Hastur Lord

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  And yet, his thoughts kept returning to those who still suffered. The poor, who had little food and no way to buy any, even if they could afford it. The country folk, even colder and hungrier, eating their seed crop from desperation.

  And Danilo . . . Always his thoughts came back to Danilo, like an unhealed wound in his heart.

  Surely, Rinaldo would value Danilo, would treat him fairly if not kindly. The pain of separation might never pass, but Danilo would be safe and well.

  But not with me.

  The threat posed by the Federation had receded but was far from resolved. The situation was unstable, dependent on Rinaldo’s whim. Since the Midwinter announcement of Bettany’s pregnancy, Rinaldo had become increasingly unpredictable, effusive one moment and darkly suspicious the next. Tiphani Lawton now wielded far more persuasive power than Valdir ever had. Valdir and his supporters had not given up their ambitions.

  As for poor Bettany, she vacillated from remote and arrogant to childishly needy. In a combination of those moods, she had demanded that Linnea attend her as lady-in-waiting. Regis could not imagine a more perilous situation.

  Merilys, who had come to serve Regis and Linnea after their marriage, slipped into the room. She took the sleeping baby into her arms, moving gently so as not to waken him. Regis wondered how she knew when to come, and he decided this knowledge was yet another women’s mystery.

  When the door closed behind Merilys and the baby, Linnea rearranged the top of her gown, arched her back, and stretched. She looked very young, her movements unselfconscious in their grace, but her expression was somber.

  “Regis, with this fine weather, the city will soon be abustle. I will no longer be able to blame being snowed in for not answering Bettany’s summons. I fear any further delay will be taken as discourteous at best.”

  Regis found that his chair had suddenly become too comfortable. He pushed himself to his feet and strode to the window. Over the wall of the garden, he glimpsed people on the street. A rider in the short cloak of a City Guardsman guided his mount between the pedestrians. This district, with its wealthy mansions, was the first to be cleared of snow.

  “Then we shall find another reason,” he said. “It is an insult to expect you to play nursemaid.”

  “She has no kinswoman to attend her and is most likely as confused and frightened as any woman pregnant for the first time.”

  Regis suppressed a smile. “That is compassionate, but it changes nothing.”

  She came to stand beside him. He felt her ambivalence, her fierce desire to remain with her own baby, to protect both her children.

  “What is it, preciosa?” he asked. “What troubles you?”

  “I cannot set aside the feeling that this poor child needs me. Something is wrong. When I last saw her, at Midwinter, I couldn’t monitor her, nor would it have been ethical to do so without her leave. I offered, telling her that Comyn women have done so through the ages. It poses no danger to mother or babe. She grew angry, as if I had insulted her. Should she ask me now, I would not refuse—but I fear the worst.”

  “And that is?”

  She looked up, her gray eyes troubled. “I don’t know.”

  “Do you think she truly wants your help or only to boast that the woman who might have been lady to the Hastur Lord, an Arilinn-trained Keeper, now dances attendance on her?”

  From her expression, she thought the same. Carefully, he picked his way through the words so as not to reveal the depth of his fears. “For the sake of our children, I ask you to keep yourself apart from the court and its perils.”

  It was not so long ago that anyone I loved became a target for kidnapping and threat of worse. The moment Linnea passes through the Castle gates, she becomes vulnerable . . . He could not bear the thought of her in the clutches of his enemies.

  But who, he wondered, were his enemies now? Valdir and the other Ridenow? Tiphani Lawton? Or Rinaldo himself?

  She shook her head. “What about the risks of defiance? We do not know if this is a passing whim of hers or a test of loyalty. I do not want to move to Comyn Castle, but I would not put you or anyone we care for at risk. Danilo is still in Rinaldo’s custody, no matter what it’s called.”

  “That’s all the more reason for you to stay here. Bettany cannot command you. She may be Lady Hastur, but she is not queen. I will speak with my brother. If this is his wish rather than hers, if he wants to be sure of me, then I will find another way of demonstrating my compliance.”

  Linnea arched one eyebrow. You have never been compliant.

  Regis wanted to laugh and scowl at the same time. True, if old Danvan Hastur, with all his manipulative wiles and force of personality, had not been able to bend Regis to his wishes, then a monk dressed in Hastur robes had little chance. And yet . . . Grandfather could not force me to marry, and here I am.

  “I do not wish to raise a rebellion against Rinaldo,” Regis said, trying to keep his voice light. “If anything, I owe him a brother’s love and all the help he will accept. He may have odd ideas, having been raised by Nevarsin monks, but he is not unintelligent. He is perceptive and idealistic. With time and good advice, he will come around.”

  “You trust him more than I do.” She fell silent for a moment. “Still, you are right in one thing. Your brother means to do right. If you can persuade him that I am unsuitable as a waiting-woman, that would be the best solution to this problem.”

  “Then I will try.”

  It still seemed odd to be out in the city without Danilo beside him. Regis felt half-dressed, as if he had left home without his boots. He did what he could to appear inconspicuous. Muffled in a cloak of muted green, his distinctive white hair covered by the hood, he hardly resembled the legendary Regis Hastur. He rode, rather than walked as he once might have, not his Armida-bred mare but a stout gelding, big enough to shoulder its way through a crowd. The dun was shaggy with winter coat, each sturdy foot covered with feathering. It stepped out eagerly, pleased to be free of the stable on such a fine day.

  Regis followed the maze of cleared streets, angling toward the Castle. Compacted snow rose like walls to either side, broken at intervals by doors. A handful of children dressed in layers of rags scampered laughing across the top layers, hurling snowballs at one another.

  A clearing marked a major intersection where a scattering of vendors had set up their stalls. There was no produce, only hot jaco and fried bread twists. An old woman sold knitted mittens from a basket. She offered a pair to Regis. Gravely, he inspected the tiny, even stitches, the soft chervine wool. The old woman’s expression, dignity mixed with hunger, touched him. Blessing the foresight that had provided him with a purse, he fished out a silver coin. It was more than the mittens were worth, but not so much as to offend her pride.

  A little way farther, Regis heard men’s voices, rising and falling in rhythmic chant. He drew the gelding to a halt. A strange procession approached. At first, Regis thought it a collection of monks from St. Valentine’s. Those in the vanguard wore long brown robes belted with rope, but none were tonsured. The rest, a dozen or so, carried standards with crudely painted cristoforo symbols, jingled bells, or pounded on hand drums. They sang,“Lord of Worlds,

  Remove our sin.

  Lord of Worlds,

  The Light Within.”

  Regis had heard the chant every morning and every evening of his years at St. Valentine’s. At the time, he had thought it tedious and simple-minded. Now, the fervor and insistent rhythm troubled him. The singers seemed to be not so much penitent as demanding. Reluctant to encounter them more closely, Regis loosened the reins and touched the horse with his heels.

  A Castle Guardsman took the horse at the gate. A second escorted Regis to the Hastur apartments and his grandfather’s—now Rinaldo’s—study. The room seemed little changed since Regis himself had occupied it.

  Rinaldo sat behind the massive desk. Tiphani Lawton stood beside him, in the place where Danilo should be. She wore a robe somewhat like a monk’s,
not of coarse brown homespun but stripes of silky white, red, and black.

  Where’s Danilo? By all the Seven Frozen Hells—

  The next instant, Rinaldo caught Regis up in a brother’s embrace. Quelling his sudden alarm, Regis tried to return the greeting as heartily as it was given.

  Rinaldo released Regis, clapping him on both shoulders. “It’s good to see you! This weather has kept us apart, you in your snug little den halfway across the city and me immured in this drafty old Castle.”

  “I hope I find you in good health. And you, Mestra Lawton.” Regis bowed to Tiphani.

  She lifted her chin. Her features had altered, pared to starkness but still beautiful, her hair cut short and slicked to her skull.

  “I no longer bear that tainted name,” she announced. “I now answer to the name granted to me by the Most Holy—Luminosa! All glory be to God.”

  “All glory be to God,” Rinaldo repeated.

  Regis wondered what the Terran Legate had to say about his wife’s psychiatric condition now. Better not to open that subject, he thought as he took a seat at Rinaldo’s invitation. Before the conversation could resume, however, there came a tap at the door.

  “Come,” Rinaldo called, and Danilo entered.

  With an effort, Regis kept his expression calm, as if Danilo meant no more to him than a passing acquaintance. His heart turned into a falcon caged within his chest, beating frantic wings as it tore at its prison. He longed to open his mind to his bredhyu. Rinaldo was head-blind and would never notice . . . but Tiphani might. From their earliest meeting, Regis had sensed her psychic sensitivity, perhaps laran.

  Be still. Say nothing. Do nothing to risk him.

  Danilo moved across the room, graceful as always, whole of body and unharmed. He went to the desk and placed a packet of papers before Rinaldo.

  Danilo bowed first to Rinaldo, then to Tiphani Lawton—Regis could not think of her as anything else, certainly not that pompous name—and then, without the slightest hesitation, to Regis himself.

  Regis relaxed minutely. Danilo’s silence had been more eloquent than any greeting. If they had indeed grown apart, if all feeling between them had died, a few meaningless words would have come easily.

  Paper crinkled as Rinaldo folded the sheets and set them aside. He turned back to Regis with another smile. “What is the news from the other side of town? How does your wife and your new son? I expect he is trotting about the house by now.”

  Regis smiled. “Not for some months yet, I think. Babies grow more slowly than that. He still needs his mother’s tender care. For his sake, she should remain close by him, at home.”

  “Of course! I am glad to hear she is such a devoted mother, and you such a solicitous husband and father. You see, my brother, the blessings that come with obedience to Divine Law?”

  “I am indeed content in my marriage,” Regis said, keeping his eyes upon his brother and not on Danilo.

  Confusion flickered across Rinaldo’s features. “I do not see why the issue of a mother leaving her own young children should arise—”

  “The note,” Tiphani said, placing one hand on Rinaldo’s shoulder.

  “I thought Lady Bettany had sent an apology.” Rinaldo scowled. “I told her!”

  “Do not think harshly of your poor wife.” Tiphani’s voice turned honey-sweet. “Pregnancy can addle the wits of any woman.”

  Pregnancy had not made Linnea any less rational. Regis listened politely as Rinaldo explained that, of course, Bettany had not thought of the implications of her invitation.

  “In any event, it is not necessary. Lady Hastur is well tended here in the Castle. She wants for nothing, certainly not feminine companionship.” Rinaldo glanced at Tiphani.

  Regis felt impelled to repeat Linnea’s offer, that should Bettany desire laran monitoring of her pregnancy, Linnea would be at her service. He did not add that it was an extraordinary privilege to have such care from a Keeper.

  Tiphani set her lips in a tight line. Rinaldo’s expression, which had been open and earnest, darkened. “With all respect to your lady wife, who seems a model of womanly virtue,” he said, “it would not be proper for one who once practiced sorcerous arts to attend my own wife. I cannot allow the innocent souls of both mother and unborn child to be exposed to such an influence, even if unintended.”

  “Laran is not magic,” Regis said, caught unawares by the accusation. “We Comyn are not witches. Our Gifts may seem supernatural, but they can be understood rationally and used honorably.”

  “So you have been misled to believe,” Rinaldo said. “I cannot fault you, although you must have learned otherwise from the good brothers at Nevarsin.”

  Regis recalled that so deep was the cristoforos’ animosity to mental powers that every stone of the monastery had been laid by human hands, without the assistance of laran. “I intended no offense. No harm would come to Lady Hastur in my wife’s care.”

  “I do not doubt Domna Linnea’s good intentions, but even the strongest mind can be seduced by temptation.”

  The atmosphere had chilled during the discussion. Tiphani broke the tension, turning to Regis. “We need not discompose your household, Lord Regis. Lady Hastur is in the best hands imaginable, for when the spirit is under Divine guidance, no ill can come to the body. Daily I receive instruction as to her care. No malign influence is permitted to approach her, only those individuals sanctified by the One True God. All will be well, I assure you.”

  Ice brushed the back of his neck as Regis remembered her tear-streaked face and passionate words: “I took the filthy thing away from Felix as soon as I realized. Oh, God, it’s all my fault! If only I had not been weak in letting Felix have his way! If only I had watched him more closely—”

  Her ignorance had almost killed her own child. Was she now making some bizarre atonement . . . or convincing herself that she was fulfilling a holy mission?

  Rinaldo nodded beatifically. Regis could not think what to say. He had faced more challenging situations than he could count, but this declaration left him speechless.

  “Surely,” Danilo said to Tiphani, moving smoothly into the pause, “your husband can have no objection to your being of such service.”

  Tiphani shot him a look of unadulterated spite.

  So that’s where the lines of alliance were drawn. Be careful, Danilo. Few people are more dangerous than those who believe God speaks through them.

  “Have no fear,” Rinaldo said as he patted Tiphani’s arm. “I have given you my protection. No one will force you to return against your will.”

  She shook off his touch. “It’s not so simple.”

  “No, indeed,” Regis broke in, “for you are still a Federation citizen, Mestra . . . Luminosa, and your husband is the Legate. My brother may be Lord Hastur, but he does not speak for the other Domains. This Castle is the joint property of all the Comyn, controlled by no single house.”

  It was a clumsy move, speaking to Tiphani but really directing his remarks at Rinaldo: “What do you think you’re doing, harboring a runaway Terran against the wishes of her family? Are you trying to provoke a conflict with the Federation?”

  Rinaldo glared at Regis as if confronting a delinquent student. “You go too far, my brother! How dare you speak so disrespectfully to me, your elder and Head of your Domain?”

  “You asked for my counsel once,” Regis replied. “Is it disrespectful to speak a truth that might—” He paused, meaning to say, “prevent a catastrophic decision?” but, deciding better, finished, “—be put to good use?”

  “Dom Valdir is always lecturing me on the importance of diplomatic cooperation. I am only one Domain among many . . .” Rinaldo went on, his voice becoming more thoughtful. “There is nothing to stop others from taking independent action, siding against me with Lawton and the Federation. As for the Telepath Council, they are nothing more than a band of commoners infected by laran witchery! No, no, what I need—what all of Darkover needs—is a strong leader to speak for everyon
e.”

  “That is not as easy as it sounds,” Regis commented, “even with loyal supporters and sound advice.” He meant Danilo’s service and his own counsel, but Tiphani took it as an oblique compliment and preened. “As for your situation, Mestra Luminosa, you yourself have the power to resolve the current issue between the Federation forces and Hastur.”

  “By making peace with my husband, you mean.”

  Regis nodded. “Is it prudent to involve the most powerful house on Darkover in a domestic problem?”

  “You know nothing of the matter!” She glowered at him. “How full of advice you are, for everyone but yourself! Regis Peacemaker, Regis Kingmaker—is that how you intend to make your mark on history?”

  “I have no such aspirations,” Regis said. “In fact, I would be quite content if history forgot me entirely.”

  “We must honor those who have gone before us,” Rinaldo stepped in.

  Tiphani, still seething, took her leave so that she might attend to Bettany. The mood remained somber for a time, punctuated by comments of no consequence.

  Then Regis said, “This tension between you—” he did not say Hastur, for he meant Rinaldo personally, “—and the Terran Legate is not a good situation. It can too easily spread to include our entire Domain, as well as others and the Federation itself. Would you hear my advice?”

  “I am always happy to hear what you have to say. However, I question whether you truly understand the matter.”

  “As far as I can tell, it is a family dispute that ought not to involve powers of state. Let the Lawtons work out their differences free from outside interference. Establish a neutral ground where they may speak with one another without intimidation.”

  “That is impossible. The matter has spiritual as well as political implications.”

  “You mean because the woman is a coreligionist and says she receives visions? Voices, whatever? Rinaldo, those are symptoms of a sickness of the mind. If she is ill, she needs proper treatment.” And not blind trust from someone who only reinforces her delusions.