Hastur Lord Read online

  “I see no reason why not,” Jason said. The three men had reached the doorway. “I won’t release Felix until he’s recovered from the convulsions. You look exhausted, Regis. I’m sorry to have dragged you out of bed at this hour. Danilo, take him home. I’ll speak with the Lawtons.”

  Jason bowed to Regis, the slight inclination of his body that betokened personal respect rather than the responsibilities of caste. Regis promised to check the boy’s progress when he could.

  4

  During the following tenday, Thendara enjoyed an unseasonably rapid transition to spring, as if winter had suddenly opened its fist. Throughout the Lowlands, the bitter edge of winter softened.

  Regis felt the turning toward longer days as a rising hope in his own spirit. Sometimes he paused in the middle of the street while hurrying from one conference or another, or he simply stood looking over the ancient city. All things came in their own season, he reminded himself.

  Regis had used Lew’s warning as best he could to prepare for the choice that would soon be presented to Darkover. Although the vote in the Empire Senate was not yet official, rumors spread throughout the Terran Zone, spilling over into the city. No formal declaration had yet been made, but that was only a matter of time.

  Division on the subject of Federation membership developed much as Regis had expected. His grandfather was not the only one who wanted Darkover to cut off ties with the Terranan. Conservatives like Ruyven Di Asturien and Kyril Eldrin immediately made alliances. They saw the reorganization of the Federation as an opportunity to sever all off-world relations.

  On the other side of the question were Valdir Ridenow, Regent of Serrais, the Aldarans, the Pan Darkovan League, and many citizens of Thendara. The Terrans stationed on Darkover maintained a carefully neutral public face, but Regis needed no laran to tell they were worried.

  On one of the visits Regis made to check on Felix Lawton’s progress, Dan made him an unexpected offer of assistance.

  “This is completely unofficial, you understand,” Dan said privately, behind closed doors. “As Legate, I cannot be seen to take sides in the debate. Only the citizens of Darkover may determine their course.”

  They were alone in Dan Lawton’s private office, with Danilo on guard beside the door. Regis remembered again that Dan had a legitimate stake in the debate, for his parentage was part Comyn. The Domains accepted the notion of citizenship reluctantly, for the term usually referred to legal rights, rather than the complex web of responsibilities that characterized Darkovan culture. Whatever laran Dan possessed was deeply buried and likely to remain so in his Terran role. Yet Regis sensed in the other man a passionate desire to protect the world of his birth.

  It was, Regis reflected, not strictly true that Darkover would be allowed to choose without any Terran influence or hint of coercion. If the Terrans decided their own interests were threatened—if, for instance, a disturbance should take place at the spaceport or a Terran patroller should be threatened or injured—then those sympathetic to the Expansionists would seize the excuse to impose martial law. Such a thing had happened on other worlds, according to Lew Alton.

  If we do not give them an excuse, they may invent one for themselves.

  “I thank you,” Regis said carefully, “but there is nothing I need from you now.”

  Dan nodded. “We still have time before a final decision. However, the prospect of full membership in the Federation may cause . . . unrest.”

  Dan was saying, in the way he had juxtaposed the offer of help and the warning, Keep your own people in order, and I will keep mine out of your affairs.

  Revolted by the intricacies of political schemes, Regis changed the subject. “I’m glad your son is better. That, at least, is one area in which our two peoples can work cooperatively for our mutual benefit.”

  Dan’s face relaxed into a smile. “Yes, between Dr. Allison’s medical expertise and the care of the Renunciate healer—Ferrika n’ha Margali—he is recovering. It will take time for his laran to stabilize, but his life is no longer in danger. Ferrika says that eventually he ought to go to a Tower for proper training.”

  Regis had sensed the power of the boy’s laran but had not realized it was so strong. “Indeed? He has the makings of a matrix mechanic or technician?”

  “She says . . .” Dan paused, wet his lips, “he could make a Keeper.”

  Danilo and Regis exchanged startled glances, for both had been taught that only women could hold the demanding centripolar position in a matrix circle. Male Keepers were very rare. Regis had met only one, Jeff Kerwin, now Keeper at Arilinn Tower.

  “Do you think it is possible,” Dan went on, “that he may have the Ardais Gift?” His Comyn heritage came through that Domain, through his Darkovan mother.

  Regis turned thoughtful. “I don’t think so, but he could well have another talent. If he does, it must be trained and preserved. There are so few of us, and the old Gifts no longer breed true. I am, to my knowledge, the only living bearer of the Hastur Gift.” Again, his eyes sought Danilo’s.

  And you are the only living catalyst telepath and have no child who might inherit the talent.

  Don’t rub it in. Danilo looked away, once more the faithful paxman, his features a mask of disciplined vigilance.

  Comprehension swept through Regis. He had been a fool not to realize that every time his grandfather pressured him to marry, to father heirs and provide for the succession of the Domain, Danvan also meant the necessity to continue the unique talent of the clan. From there, it was only a small step of logic to the requirement for Danilo to do the same. Catalyst telepathy was the rarest of all the known Gifts. Danilo had the ability to awaken even the most deeply buried latent laran in another individual.

  Unlike Regis, Danilo had never been able to couple with women for the sole purpose of procreation. He was one of those telepaths for whom a deep mental and emotional closeness was essential to physical intimacy. His heart was focused on Regis, and they were bound not only by love but by the vows of bredhin and those of lord and paxman.

  “If that is true,” Regis turned back to Dan, “then a Tower is the only place Felix can receive the training to properly use his Gift. An untrained telepath is a danger to himself and everyone around him. But someone with the potential to be a Keeper . . . I cannot imagine what that person might suffer if his talent is ignored or suppressed.”

  “We have already seen the dangers of uncontrolled laran,” Dan agreed with a touch of grimness. His worried expression returned, tightening the muscles around his eyes. “His mother is opposed to the idea, of course. She has finally come around to see that help from Darkovan telepaths is necessary, but she doesn’t like it. She’s not . . . she’s not a bad person.”

  “You need not make excuses for your wife’s behavior,” Regis interrupted, affected by his friend’s obvious chagrin. “She acted out of love for her son, as any mother might. I am sorry that our ways are strange and frightening to her.”

  “Yes,” Dan said, “I had hoped that after this long she would have adapted to Darkovan culture. It’s my fault for not helping her. I’ve been so busy with my work, I haven’t had the time to help her make Darkovan friends. She’s a very strong-willed woman, passionate in her opinions.”

  “You would not have her any other way, my friend.”

  Dan’s description of his wife reminded Regis of Linnea. For all the years they had been apart, she had never been very far from his thoughts. In a rush, he realized that there was a way to placate his grandfather, temporarily escape the Federation membership debate, and obtain skilled help for Felix.

  “There is one thing you could do for me, if your offer extends this far,” he said. “Lend me a Terran aircraft.”

  Dan Lawton had said the Terran pilot was the best, and the man deserved his reputation. He held the small craft on a steady course past the point where most would have turned back. The powerful, unpredictable wind currents of the Hellers made air travel chancy at best.


  The land rose as the bones of the earth thrust skyward into uneven, snow-draped peaks. Winds buffeted the little craft, but the cabin was warm. Regis and Danilo had dressed in clothing suitable for mountain travel: knee-length jackets of thick wool, fur-lined hooded cloaks, and stout boots.

  Around Regis, the metal device bucked like a badly broken horse. He dug his fingers into the cushioned armrests and felt the safety harness tighten around his chest. His stomach lurched, and he broke out into a cold sweat. Out of the corner of his vision, he glimpsed Danilo’s white, set face. Then the aircar leveled out.

  Finally, the pilot set down on a frost-whitened field no bigger than the practice yard at the City Guards. Beyond the field stood a village.

  Regis clambered out of the aircraft, glad beyond words to be standing once more on firm soil. Wind had scoured away the worst of the snow, leaving the ground almost bare. He turned toward the village, the earth crunching beneath his feet. In the distance, the castle of High Windward perched on a massive outcropping of rock. Regis estimated that it would take a good day’s ride to reach it.

  A deputation of mountain folk, including one stout graybeard who must be the village headman, hurried out to greet them. From their exclamations, they found the Terran flying machine strange and perplexing. Few of them had seen such a thing, this deep into the Hellers. Their excitement turned to awe when they learned who Regis was. “The Hastur Lord . . .”

  The pilot, who had thought of Regis only as a native friend of the Legate’s, regarded him with new respect.

  The headman took them inside his own house, a snug cottage with three separate rooms, its stone walls daubed with mortar to keep out the wind. Like many mountain dwellings, it was situated to make use of the light and to present a solid face to the prevailing wind. After accepting offerings of food, hot drink, and the best place by the fire, Regis asked that riding animals and a guide for the journey to High Windward be provided, and also accommodations in the village for the pilot.

  They passed an uneventful night. The headman insisted that the Hastur Lord must sleep in his best bed and would not be persuaded otherwise. As a youth, Regis had slept on the ground while working the fire-lines, and the bunks in the cadet barracks had not been much softer. He would have been just as happy curled up in a blanket before the hearth.

  The next morning, as daybreak seeped across the cragged eastern horizon and shadows lay thick across the frozen fields, Regis and Danilo took their leave. The headman’s grown son brought out two mountain ponies, clearly the best that could be had, one antlered chervine laden with supplies and blankets, and another saddled for riding. The villagers clustered around them, women bundled in layers of woolen shawls, children like round-bellied puppies in their thick jackets, and men with windburned faces and bright eyes.

  Regis swung up on his pony. At his height, his feet dangled, and he was already anticipating sore muscles. The beast was unprepossessing in appearance, its rust-black coat so thick and ragged that it looked like a badly shorn sheep. Its long tail brushed the ground, and little could be seen of its eyes through the tangle of its forelock. Danilo’s mount could have been its twin, except for a crescent of white on its off-side rump.

  They set off, the headman’s son in the lead. The bridle rings and the bells on the harnesses of the chervines chimed brightly. Regis reined his pony beside Danilo’s. To his surprise, the animal had easy gaits and a pleasant, willing manner. Truly, it was the best the village had to offer.

  Late in the day, they reached the steep trail leading to the gates of High Windward. Set among chasms and crags, the castle had been originally constructed as a fortress. It was said to date back to the Ages of Chaos, and legend had it that the walls had been raised by laran in a single day. Centuries had weathered the stone, leaving the castle like an old toothless dragon, melting back into the rock from which it had sprung. Only the great Sunrise Tower, a soaring structure of translucent stone, seemed untouched by time.

  Since Regis could remember, the Storns had been peaceful country lords without any pretense of great power, living amicably with their neighbors and content to trade their fine hawks as well as precious metals from the mountain forges.

  They were spotted long before they reached the gates, and a welcoming party emerged. The gates stood open, but they looked in excellent repair. The men who came out to greet them wore swords and looked competent in their use. Regis recognized one of them as having served in the City Guards. A murmur spread through the welcome party.

  Regis clamped down his laran barriers, but not before he caught the edge of the guards’ thoughts. Hastur . . . The Heir himself . . .

  Would he never be free of it, free to be simply Regis?

  After making sure their guide and animals would be properly cared for, fed and given warm shelter, Regis allowed himself to be conducted inside. Danilo followed him like a shadow.

  The ancient custom of hospitality still ran strong in the mountains, where life itself depended on the goodwill of strangers against the common enemies of cold and avalanche, wolf and banshee and worse.

  The coridom welcomed them in true mountain style, refraining from inquiring about their business until their physical needs had been attended to. He escorted them through the vaulted hall, very old by its design, and into a suite of rooms in a more modern section. Panels of wood as golden as sunlight on honey covered the stone walls. Newly lit fires warmed the sitting room and also the two adjacent bedrooms. A servant brought a basin of water scented with herbs, soap, and towels. A moment later, while Regis was still exchanging courtesies with the steward, a second servant arrived with jaco and hot spiced wine. After they had warmed themselves and washed, the coridom himself returned to conduct them to the solarium, where Lady Linnea waited to receive them.

  The coridom led them through a series of back hallways, avoiding the major halls where Regis would be easily recognized and a subject of great curiosity, not to mention extravagant hospitality. Linnea knew how much he hated that kind of ostentatious attention.

  The solarium, like those common in mountain castles, was a pleasantly intimate room. Carpets cushioned the center of the worn stone floor, and comfortable chairs and divans had been placed for conversation or family activities. Although it was almost dark outside the thick, mullioned windows, the air inside the room still held the sun’s warmth. A fire, newly lit, danced in the hearth. Linnea sat on one of the stools before it, picking out a melody on a ryll, while a little girl of ten or so accompanied her on a reed flute.

  Linnea’s head was bent over her instrument, the light of the fire heightening the red- auburn of her curls. The folds of her woolen gown, a shade of green that made her look like a wood sprite, fell gracefully to the floor. An old dog slept at her feet, and a plump middle-aged woman sat knitting in a corner.

  For a long moment, Regis could not speak, could not move. The domesticity of the scene, the love evident between mother and daughter, woke a hunger in him. He had never known his parents, for his father had been killed before he was born, ambushed by outlaws wielding Compact-illegal weapons. His mother had died soon afterward, of a broken heart, it was said. In their place, his grandfather had been a stern and undemonstrative guardian only too glad to send his young grandson to be educated at Nevarsin. The only warmth Regis had known as a child had come from his older sister, Javanne, herself thrust too soon into adult responsibilities and a politically advantageous marriage.

  Regis had thought that the love he shared with Danilo and the satisfaction of knowing he had done his duty were the best he could expect in life. He had not known, until this moment, that he could want more.

  While Regis stood, transfixed by the unfamiliar emotions boiling up within him, Linnea finished the musical phrase and set aside the lap harp. She met his gaze with unaffected directness. Even across the expanse of the room, Regis was struck by the purity of her features, her heart-shaped face, her wide gray eyes, and her air of utter composure. The girl glanced at her mother and g
ot to her feet.

  “Lord Regis.” Linnea rose, but did not curtsy. As a Keeper, even one who no longer worked as such, she bowed to no man. “You lend us grace. Stelli, this is your father.”

  She did not ask why he had come.

  Before Regis could say anything, the child approached him. She had Linnea’s eyes, he saw, but the jawline of his own people. Her hair, the same shade of copper as his had been at her age, fell in two gleaming braids down her back. As she met his gaze, Regis realized that she was younger than he had supposed; she would be eight or nine now. It was her height, her slenderness, and her movement, graceful as a chieri, that made her appear older. Her smile brought radiance to her entire face.

  Kierestelli. This must be the daughter conceived during the brief, intense time when the World Wreckers almost destroyed their world. That a creature of such grace and beauty could have come from such a black and desperate time amazed Regis.

  “Papa, is it really you?” Flute in hand, she ran to him.

  For an instant, Regis had no idea how to respond. Surely, she could not remember him, for he and Linnea had separated when she was very young. Could she? He had no time to answer the question before the child flung herself into his arms. He lifted her up, hugging her in return before he realized what he was doing. Her body was agile as a dancer’s and her hair smelled like a mountain stream. Awkwardly, he set her down.

  “I am sorry if I have offended you, Father,” she said. The formal words sounded odd, coming from the mouth of a child. “Mother says I forget myself in gladness.”

  “And so you do,” Linnea said gently. “I think your father is not used to the excitement of children. Make your farewells, and go off to the nursery.”

  Kierestelli flashed Regis another brilliant smile and skipped cheerfully from the room, accompanied by the middle-aged woman. The room fell silent except for the crackling of the fire.

  Linnea gestured to the half-circle of chairs before the hearth. “Regis, will you sit down? And Danilo as well? Shall I send for jaco or ale? The ale’s quite good; High Windward has a skillful brewmaster.”