Regis knew that Andres did not see him; the dying eyes were already glazed, past sight. He saw only the boy of ten, Kennard’s fosterling, Lew’s sworn friend. And with his last strength Andres formed a picture in Regis’s mind . . .
Then it was gone and there was nothing living in the room except himself. Regis stood up, stricken with pain. “Beltran! But how, in all of Zandru’s hells, did he manage to come here, when I left him safely imprisoned . . .”
He did not even need to ask. He had left Beltran with Lord Dyan; and Dyan had agreed with Beltran that Sharra was the ultimate weapon against the Terrans . . . Lew was beyond their reach. But there remained an Alton child. . . .
There remained an Alton child; and one Gifted, even at five years old, with the laran of her house . . . and of her chieri blood. Regis felt sick; would anything human stoop to use a small child in Sharra? He had had reason to know that Dyan could be cruel, could be unscrupulous, but this?
He realized that all through this, he had been hearing somewhere in his mind, ringing louder and wilder, the terrified shrieks of the child, the sudden flame and terror of the Form of Fire . . . and then it was gone, so suddenly that for a moment Regis was shocked, feeling that Marja must suddenly have died of terror, or been struck silent by a blow of terrifying cruelty . . .
What madness was this? Around him was the silence of death in the Alton rooms, the horrified gasps of Dio who stood on the threshold, but somewhere he was hearing a voice he knew, or was it a telepathic touch rather than a voice?
Fool, this is nothing for a girl-child! I have the strength and I am not squeamish . . . I am not one of your Tower-trained eunuchs, let me take that place rather than one you can never trust . . . and then almost laughter, silent laughter in mockery. No, she’s not dead, she is beyond your reach, that is all . . . pick on someone your own size, Beltran!
“Lord of Light!” Regis gasped in shock, knowing what had happened. Dyan had chosen Sharra. Despite every warning, he had walked of his own free will into that horror which had cost Lew his hand and his sanity, which even now overpowered Regis with dread and terror . . .
Does this mean Lew is free? No, never, never, he is still bound to Sharra . . .
“Lord Hastur! Lord Regis—” a gasping servant, come in search of him, stopped in shock, staring at the dead body of the old coridom on the floor. “Good Gods, sir, what’s happened?”
Regis said, clutching at calm and ordinary things, “This man died defending his master’s—his foster-son’s property and his child. He should have a funeral fit for a hero. Find someone who can see to it, can you?” He rose slowly, staring at the dead man and at the servants clustering in the doorway of the Alton suite. Then he saw the man who had come to look for him.
“Sir, the Lord Hastur—your grandsire, sir—he has ordered—” again the man, confused, shifted ground, “he has asked if you will come and attend on him . . .”
Regis sighed. He had been expecting that; what conflicting demands was his grandfather to make on him now? He saw Dio and knew she could not bear to be left out of what was happening now. Well, she had a right to know.
“Come along,” he said, “Lew and I were bredin, once, and you have a claim on me, too.”
He found his grandfather in the small presence-chamber of the Hastur apartments; Danvan Hastur said, “Aldones be thanked, I have found you!” The Terran Legate has sent a message to you personally, Regis; something about a Captain Scott and permission to authorize Terran weapons—” He looked at his grandson, and tried to speak with the old authority, but only managed a shocking parody of his old strength. “I don’t know how you came to put yourself in a position where Terrans could bid you come and go, but I suppose you’ll have to deal with it—”
He is old. I am the real power of Hastur now and we both know it; though he will never say so, Regis thought, and spoke to the unspoken part of his grandfather’s words, whatever the actual words had been.
“Don’t trouble yourself, sir; I’ll go and deal with it.” He suddenly felt deep compassion for the old man, who had spent so many years holding the power of the Comyn, without even laran to sustain him.
He has had all the troubles of a Hastur and none of the rewards, he thought, and then was startled and shocked at himself. Rewards? This monstrous laran which threatened, unwanted, to split him asunder, so that he walked with the terrible knowledge of a power whose forces he could not even imagine?
Gift? The Hastur curse, rather! He felt as if his very arms and legs were too big for him, as if he walked halfway between earth and sky, his feet hardly touching the ground, and all without knowing why. Desperately, he wanted Danilo at his side. But there was not even time to send a message to his paxman, and in any case, if Dyan had flung himself recklessly into the danger and terror of Sharra, Danilo was Lord Ardais, for Dyan was as good as dead, and so were they all; let Danilo stay free of this if he could. He said brusquely to the Spaceforce man who had brought the message, “I’ll come at once.” Dio turned to follow him and he said, “No. Stay here.” He could not encumber himself with any woman now, certainly not when Danilo had been denied the privilege of attending him.
“I will go,” she said wildly, “I am a Terran citizen; you cannot prevent me!”
It wasn’t worth arguing. He signaled to the Spaceforce man to let her come, and together they clambered into the surface car. Regis had never ridden in a Terran vehicle before; he hung on breathless, as it tore through the streets, men and women and horses scattering as it roared and jolted over the cobbles; he thought irrelevantly, we must forbid this, it is too dangerous on such old and crowded streets. Once through the gates into the Trade City the streets were a little smoother and he hung on desperately, not wanting to show his fright before Dio who was apparently accustomed to this kind of breath-taking transport.
Through the HQ gates, the Spaceforce driver barely stopping to flash a pass of some sort at the guard, then tearing across the abnormally smooth terrain to the very gates of the skyscraper; and up in the lift, Dio doggedly keeping at his heels all the way, then into Lawton’s office.
Rafe Scott, white as death, was there, and Lawton didn’t waste words. He gestured, and Rafe poured it out.
“Kadarin has gone to Hali! I suddenly discovered that I was reading Thyra—I don’t know why—”
Regis did. He could feel Sharra, through and around Rafe, a monstrous and obscene flame, unbodied, inchoate . . . and Rafe was part of that ancient bonding.
Kadarin, bearing the Sword. Thyra. Beltran. . . .
Dyan, who had recklessly flung himself into the volcano. And Lew, somewhere, somewhere . . . bound, sealed, doomed . . .
“Well?” Lawton said crisply, “Will you authorize me to send a helicopter, and men properly armed with blasters, to arrest Kadarin out there? Or are you going to stick to the letter of your Compact, while they work with something which is farther outside of your Compact than a superplanetbusting bomb, let alone a blaster or two?”
Am I going to authorize . . . who does he think I am? Then, in the sudden humility of power recognized and feared, Regis knew that he could no longer avoid the responsibility. He said, “Yes. I’ll authorize it.” He managed to write his name, though his hand shook, on the form Lawton held out to him. Lawton spoke into some kind of communicator.
“All right; Hastur authorized it. Let the copter go.”
“I want to—” I should go with the copter. Maybe I can still do something for Lew . . . or his matrix if it’s sealed to Sharra . . .
Lawton shook his head. “Too late. They’ve taken off. All you can do now is wait.”
They waited, while the sun sank slowly behind the mountain pass. Waited, while time wore away and dragged, and finally Regis saw the helicopter, a tiny black speck hovering over the mountain pass, coming nearer, nearer.
Dio rose and cried out, “He’s hurt! I—I have to go to him—” and dashed for the lift. Lawton simultaneously answered some kind of blinking light, listened, and
his face changed.
“Well,” he said grimly to Regis, “I waited too long, or you did, or somebody. They’ve got Kadarin, yes, but it looks as if he’s managed to commit another murder while everybody stood by and watched. They’re going to take him down to Medic. You’d better come along.”
Regis followed, through the sterile white walls of the Medical division. An elevator whined softly to a stop and Spaceforce men hauled out prisoners. Dio had eyes only for Lew, carried between two of the uniformed men. Regis could not tell whether he was alive or dead; his face was ghastly, his head lolled lifeless, and the whole front of his shirt was covered in blood.
Bredu! Regis felt shock and grief surging over him. Dio was clinging to Lew’s lax hand, crying now without trying to hide it. Behind, Kadarin moved manacled between two guards. Regis barely recognized him, he was so much older, so much more haggard, as if something were consuming him from within. Thyra, too, was handcuffed. Kathie looked pale and frightened, and one of the guards was carrying Callina, who appeared to have fainted; they set her in a chair and gestured to someone to bring smelling-salts, and after a minute Callina opened her eyes; but she swayed, holding to the chair. Kathie went swiftly to her and held her up. One of the Medic personnel said something and she frowned and said, “I’m a nurse; I’ll look after her. You’d better look after Mr. Montray-Alton; the woman stabbed him, and it looks as if it may have finished him—he was still alive when the helicopter landed, but that’s not saying much.”
But Regis looked at the long sword Kathie had let slide to the floor; and something inside him, something in his blood, suddenly awoke and shouted inside his veins.
THIS IS MINE!
He went and picked it up; it felt warm and right in his hands. Callina opened her eyes, staring, a strange, cold, blue gaze.
The moment Regis had the sword in his hands, looking at the curling letters written on the scabbard, all at once he seemed to be everywhere, not just where his body was, but as if the edges of his body had spread out to encompass everything in the room. He touched Callina and saw her with a strange double sight, the woman he knew, the plain quiet Keeper, still and prim and gentle, and at the same time she was overlaid with something else, cold and blue and watchful, like ice, strange and cold as stone. He touched Dio and felt the flood of her love and concern and dread; he touched Kadarin and drew back, THIS IS THE ENEMY, THIS IS THE BATTLE . . . NOT YET, NOT YET! He touched Lew.
Pain. Cold. Silence. Fear and the consuming flame . . .
Pain. Pain at the heart, stabbing pain . . . Regis spread out into the pain, that was the only way to explain it, felt the broken torn cells, the bleeding out of the life. . . . NO! I WILL NOT HAVE IT SO! The trickling silence that was Lew was suddenly flooded with terrible pain, and then with heat and life and then Lew opened his eyes, and sat up, staring at Regis. His lips barely moved and he whispered, “What—what are you?”
And Regis heard himself say, from a great distance, “Hastur.”
And the word meant nothing to him. But the gaping wound had closed, and all around him the Terran medics were standing and staring; and in his hand was this sword which seemed, now, to be more than half of himself.
And suddenly Regis was terrified and he slid the sword back into its sheath, and suddenly the world was all in one piece again and he was back in his body. He was shaking so hard that he could hardly stand.
“Lew! Bredu—you’re alive!”
CHAPTER FOUR
(Lew Alton’s narrative, concluded)
I have never remembered anything about that helicopter ride to the Terran HQ, or how I got to the Legate’s office; the first awareness was of hellish pain and its sudden cessation.
“Lew! Lew, can you hear me?”
How could I help it? She was shouting right in my ear! I opened my eyes and saw Dio, her face wet with tears.
“Don’t cry, love,” I said, “I’m all right. That hell-cat Thyra must have stabbed me, but she seems not to have hurt me much.”
But Kathie motioned Dio back when she would have bent to me, saying with professional crispness, “Just a moment; his pulse was nearly gone.” She took some kind of instrument and cut away my shirt; then I heard her gasp.
Where Thyra’s knife had gone in—perilously near the heart—was only a small, long-healed scar, paler and more perfectly cicatrized than the discolored scars on my face.
“I don’t believe this,” she protested. “I saw it, and still I don’t believe it.” She took something cold and wet and washed off the still-sticky smears of half-dried blood which still clung to the skin. I looked ruefully at the ruined shirt.
“Get him a uniform shirt, or something,” said Lawton, and they brought me one, made out of paper or some similar unwoven fiber. It had a cold and rather slippery texture which I found unpleasant, but I wasn’t in a position to be picky; besides, the medical smells were driving me out of my mind. I said, “Do we have to stay down here? I’m not hurt—” and only then did I see Regis, the Sword of Aldones belted around his waist, an unbelieving look of awe on his face. Later I learned what he had done; but at the moment—everything was so mad already—I simply took it for granted and was grateful that the Sword had come to the hands of the one person on this world who could handle it. I think, originally, I had supposed that Callina, or perhaps Ashara, would have to take it, as Keeper. Now I saw it in Regis’s custody, and all I could think was, oh, yes, of course, he is Hastur.
“Where is Thyra? Did she get away?”
“Not likely,” said Lawton, grimly, “She’s in a cell downstairs, and there she’ll stay.”
“Why?” Kadarin asked. His voice was calm, and I stared, unable to believe my eyes; on the shores of Hali he had appeared to me as something very far from human; now, curiously, he looked like the man I had first known, civilized and urbane, even likable. “On what charges?”
“Attempted murder of Lew Alton here!”
“It would be hard to make a charge like that stick,” Kadarin said. “Where is the alleged wound?”
Lawton stared irritably at the blood-soaked shirt which had been cut from me. He said, “We’ve got eyewitnesses to the attempt. Meanwhile we’ll hold her for—oh, hell!—breaking and entering, trespass, carrying concealed weapons, indecent language in a public place—indecent exposure if we have to! The main thing is that we’re holding her, and you too; we need to ask you some questions about a certain murder and the burning of a townhouse in Thendara . . .”
Kadarin looked directly at me. He said, “Believe what you like, Lew; I did not murder your brother. I did not know your brother by sight; I did not know who he was until afterward, when I heard in the street who it was that had been killed. To me he was simply a young Terran I did not know; and for what it is worth, it was not I who killed him but one of my men. And I am sorry; I gave no orders that anyone should be killed. You know what it was that I came for, and why I had to come.”
I looked at this man and knew that I could not hate him. I too had been compelled to do things I would never have dreamed of doing, not in my right mind; and I knew what had compelled him. It was belted, now, around his waist; but through that I could see the man who had been my friend. I turned my face away. There was too much between us. I had no right to condemn him, not now, not when through my own matrix I could feel the pull, irresistible, of that unholy thing.
Return to me and live forever in undying reviving fire . . . and behind my eyelids the Form of Fire, between me and what I could see with my physical eyes. Sharra, and I was still a part of it, still damned. I took one step toward him; I do not know even now whether I meant to strike him or to join hands with him on the hilt of the Sharra matrix concealed in its sword.
Hate and love mingled, as they had mingled for my father, whose voice even now pulsed in my mind, Return . . . return . . .
Then Kadarin shrugged a little and the spell broke. He said, “If you want to throw me in a cell, that’s all right with me, but it’s only fair to warn you I
probably won’t stay there long. I have—” he touched the hilt of the Sharra sword and said lightly, “a pressing engagement elsewhere.”
“Take him away,” Lawton said. “Put him in maximum security, and let him see if he can talk himself out of there.”
Kadarin saved them the trouble of taking him; he rose and went amiably with the guards. One of them said, “I’ll have that sword first, if you please.”
Kadarin said, still with that impeccable grin, “Take it, if you want it.”
Watching, I wanted to cry out a warning to the Space-force men; I knew it was not a sword. One of them thrust out his hand . . . and went flying across the room; he struck his head against the wall and sank down, stunned. The other stood staring at Lawton and turning back to Kadarin; afraid and I didn’t blame him.
“It’s not a sword, Lawton,” I said. “It’s a matrix weapon.”
“Is that—?” Lawton stared, and I nodded. There was no way, short of killing Kadarin first, that they could get it away from him; and I was not even sure that he could be killed while he wore it, not by any ordinary weapon anyhow. I did warn them, “Don’t put him and Thyra in the same cell.”
Not that distance would make any difference, when that sword was drawn. And would I go with them? Just the same, I was glad to have Kadarin, and the Sharra matrix, out of my sight. I started to rise, only to have the young doctor push me down again on a seat.
“You’re not going anywhere, not yet!”
“Am I a prisoner, then?”
The doctor looked at Lawton, who said, scowling, “Hell no! But if you try to walk out of here, you’ll fall flat on your face! Stay put and let Doctor Allison go over you, why don’t you? What’s the hurry?”
I tried to stand up, but for no discernible reason I found myself as weak as a newborn rabbithorn. I could not get my legs under me.
I let the young doctor go over me with his instruments. I hated hospitals, and the smell was getting to me, reviving memories of other hospitals on other worlds, memories I would rather not have to face just now; but there seemed no alternative. I noticed Kathie talking to one of the doctors and, as on Festival Night, I wondered if she would accuse us of kidnapping or worse. Well, if she did, the story was so unlikely on the face of it that probably no one would believe her; Vainwal was half a Galaxy away!
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