The Heritage Of Hastur d-18 Read online

  He remembered, but did not say, what an old servant had told him, that they were blown to bits, buried together where they fell, since no living man could tell which bits were his father's, which Dani's brother's.

  "I didn't know," Danilo whispered, his eyes wide. Regis, caught in the grip of a strange emotion, said, "It must be horrible to die like that, but not so horrible if your last thought is to shield someone else...."

  Danilo's voice was not entirely steady. "They were both named Rafael and they had sworn to one another, and they fought together and died and were buried in one grave‑" As if he hardly knew what he was doing, he reached out to Regis and clasped his hands. He said, "I'd like to die like that. Wouldn't you?"

  Regis nodded wordlessly. For an instant it seemed to him that something had reached deep down inside him, an almost painful awareness and emotion. It was almost a physical touch, although Danilo's fingers were only resting lightly in his own. Suddenly, abashed by the intensity of his own feelings, he let go of Danilo's hand, and the surge of emotion receded. One of the cadet officers came up and said, "Dani, the arms‑master has sent for you." Danilo caught up bis shabby leather tunic, pulled it quickly over his shirt and went.

  Regis, remembering that he had been up all night, stretched out on the bare straw ticking of his cot He was too restless to sleep, but he fell at last into an uneasy doze, mingled with the unfamiliar sounds of the Guard hall the metallic clinking from the armory where someone was mending a shield, men's voices, very different from the muted speech of the monastery. Half asleep, he began to see a nightmarish sequence of faces: Lew Alton looking sad and angry when he told Regis be had no laran, Kennard pleading for Marius, bis grandfather struggling not to betray exhaustion or grief. As

  he drifted deeper into the neutral country on the edge of sleep, he remembered Danilo, handling the wooden practice swords at Nevarsin. Someone whose face Regis could not see was standing close behind him; Danilo moved abruptly away, and he heard through the dream a harsh, shrill laugh, raucous as the scream of a hawk. And then he had a sudden mental picture of Danilo, his face turned away, huddled against the wall, sobbing hearthrokenly. And through the dreamlike sobs Regis felt a shocking overtone of fear, disgust and a consuming shame....

  Someone laid a careful hand on his shoulder, shook him lightly. The barracks room was filled with the dimness of sunset. Danilo said, "Regis? I'm sorry to wake you, but the cadet‑master wants to see you. Do you know the way?"

  Regis sat up, still a little dazed by the sharp edges of nightmare. For a moment he thought that Danilo's face, bent over him in the dim light, was actually red and flushed, as if he had been crying, like in the dream. No, that was ridiculous. Dani looked hot and sweaty, as if he'd been running hard or exercising. Probably they'd tested his swordplay. Regis tried to throw off the remnants of dream. He went into the stone‑floored washroom and latrine, sluiced his face with the par‑alyzingly cold water from the pump. Back in the barracks, tugging his leather tunic over Dani's patched shirt, he saw Danilo slumped on his cot, his head in his hands. He must have done badly at his arms‑test and he's upset about it, he decided, and left without disturbing his friend.

  Inside the armory there was a second‑year cadet with long lists in his hands, another officer writing at s table and Dyan Ardais, seated behind an old worm‑eaten desk. Because the afternoon had turned warm, his collar was undone, his coarse dark hair clinging damoly around his high forehead. He glanced up. and Regis felt that in one swift feral glance Dyan had learned evervthin? he wanted to know about him.

  "Cadet Hastur. Getting along all right so far?"

  "Yes, Lord Pvan."

  "Just Captain Ardais in the Guard hall, Regis." Dvan looked him over aeain, a slow evaluating stare that made Regis uncomfortable. "At least they taught you to stand straight at Nevarsin. You should see the way some of the lads stand!" He consulted a long sheet on his desk. "Regis‑Rafael Felix Afar Hastur‑Elhalyn. You prefer Regis‑Rafael?"

  "Simply Regis, sir."

  "As you wish. Although it seems a great pity to let the name of Rafael Hastur be lost. It is an honored name."

  Damn it, Regis thought, I know I'm not my father! He knew he sounded curt and almost impolite as he said, "My sister's son has been named Rafael, Captain. I prefer not to share my father's honor before I have earned it."

  "An admirable objective," Dyan said slowly. "I think every man wants a name for himself, rather than resting on the past. I can understand that, Regis," After a moment, with an odd impulsive grin, he said, "It must be a pleasant thing to have a father's honor to cherish, a father who did not outlive his moment of glory. You know, I suppose, that my father has been mad these twenty years, without wits enough to know his son's face?"

  Regis had only heard rumors of old Kyril Ardais, who had not been seen by anyone outside Castle Ardais for so long that most people in the Domains had long forgotten his existence, or that Dyan was not Lord Ardais, but only Lord Dyan. Abruptly, Dyan spoke in an entirely different tone.

  "How tall are you?"

  "Five feet ten."

  The eyebrows went up hi amused inquiry. "Already? Yes, I believe you are at that. Do you drink?"

  "Only at dinner, sir."

  "Well, don't start. There are too many young sots around. Turn up drunk on duty and you'll be booted, no excuses or explanations accepted. You are also forbidden to gamble. I don't mean wagering pennies on card games or dice, of course, but gambling substantial sums is against the rules. Did they give you a manual of arms? Good, read it tonight. After tomorrow you're responsible for everything in it. A few more things. Duels are absolutely forbidden, and drawing your sword or knife on a fellow Guardsman will break you. So keep your temper, whatever happens. You're not married, I suppose. Handfasted?"

  "Not that I've heard, sir."

  Dyan made an odd derisive sound. "Well, make the best of h; your grandfather will probably have you married off before the year's out. Let me see. What you do in off‑duty time is your own affair, but don't get yourself talked about. There's a rule about causing scandalous talk by scandalous behavior.

  I don't have to tell you that the heir to a Domain is expected to set an example, do I?"

  "No, Captain, you don't have to tell me that." Regis had had his nose rubbed in that all his life and he supposed Dyan had too.

  Dyan's eyes met his again, amused, sympathetic. "It's unfair, isn't it, kinsman? Not allowed to claim any Comyn privileges, but still expected to set an example because of what we are." With another swift change of mood, he was back to the remote officer, "In general, keep out of the Terran Zone for your .. ‑ amusements."

  Regis was thinking of the young Terran officer who, before they parted, had again offered to show him more of the spaceport whenever he wished. "Is it forbidden to go into the Terran Zone at all?"

  "By no means. The prohibition doesn't apply to sightseeing, shopping or eating there if you have a taste for exotic foods. But Terran customs differ enough from ours that getting entangled with Terran prostitutes, or making any sexual advances to them, is likely to be a risky business. So keep out of trouble. To put it bluntly‑you're supposed to be grown up now‑if you have a taste for such adventures, find them on the Darkovan side of the line. Zandru's hells, my boy, aren't you too old to blush? Or hasn't the monastery worn off you yet?" He laughed. "I suppose, brought up at Nevarsin, you don't know a damn thing about arms, either?"

  Regis welcomed the change of subject this time. He said he had had lessons, and Dyan's nostrils flared in contempt. "Some broken‑down old soldier earning a few coins teaching the basic positions?"

  "Kennard Alton taught me when I was a child, sir." "Well, we'll see." He motioned to one of the junior officers. "Hjalmar, give him a practice sword."

  Hjalmar handed Regis one of the wood and leather swords used for training. Regis balanced it in his hand. "Sir, I'm very badly out of practice."

  "Never mind," Hjalmar said, bored. "Well see what kind of training you
Ve had."

  Regis raised his sword in salute. He saw Hjalmar lift an eyebrow as he dropped into the defensive stance Kennard had taught him years ago. The moment Hjalmar lowered his weapon Regis noted the weak point in his defense; he feinted, sidestepped and touched Hjalmar almost instantly on the

  thigh. They reengaged. For a moment there was no sound but the scuffle of feet as they circled one another, then Hjalmar made a swift pass which Regis parried. He disengaged and touched him on the shoulder.

  "Enough." Dyan threw off his vest, standing in shirtsleeves. "Give me the sword, Hjalmar."

  Regis knew, as soon as Dyan raised the wooden blade, that this was no amateur. Hjalmar, evidently, was used for testing cadets who were shy or completely unskilled, perhaps handling weapons for the first time. Dyan was another matter. Regis felt a tightness in his throat, recalling the gossip of the cadets: Dyan liked to see people get rattled and do something stupid.

  He managed to counter the first stroke and the second, but on the third his parry slid awkwardly along Dyan's casually turned blade and he felt the wooden tip thump his ribs hard. Dyan nodded to him to go on, then beat him back step by step, finally touched him again, again, three times in rapid succession. Regis flushed and lowered his sword.

  Then he felt the older man's hand gripping his shoulder hard. "So you're out of practice?"

  "Very badly, Captain."

  "Stop bragging, chiyu. You made me sweat, and not even the arms‑master can always do that. Kennard taught you well. I'd halfway expected, with that pretty face of yours, you'd have learned nothing but courtly dances. Well, lad, you can be excused from regular lessons, but you'd better turn out for practice every day. If, that is, we can find anyone to match you. If not, I'll have to work out with you myself."

  "I would be honored, Captain," Regis said, but hoped Dyan would not hold him to this. Something about the older man's intense stare and teasing compliments made him feel awkward and very young. Dyan's hand on his shoulder was hard, almost a painful grip. He turned Regis gently around to look at him. He said, "Since you already have some skill at swordplay, kinsman, perhaps, if you like the idea, I could ask to have you assigned as my aide. Among other things, it would mean you need not sleep in the barracks."

  Regis said quickly, "I'd rather not, sir." He fumbled for an acceptable excuse. "Sir, that is a post for an‑an experienced cadet. If I am assigned at once to a post of honor, it will look as if I am taking advantage of my rank, to be excused

  from what the other cadets have to do. Thank you for the honor, Captain, but I don't think I‑I ought to accept."

  Dyan threw back his head and laughed, and it seemed to Regis that the raucuous laughter sounded a little like the feral cry of a hawk, that there was something nightmarish about it Regis was caught hi the grip of a strange deja vu, feeling that this had happened before.

  It vanished as swiftly as it had come. Dyan released his grip on Regis' shoulder.

  "I honor you for that decision, kinsman, and I dare say you are right. And in training already to be a statesman, I see. I can find no fault with your answer."

  Again the wild, hawklike laugh.

  "You can go, cadet. Tell young MacAran I want to see him."

  Chapter SIX

  (Lew Alton's narrative)

  Father was bedridden during the first several days of Council season, and I was too busy and beset to have much time for the cadets. I had to attend Council meetings, which at this particular time were mostly concerned with some dreary business of trade agreements with the Dry Towns. One thing I did find time for was having that staircase fixed before someone else broke his leg, or his neck. This was troublesome too: I had to deal with architects and builders, we had stonemasons underfoot for days, the cadets coughed from morning to night with the choking dust and the veterans grumbled constantly about having to go the long way round and use the other stairs.

  A long time before I thought he was well enough, Father insisted on returning to his Council seat, which I was glad to be out of. Far too soon after that, he returned to the Guards, his arm still in a sling, looking dreadfully pale and worn. I suspected he shared some of my uneasiness about how well the cadets would fare this season, but he said nothing about it to me. It nagged at me ceaselessly; I resented it as much for my father's sake as my own. If my father had chosen to trust Dyan Ardais, I might not have been quite so disturbed. But I felt that he, too, had been compelled, and that Dyan had enjoyed having the power to do so.

  A few days after that, Gabriel Lanart‑Hastur returned from Edelweiss with news that Javanne had borne twin girls, whom she named Ariel and Liriel. With Gabriel at hand, my father sent me back into the hills on a mission to set up a new system of fire‑watch beacons, to inspect the fire‑watch stations which had been established hi my grandfather's day

  and to instruct the Rangers in new fire‑fighting techniques. This kind of mission demands tact and some Comyn author‑ty, to persuade men separated by family feuds and rivalries, sometimes for generations, to work together peacefully. Fire‑truce is the oldest tradition on Darkover but, in districts which have been lucky enough to escape forest fires for centuries, it's hard to persuade anyone that the fire‑truce should be extended to the upkeep of the stations and beacons.

  I had my father's full authority, though, and that helped. The law of the Comyn transcends, or is supposed to transcend, personal feuds and family rivalries. I had a dozen Guardsmen with me for the physical work, but I had to do the talking, the persuading and the temper‑smoothing when old struggles flared out of control. It took a lot of tact and thought; it also demanded knowledge of the various families, their hereditary loyalties, intermarriages and interactions for the last seven or eight generations. It was high summer before I rode back to Thendara, but I felt I'd accomplished a great deal. Every step against the constant menace of forest fire on Darkover impresses me more than all the political accomplishments of the last hundred years. That's something we've actually gained from the presence of the Terran Empire: a great increase in knowledge of fire‑control and an exchange of information with other heavily wooded Empire planets about new methods of surveillance and protection.

  And back hi the hills the Comyn name meant something. Nearer to the Trade Cities, the influence of Terra has eroded the old habit of turning to the Comyn for leadership. But back there, the potency of the very name of Comyn was immense. The people neither knew nor cared that I was a half‑Terran bastard. I was the son of Kennard Alton, and that was all that really mattered. For the first tune I carried the full authority of a Comyn heir.

  I even settled a blood‑feud which had run three generations by suggesting that die eldest son of one house marry the only daughter of another and the disputed land be settled on their children. Only a Comyn lord could have suggested this without becoming himself entangled in the feud, but they accepted it. When I thought of the lives it would save, I was glad of the chance.

  I rode into Thendara one morning in midsummer. IVe heard offworlders say our planet has no summer, but there had been no snow for three days, even in the pre‑dawn

  hours, and that was summer enough for me. The sun was dim and cloud‑hidden, but as we rode down from the pass it broke through the layers of fog, throwing deep crimson lights on the city lying below us. Old people and children gathered inside the city gates to watch us, and I found I was grinning to myself. Part of it, of course, was the thought of being able to sleep for two nights in the same bed. But part of it was pure pleasure at knowing I'd done a good job. It seemed, for the first time in my life, that this was my city, that I was coming home. I had not chosen this duty‑I had been born into it‑but I no longer resented it so much.

  Riding into the stable court of the Guards, I saw a brace of cadets on watch at the gates and more going out from the mess hall. They seemed a soldierly lot, not the straggle of awkward children they had been that first day. Dyan had done well enough, evidently. Well, it had never been his competence I questioned, b
ut even so, I felt better. I turned my horse over to the grooms and went to make my report to my father.

  He was out of bandages now, with his arm free of the sling, but he still looked pale, his lameness more pronounced than ever. He was in Council regalia, not uniform. He waved away my proffered report.

  "No time for that now. And I'm sure you did as well as I could have done myself. But there's trouble here. Are you very tired?"

  "No, not really. What's wrong, Father? More riots?"

  "Not this time. A meeting of Council with the Terran Legate this morning. In the city, at Terran headquarters."

  "Why doesn't he wait on you in the Council Chamber?" Comyn lords did not come and go at the bidding of the Terran an!

  He caught the thought and shook his head. "It was Hastur himself who requested this meeting. It's more important than you can possibly imagine. That's why I want you to handle this for me. We need an honor guard, and I want you to choose the members very carefully. It would be disastrous if this became a subject of gossip in the Guards‑or elsewhere."

  "Surely, Father, any Guardsman would be honor‑bound‑**

  "In theory, yes," he said dryly, "but in practice, some of them are more trustworthy than others. You know the younger men better than I do." It was the first time he had ever admitted so much. He had missed me, needed me. I felt

  warmed and welcomed, even though all he said was, "Choose Guardsmen or cadets who are blood‑kin to Comyn if you can, or the trustiest. You know best which of them have tongues that rattle at both ends."

  Gabriel Lanart, I thought, as I went down to the Guard hall, an Alton kinsman, married into the Hasturs. Lerrys Ridenow, the younger brother of the lord of his Domain. Old di Asturien, whose loyalty was as firm as the foundations of Comyn Castle itself. I left him to choose the veterans who would escort us through the streets‑they would not go into the meeting rooms, so their choice was not so critical‑and went off to cadet barracks.