This long sleep was more like shock, or suspended animation, than any normal sleep. Regis could not know it was the mental and physical reaction of a telepath in crisis. Now it only seemed that he wandered for eternities—certainly for days—in restless nightmares. At times he seemed to leave his aching body behind and wander in gray formless space, shouting helplessly and knowing he had no voice. Once or twice, coming up to dim semiconsciousness, he found his face wet and knew he had been crying in his sleep. Time disappeared. He wandered in what he only dimly knew was the past or the future: now in the dormitories of Nevarsin where the memory of cold, loneliness and an aching frustration held him aloof, frightened, friendless; now by the fireside at Armida, then bending with Lew and an unknown fair-haired girl over the bedside of an apparently dying child, again wandering through thick forests while strange aliens, red-eyed, peered at them through the trees.
Again he was fighting with knives along a narrow ledge, the ragged red-eyed aliens thrusting at him, trying to kick him off. He sat in the Council chamber and heard Terrans arguing; in the Guard hall of Comyn Castle he saw Danilo’s sword breaking with that terrible sound of shattering glass. He was looking down with a sense of aching tragedy at two small children, pale and lifeless, lying side by side in their coffins, dead by treachery, so young, so young, and knew they were his own. Again he stood in the armory, numb and shamed into immobility while Dyan’s hands ran along his bare bruised body, and then he and Danilo were standing by a fountain in the plaza at Thendara, only Danilo was taller and bearded, drinking from wooden tankards and laughing while girls threw festival garlands down from windows above them.
After a time he began to filter these random awarenesses more critically. He saw Lew and Danilo standing by a fireplace in a room with a mosaic pattern of white birds on the floor, talking earnestly, and he felt insanely jealous. Then it seemed as if Kennard was calling his name in the gray dim spaces, and he could see Kennard drifting far off in the dimness. Only Kennard was not lame now, but young and straight-backed and smiling as Regis could hardly remember him. He was calling, with a mounting sense of urgency, Regis, Regis, where are you? Don’t hide from me! We have to find you! All Regis could make of this was that he had left the Guards without leave and the Commander wanted to have him brought back and punished. He knew he could make himself invisible here in these gray spaces, so he did, running from the voice full speed over a gray and featureless plain, though by this time he was perfectly well aware that he was lying half-conscious in the abandoned fodder-barn. And then he saw Dyan in the gray spaces, only Dyan as a boy his own age. Somehow he dimly realized that, in this gray world where bodies did not come but only minds, every man appeared as he saw himself in his own mind, so of course Kennard looked well and young. Dyan was saying, I can’t find him, Kennard, he is nowhere in the overworld, and Regis felt himself laughing inside and saying, I’m here but I don’t have to let you see me here. Then Kennard and Dyan were standing close together, their hands joined, and he knew that together they were seeking him out. Their faces and figures disappeared, they were only eyes in the grayness, seeking, seeking. He knew he must leave the gray world or they would find him now. Where could he go? He didn’t want to go back! He could see Danilo in the distance, then they were both back in the dark barracks room—that night!—and he was bending over his friend, touching him with aching solicitude. And then that terrible, strained whisper, the shock more mental than physical as he thrust him away: Come near me again, you filthy ombredin, and I’ll break your neck . . .
But I was only trying to reach him, help him. Wasn’t I? Wasn’t I? And with a shuddering gasp Regis sat up, fully awake at last, staring into the dim light that filtered through a broken roof-slate above him. He was shaking from head to foot and his body ached as if he had been battered and beaten. He was completely conscious, though, and his mind was clear. At the far end of the barn the pony was stamping restlessly. Slowly, Regis got to his feet, wondering how long he had been there.
Far too long. The pony had eaten every scrap of the ample fodder and nosed the floor clear of chaff as far as he could reach.
Regis went to the door and swung it open. It had stopped snowing long since. The sun was out, and melted snow dripped in runnels from the roof. Regis was aware of a raging thirst, but like all lifelong horsemen he thought first of his pony. He led the horse to the door and released him; after a moment the pony made off, deliberately, around the corner to the rear of the building. Regis followed, finding an old well there, covered against the snow, with a workable though creaky and leaking bucket assembly. He watered the pony and drank deeply, then, shivering, stripped off his clothes. He was grateful for the austere discipline of Nevarsin, which made it possible for him to wash in the icy water of the well. His clothes smelled of sweat and sickness; he got fresh ones from his pack. Shivering, but feeling immensely better, he sat down on the well-side and chewed dried fruit. Cold as he was, the interior of the building seemed to reek of his nightmares and echo with the voices he had heard in his delirium, if it had all been delirium. What else could it have been?
Moving slowly until he knew he could rely on his body to do what he told it, he saddled the pony again and collected his belongings. He must be nearing the Aldaran lands now and there was no time to lose.
The snow had drenched the smell of forest fire and he was glad. He had not ridden more than an hour or two when he heard the sound of approaching horses and drew aside to let them pass. Instead they confronted him, blocking the road, demanding his name and business.
He said, “I am Regis-Rafael Hastur, and I am on my way to Castle Aldaran.”
“And I,” the leader, a big swarthy mountain man, said in a mincing voice that mocked Regis’ careful casta accent, “am the Terran Legate from Port Chicago, Well, whoever you are, you’ll go to Aldaran, and damn quick, too.”
It had evidently been nearer than Regis believed; as they reached the top of the next hill he saw the castle, and beyond it the city of Caer Donn and the white Terran buildings.
Now that he was actually within sight of Aldaran his old fears returned. No man knew—or if they did it was the best kept secret on Darkover—why Aldaran had been exiled from the Seven Domains.
They couldn’t be that bad, Regis thought. Kennard had married into their kin. And if they were once of the Seven Domains, they too must be of the sacred lineage of Hastur and Cassilda. And why should a Hastur fear his kindred? He asked himself this as he rode through the great gates. Yet he was afraid.
Mountain men dressed in curiously cut leather cloaks took their horses. One of the guards led Regis into a hall, where he talked at length with another guard, then finally said, “We’ll take you to Lord Aldaran, but if you’re not who you claim you are, you’d better plan on spending the rest of the day in the brig. The old lord is ill, and none of us takes kindly to the notion of bothering him with an impostor!”
They conducted him through long stone corridors and along flights of stairs, pausing at last outside a great door. From inside they could hear voices, one low and indistinguishable, the other a harsh old man’s voice, protesting angrily:
“Zandru’s hells! Kirian, at my age! As if I were a school-boy—oh, very well, very well! But what you are doing is dangerous if it can have side effects like this, and I want to know more—a great deal more—before I let it go on!”
The guards exchanged glances over Regis’ head; one of them knocked lightly and someone told them to come in.
It was a large, high-arched stone chamber, gray with the outdoor light. At the far end, a thin old man lay in a raised bed, propped on many pillows. He glared at them in angry question. “What’s this now? What’s this?”
“An intruder on the borders, Lord Aldaran, maybe a spy from the Domains.”
“Why, he’s just a boy,” the old man said. “Come here, child.” The guards thrust Regis forward, and the old eyes focused, hawk-keen, on him. Then he smiled, an odd amused smile.
“H
umph! No need to ask your name! If ever a man wore his lineage on his face! You might be Rafael’s son. I thought his heir was still in the schoolroom, though. Which one are you, then, some nedestro or old Danvan’s bastard, maybe?”
Regis lifted his chin. “I am Regis-Rafael Hastur of Hastur!”
“Then in hell’s name,” said the old man testily, “what were you doing sneaking around the borders alone? Where is your escort? The heir of Hastur should have ridden up to the front gates, properly escorted, and asked to see me. I’ve never refused a welcome to anyone who comes here in peace! Do you think this is still a bandit fortress?”
Regis felt stung, all the more because he knew the old man was right. “My Lord, I felt there might be warfare of which I had been told nothing. If there is peace between us, what have you done with my sworn man?”
“I, young Hastur? I know of no man of yours. Who?”
“My paxman and my friend, Danilo Syrtis. He was taken by armed men, in the hills near his home, men bearing your ensign, my lord.”
Aldaran’s face narrowed in a frown. He glanced at the tall thin man in Terran clothing who stood near the head of the bed. He said, “Bob, do you know anything at all about this matter? You usually know what Beltran’s up to. What’s he been doing while I’ve been lying here sick?”
The man raised his head and looked at Regis. He said, “Danilo Syrtis is here and unharmed, young Hastur. Beltran’s men only exceeded their orders; they were told to invite him here with all courtesy. And we were told he had no reason to love the Comyn; how should we know he was your sworn man?” Regis felt unspoken contempt, And why should we give a damn? But Kadarin’s words were rigidly polite. “He is unharmed, an honored guest.”
“I’ll have a word with Beltran,” Kermiac of Aldaran said. “This isn’t the first time his enthusiasm has carried him away. I’m sorry, young Hastur, I didn’t know we had anyone of yours here. Kadarin, take him to his friend.”
So it was as simple as that? Regis felt vague disquiet. Kadarin said, “There’s no need for such haste. Lew Alton talked to the Syrtis boy for hours last night, I’m sure he knows now that he’s not a prisoner. Lord Regis, would you like to speak with your kinsman?”
“Is Lew still here? Yes, I would like to see him.”
Kermiac looked at Regis’ travel-stained garments. He said, “But this is a long journey alone for a boy. You are exhausted. Let us take you to a guest chamber, offer you some refreshment—a meal, a bath—”
Both of them sounded almost unendurably attractive, but Regis shook his head. “Truly, I need nothing now. I am deeply concerned about my friend.”
“As you wish, then, lad.” He held out a withered old hand, seeming to have trouble moving as he wished. “Damned if I’m going to call a boy your age lord anything! That’s half what’s wrong with our world!”
Regis bent over it as he would have done over his grandfather’s. “If I have misjudged you, Lord Aldaran, I implore your pardon. Let anxiety for my paxman be my excuse.”
“Humph,” Aldaran said again, “it seems to me that we of Aldaran owe you some apology as well, my boy. Bob, send Beltran to me—at once!”
“Uncle, he is very much occupied with—”
“I don’t give a damn what he’s occupied with, bring him! And fast!” He released Regis’ hand, saying, “I’ll see you again soon, lad. You are my guest, remain here in peace, be welcome.”
Dismissed and ushered out of Aldaran’s presence, Kadarin striding through the halls at his side, Regis felt more confused than ever. What was going on here? What had Lew Alton to do with this? It was warm in the hallway and he wished he had taken off his riding-cloak; he felt suddenly very tired and hungry. He had not had a hot meal, or slept in a bed, for more days than he could reckon, and during his sickness he had completely lost count.
Kadarin turned into a small room, saying, “I think Lew is here with Beltran.” Regis blinked in astonishment, seeing, in the first moment, only the blazing fire, the floor inlaid with the mosaic of white birds! Fantasies spun in his mind. Danilo was not here, as in his dream, but Lew was standing near the fire, his back to Regis. He was looking down at a woman who had a small harp across her knees. She was playing and singing. Regis had heard the song at Nevarsin; it was immeasurably old, and had a dozen names and a dozen tunes: How came this blood, on your right hand,
Brother, tell me, tell me.
It is the blood of an old gray wolf
Who lurked behind a tree.
The song broke off in mid-chord; Lew turned, and looked at Regis in amazement.
“Regis!” he said, coming quickly toward the door. “What are you doing here?” He held out his arms to embrace him, then, seeing him clearly, took him by the shoulders, almost holding him upright. He said savagely, “If this is any more of Beltran’s—”
Regis drew himself upright. He wanted to let himself collapse into Lew’s arms, lean on him, break down with fatigue and long-drawn-out fear—but not before these strangers. “I came here in search of Danilo; Javanne saw in her crystal that he had been taken by men of Aldaran. Had you any hand in this?”
“God forbid,” said Lew. “What do you think I am? It was a mistake, I assure you, only a mistake. Come and sit down, Regis. You look tired and ill. Bob, if he’s been mishandled, I’ll have someone’s head for it!”
“No, no,” said Kadarin. “Lord Kermiac welcomed him as his own guest, and sent him to you right away.”
Regis let Lew lead him to the bench by the fire. The woman touched the harp again, in soft chords. Another woman, this one very young, with long straight red hair and a pretty, remote face, came and took his cloak, looking at him with bold eyes, straight at him. No girl in the Domains would look at him like that! He had an uncomfortable feeling that she knew what he was thinking and was greatly amused by it. Lew said the women’s names but Regis was in no condition to pay attention. He was introduced to Beltran of Aldaran, too, who almost immediately left the room. Regis wished they would all go away. Lew sat beside him, saying, “How came you to ride this long road alone, Regis? Only for Danilo’s sake?”
“I am sworn to him, we are bredin,” Regis said faintly. “He is truly unharmed, not a prisoner?”
“He is housed in luxury, an honored guest. You shall see him as soon as you like.”
“But I do not understand all this, Lew. You came on a mission from Comyn, yet I find you here entangled in their affairs. What is this all about?” As soon as their hands touched they had fallen into rapport, and Regis found himself wondering, Has Lew turned traitor to Comyn? In answer Lew said quietly, “I am no traitor. But I have come to believe that perhaps service to Comyn and service to Darkover are not quite the same thing.”
The woman had begun the song again, softly.
No wolf would prowl at this hour of the day,
Brother, tell me, tell me!
It is the blood of my own brothers twain
Who sat at the drink with me.
How came ye fight with your own blood kin,
Brother, tell me, tell me,
Your father’s sons and your mother’s sons
Who dwelled in peace with thee.
Lew was still talking, through the sound. “The Comyn has been too often unjust. They threw Danilo aside like a piece of rubbish, for no better reason than that he had offended a wicked and corrupt man who should never have been in power. Danilo is a catalyst telepath. I suggested they bring him here—I had no idea they would take him by force—and his services be enlisted to a larger loyalty. I had it in mind he could serve all our world, not a sick, power-mad clique of aristocrats bent on keeping themselves in power at whatever cost. . . .”
The mournful harp-chords were very soft, the woman’s voice very sweet.
We sat at feast, we fought in jest,
Sister, I vow to thee;
A berserker’s rage came in my hand,
And I slew them shamefully.
Lew said, “Enough of this, you are tired and
anxious about Dani, and you must have some rest. When you are well recovered, I want you to know all about what we are doing. Then you will know why those who are really loyal to Darkover may serve us all best by putting some check on the Comyn powers.”
Regis could feel Lew’s sincerity through the touch on his hand, yet there was some hesitation too. He slid his hand up Lew’s arm to touch the tattooed mark there. He said,
“You’re not completely sure of this either, Lew. You are sworn, sealed to Comyn.”
Lew took his hand away, saying bitterly, “Sworn? No. Vows in which I had no part were sworn for me when I was five years old. But come, we’ll talk of this another time. If you’ve been imagining Danilo a prisoner it will reassure you to find him in the best guest suite, the only one, I suppose, fit to entertain a Hastur. If he’s your sworn man he should be lodged with you.”
He turned, briefly making his excuses to the women. In his sensitized state Regis could feel their emotions, too: sharp resentment from the older, the singer. The younger one seemed aware of nothing but Lew. Regis didn’t want to be part of these complexities! He was glad when they were alone in the corridor.
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