commands that all listen.

Ignore her—and me—at your peril.

I
sailed for
many a day on the Southern Sea but made scant forward progress. I dodged squalls, bumped through great ice fields, and once sailed for half a week maneuvering around an iceberg the size of a large island. It was pink, striated with blue, and when I dropped chips of its ice into my wine cup, they bubbled and frothed and made a delicious brew.

Although I had far to go—five thousand leagues or more— it was good that I was delayed those first days. It was still summer at the bottom of the world, where all seasons are the opposite of Orissa. There are only two seasons, actually, winter and summer. And those are contained in one interminably long day. For six cycles of the moon the sun never rises and it is always night, with unimaginably fierce storms that roar down from the mountains and gouge the rocks and ice into nightmare shapes. The cold is so bitter that few creatures could survive. And those who make their homes there are the hardiest and most stubborn on earth.

The other six moon cycles are day, and the sun never sets during that time. The storms are less frequent, although they still pack winds that could drive a loose spike through heavy armor. The cold is also easier to bear. When you spit, it still freezes before it reaches the snow, but it doesn't explode with a loud retort like molten beads of iron falling into a smithy's tempering pot.

I used the first days of my journey home to shake off the effects of my long sleep. I'd been a woman nearing her fourth decade of life when I entered that tomb with Salimar. In the outside world, fifty years had passed. In Salimar's kingdom five decades is equal to five months, so I was still several years shy of forty summers when I emerged.

My body was stiff, my actions hesitant, and for some time I lost my grip too easily when hauling on the ropes to shift the sails. I also worried that my soldier's skills might be rusty as well, and I dared not wait for an unknown enemy's sudden appearance to test them.

Whenever I could, I'd follow a dolphin pack to a large flat iceberg, where schools of succulent fish gathered to tempt them. I'd clamber onto the 'berg with a sack of my heaviest battle gear. I'd don the gear and trot back and forth and around and around until I was gasping like an old sea lioness in heat. When I could take no more, I'd strip naked, rub my body with snow, and dance about like a madwoman. I must've made a wondrous entertainment for all those seals and penguins who gathered to see the pink-fleshed thing that hooted and hollered with every jounce of her flab.

It was well worth it. Each day in my mirror I saw muscle swell. My skin glowed with health and I kept it plucked smooth, treating myself to frequent massages with warm sweet oil that I coaxed into the pores. I'd let my hair grow long to please Salimar, who said she loved to stroke the waves it made on my pillow and called them her golden fields of delight Long hair may be good for a lover, but an enemy has reason to praise it as well. It gives him something substantial to grip when he slits your throat So I used a bowl to razor my hair short enough to fit under a helmet I suppose it made me look boyish, although no one had ever been fool enough to mistake my figure as such. And with my pirate's eyepatch, scarred cheek, and golden hand, not many would have the nerve to test my mettle if I wandered into a tavern in a man's tunic and cloak.

When I got my sea legs back and could more easily weave about the pitching deck, ducking swinging booms and leaping over coiled rope to do my work, I tackled the next part of my self-training.

Out came my weapons—sword and bow and dagger and axe.