Thyra! No mask could have concealed her from me . . . for a moment it seemed that the matrix at my throat burned as with Sharra’s very fire. I stood shocked, unable to move, watching my sworn enemy, and wondering with desperate unease what brought them here, into the very heart of Thendara, with a price on Kadarin’s head and the death sentence from Terran and Comyn at once! I gripped the dagger at my waist with my good hand, wishing I had not encumbered myself with the artificial one. Kadarin and Thyra, boldly dancing together here at the Comyn masked ball. . . .
But now at the conclusion of this dance, all masks were coming off; I tore mine away, using the mechanical hand; the other was firmly gripped on my dagger. Did he think that I would not attack him here because it was in the middle of a ball?
And now I saw that Regis had recognized him too. I took a single step; Regis caught urgently at my arm.
“Steady, Lew,” he muttered. “It’s what he wants you to do, come after him without thinking. . . .”
The matrix at my throat was suddenly alive with flame, and a voice whispered, called in my mind.
. . . I am here! I am here . . . all your rage, all the fury of frustrated lust, let it turn on them to serve me, burning, burning . . .
Sharra! The voice of Sharra, whispering like a frantic ghost in my mind, the fury of all my frustration, leaping up to betray me . . . Thyra’s eyes, burning into mine, the red flame of her hair seeming to blaze up around her! And suddenly it flared all around her, as Thyra seemed to grow taller, to rise and tower above us into the heights of the ballroom, as I saw Kadarin’s long fine hand, the hand of a chieri, flash and draw the sword, that sword. . . .
It called to me. I had dragged it unwilling through half a Galaxy because I could not leave it behind, and now it summoned me, summoned me . . . half-aware, I slid my dagger back into its sheath; my place was at Kadarin’s side, lending strength to the Goddess, pouring all my own rage and terror and frustration through it . . . my hand went to the matrix at my throat. I saw some woman whose name I could not remember staring at me with widening blue eyes. . . . I heard her whisper a name I no longer associated with myself, but she was nothing to me, and a young man with the face of a mortal enemy . . . Hastur, he was Hastur . . . the mortal enemy, the first to strike! I felt his hand gripping at my arm and thrust him away with uncanny strength, so that his knees buckled and he spread to the floor; and all this time that pattern of hate and fear, mingled love and loathing, beat in my mind. . . . I took a step, then another, toward where the Goddess flamed above me.
I must return . . . return to Sharra, return to the immortal who rose in flame above me forever, burn myself in the purging fire . . . she was there, Marjorie, calling me from within the flames of Sharra, those compelling amber eyes, the cascade of red hair wildly tossing sparks and flame and the smell of burning, as I burned for her with lust and terror . . .
The one I knew to be my mortal enemy was gripping me now with both hands as I fought my way, step by step, through the cries of the yammering crowd, to where Sharra burned . . .
“No, damn it, Lew,” he gasped, “You’re not going, if I have to kill you first and give you a clean death . . .” and he struck at me with the dagger, tearing a line of blood across my good arm. The pain made me waver, come to myself a little, know what was happening.
“Regis—help me,” I heard myself whisper.
“Your matrix! Let me—” Before I could stop him, he snatched out his own dagger, cut the string which held my matrix round my neck; I tensed, in anticipation of agony unendurable . . . once Kadarin had ripped it away and I had gone into convulsions . . . but even through the leather bag and the silks I felt the touch. . . .
The form of Sharra wavered, sank . . . I did not know what Regis was doing, but strand by strand, it seemed that the gripping call of Sharra lessened in my mind. I heard it still, a soft insidious voice whispering in my mind . . .
Return to me, return, take vengeance on all these who have scorned and despised you . . . return, return . . . . . . to Darkover and fight for your brother’s rights and your own . . . but now it was my father’s voice; I had never thought I would be glad to hear that haunting voice in my mind, but now it recalled me wholly to myself, like a plunge into an icy stream. Then that too quieted, and I stood looking at Kadarin and Thyra where they stood together, the Sharra sword in Kadarin’s hand, Thyra’s hair still tossing with the last sparks of the dying flame.
Gabriel broke away from Javanne; made a quick step toward Kadarin, his sword in hand. Perhaps all he saw was the invasion by a wanted man; I never knew whether the Form of Fire had been real or whether anyone but myself had seen it. Kadarin whirled, shoving Thyra before him, as Gabriel shouted for the Guard and the young cadets started flocking toward him from everywhere in the room. I drew my dagger again and started for him too, then stood paralyzed. . . .
The air seemed full of cold shimmering light. Kadarin and Thyra stood frozen, too, and I saw Kathie caught between them.
They did not physically touch her, but something shook her like the grip of some invisible thing with claws; tossed her aside and caught at Linnell. She was in their grip as if she had been bound, hand and foot. I think she screamed, but the very idea of sound had died in the thickening darkness around Kadarin and Thyra. Linnell sagged, held up hideously on empty air; then fell, striking the floor with a crushing impact, as if something had shaken her and then dropped her. I fought toward her, shouting soundless curses, but I could not move, could not really see.
Kathie flung herself down by Linnell. I think she was the only person capable of free movement in that hall. As she caught up Linnell in her arms I saw that the tortured face had gone smooth and free of horror; a moment Linnell lay quiet, soothed, then she struggled with a bone-wrenching spasm, and slackened, a loose, limp small thing with her head lolling on her twin’s breast.
And above her the monstrous Form of Fire grew again for a moment, Kadarin’s face and Thyra’s blazing out from the center . . . then it all swam away and for a moment that cold and damnable mask I had seen in Ashara’s Tower blazed out and swam before my eyes . . . . . . and then it was gone. Only a little stirring in the air, and Kadarin and Thyra were gone, too; the lights blazed back and I heard Kathie scream, and heard the cries of the crowd as I elbowed my way savagely to Linnell’s side.
She was dead, of course. I knew that even before I laid my hand over Kathie’s in a vain attempt to feel any pulse of life. She was lying, a tumbled, pathetic little heap across Kathie’s lap. Behind her, blackened and charred panels showed where warp and distortion had faded and Kadarin and Thyra were gone. Callina thrust her way through the crowd, and bent over Linnell. Around me I heard the sound of the Festival throng subsiding. Gabriel sent out the Guard that had gathered, in an attempt that I knew would be vain—Kadarin had not gone out of the castle in any recognizable way and searching the grounds would do no good, even if the Terran Legate joined his forces to ours for the man they both wanted. The other people in the crowd were wedging in around us, and I heard that horrible sound of horror and curiosity which runs through a crowd when tragedy strikes. Hastur said something, and people began silently leaving the ballroom. I thought, this is the first time in hundreds of years that this Festival has been interrupted.
Regis was still standing like one of the pillars of the Castle, his face pale, his hand still gripping his matrix. The Hastur Gift. We did not know what it was; but we had seen its power now for the second time.
Callina had not shed a tear. She was leaning on my arm, so numbed with shock that there was not even grief in her eyes; she only looked dazed. My main worry was now to get her away from the inquisitive remnant of the crowd. It was strange that I did not once think of Beltran, even though the marriage-bracelet was still locked on her wrist.
Her lips moved.
“So this was what Ashara intended . . .” she whispered.
She collapsed and went limp in my arms.
BOOK THREE
&nb
sp; The Hastur Gift
CHAPTER ONE
After Lew carried Callina from the ballroom, Regis Hastur’s first thought was of his grandfather. He hurried toward the place where he had last seen Lord Hastur watching the dancers; he found him there, pale and shaken, but uninjured.
“Linnell is dead—” Regis said, and Danvan Hastur put a hand to his heart. He said, gasping, “What of the prince, what of Derik?” He tried to rise, but fell back, and Regis said “Keep still, sir—I’ll see to it.” He beckoned to Danilo, who broke into a run across the floor.
“Stay here,” he said, “See that no one harms the Lord Hastur—”
Danilo opened his mouth to protest; didn’t. He said “A veis ordenes . . .” and Regis shoved through the crowd, noticing Gabriel moving in on Beltran, who stood motionless, his mouth hanging open.
“Lord Aldaran,” said Gabriel Lanart-Hastur, “I will have your sword, if you please.”
“I? I have done nothing—”
“None the less,” Gabriel said, evenly, “you were once among those who sought to bring Sharra among us. Your sword, sir.” Half a dozen guards, with swords at the ready, moved in on him, and Beltran drew a long breath, looking from guard to guard and evidently calculating his chances; then he shrugged and handed his sword, hilt first, to Gabriel.
“Take him to the Aldaran quarters,” said Gabriel, “and make certain that he does not leave them for any reason whatever, nor on any pretext, until the Regent has spoken with him and satisfied himself of his innocence. Make sure that he has no—” he hesitated, “unauthorized visitors.”
The Prince. I must see what has happened to Derik. Even though he was not in the ballroom, if his shields were down—where, in the name of all the Gods, did Merryl take him?
Regis hurried up the stairs, racing through the long corridors, hallways. In the Elhalyn suite lights were blazing, and he heard a high shrill wailing. He knew, then, that he had come too late. In the main room, Derik was lying half on, half off a divan; Merryl, beside him, was flung across his body as if he had tried, at the last moment, to shield his friend and lord from some unseen menace. He was sobbing; but Derik was motionless and when Regis touched him, already cold. The wailing came from an old woman who had been Derik’s nurse when he was little, and had cared for her sickly charge ever since. Regis looked down sorrowfully at the young man’s body.
Merryl stood up, trying to check his tears. He said, “I don’t know—suddenly he cried out as if he were fighting something away, and fell like this . . .”
“Was it you, Merryl, who thought it funny to make the prince drunk tonight?”
“Drunk?” Merryl looked up at him in bewilderment. “He was not drunk—he had nothing but some drink made of mixed fruits, so sweet that I could not touch it! He was not—” then comprehension rushed over his face and he stared, only beginning to realize the truth. “Then that was why—Dom Regis, did someone meddle with that drink out of malice?”
“Their malice was worse than they knew,” Regis said grimly, wondering afresh who had played that cruel trick. Lerrys, perhaps, hoping Derik would make a drunken spectacle of himself before Comyn and Terran guests—to re-emphasize that the Domain of Elhalyn was in incompetent hands? If so, he had overreached himself and done murder. Not that Lerrys would have dirtied his hands in doing it himself, but a judicious bribe to one of the dozens of waiters and serving-folk, and it would be done. “If Derik’s shields had been halfway normal, he would have fought, and perhaps conquered, as I did, and Lew—”
Merryl was weeping now, unashamed. Regis had always believed that Merryl had hung around and flattered the prince for his own advantage; now he realized that the youngster had genuinely cared for the prince. And Regis must break more evil news to him.
“I am sorry to have to tell you this—Linnell is dead, too.”
“Little Linnie?” Merryl wiped his eyes, but he looked stunned and grieved. “It doesn’t seem possible. They were both so happy tonight—what happened, Regis?”
Regis found he could hardly speak the name. “The Castle was invaded. Someone tried to summon—” he forced his lips to pronounce the name but it came out only a whisper of horror; the Form of Fire was too new in his mind. “Sharra.”
Merryl said, his voice hard and venomous, “This is the doing of that Alton bastard! I swear I will kill him!”
“You’ll do no such thing,” Regis said. “The—invaders—Kadarin and his crew—were trying to lure Lew back to them, and he fought and was—was wounded.” Again he remembered the blood streaming down Lew’s arm from the wound he himself had given him; but he had no regrets. Something like that had been necessary to bring Lew to himself, to gather his forces so that he might resist Sharra.
I seem to have some power over the Form of Fire. But without Lew I could do nothing.
“Merryl, I must go and tell my grandfather about Prince Derik. You can do nothing more for him now, lad,” he added compassionately, and it did not seem at all strange to call Merryl “lad,” though Merryl was only a year or two younger than himself, “You should go to your sisters.”
“I am not Head of the Domain,” said Merryl, “They will have no use for me.” . . . abruptly awe swept over his face and he knelt.
“Prince Derik is dead. May your reign be long, Prince Regis of Hastur and Elhalyn!”
“Zandru’s hells!” Regis whispered. So swiftly had everything happened that he had not even realized; what he had always feared had come upon him. Derik had died, young and childless, and he himself, Regis, was nearest the throne. All the implications struck him dumb; he was now superior in rank even to his grandfather, for there was now no reason for a Regency. I am Lord of the Comyn. I, Regis Hastur.
He covered his face with his hands. It was simply too much to take in, and suddenly he realized that the battle with Sharra had left him drained and exhausted, far more than he realized. He thought he would fall to the ground; his knees would not hold him upright. And I am not yet accustomed to the laran I used this night. I used it to free Lew from Sharra, not knowing how or why. Lord of Light! Where will this end?
He said, faltering, searching for words, “Go and—and seek for Lord Hastur, Merryl; I must tell him of Derik’s death—” and some part of him wanted to hide, to run away like a child, for once his grandfather knew this, the process would be inexorable, would roll over him and crush him like one of the great earth-moving machines he had seen on the Terran spaceport. I to rule the Comyn?
“Let me cover him first,” said Merryl. He looked down again at the dead body of the prince; bent and kissed him on the forehead, then took off his own cloak and laid it gently over Derik, covering his face; tucked it around him as if he were comforting a little child who slept. He said, his voice unsteady, “There was more to Derik than most people ever knew,” and Regis thought Derik could have had a worse epitaph.
So many deaths! Lord of Light, where will this end? Marius Alton. Linnell. Derik. Will Sharra reach out and destroy all that is left of the Comyn?
Merryl said, “I am at your orders, my prince,” and went.
By the time the red sun rose over Comyn Castle on that morning after Festival, Derik and Linnell lay side by side in the Chapel of Comyn Castle, together in death as in their lives; Danvan Hastur had locked on their arms the copper marriage bracelets, the catenas they would have worn in just a few days more. Regis felt a poignant sorrow; they were both so young, and they would have been King and Queen of the Comyn. It would have been more just to give Derik the crown he had been denied so long.
I do not want it. But I have never been asked what I want.
The death of Derik, and the accession of Regis to the crown, had been proclaimed in Thendara, but the coronation itself would not take place for some time, and Regis was glad for that. He needed some time to assimilate what had happened.
I am Lord of the Comyn—whatever that may mean in these days of destruction!
“You must name Councillors,” his grandfather had tol
d him; almost the first thing he said, and Regis’s first thought had been: I wish Kennard were alive.
Danvan Hastur was not a powerful telepath, but he had picked that up, He said gently, “So do I, my boy, but somehow you must manage without him. The strongest man within the Comyn is Lord Ardais, and he has always been your friend; he was your cadet-master in the Guards. If you are wise, lad, you will make certain that he is named as one of your first advisers.”
Yes, Regis thought. I suppose Dyan is my friend. I would rather have him friend than enemy, at least. He said something like this to Danilo when they were alone, adding “I hope you will not mind—being paxman to a prince, Dani?”
Ten days ago Danilo would have passed this off with a flippant joke. Now he only looked at Regis seriously and said, “You know that I will do all I can for you. Only I wish this hadn’t happened. I know you don’t want it.”
“I asked grandfather to take charge of the state funeral for Derik and—and Linnell,” Regis said somberly. “It’s my business to see to the living. I don’t suppose Gabriel and his men have been able to find Kadarin—or Spaceforce, either?”
“No; but there’s rioting in the city, Regis, because Spaceforce has come over on the Darkovan side, searching,” said Danilo. “If you don’t order them out, there’s going to be a civil war.”
“The important thing is to find Kadarin,” Regis protested, but Danilo shook his head. “The important thing, just now, is peace in Thendara, Regis, and you know it as well as I do. Tell Lawton to call off his dogs, or Gabriel isn’t going to be able to hold the Guards back. If they’ve made Thendara too hot to hold Kadarin for a few tendays, so much the better—if he can’t poke his nose out into the marketplace without a guardsman or Spaceforce man grabbing him, then we don’t have to worry about him. But we have to get those Terrans out of the Old Town, or, I tell you, there’s going to be war!”
Regis said with a sigh, “It seems to me that we ought to be able to work together, Terran and Darkovan, against a common enemy, as we did over the Trailmen’s fever, last time there was an epidemic. A few Spaceforce men looking for a hunted criminal aren’t hurting anyone in Thendara—”
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