Hastur Lord d-23

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  “Good morning, sir.”

  “So you’re back from seeing the Storn woman,” Danvan lowered himself into his chair and gestured for Regis to be seated as well.

  “News travels fast,” Regis said neutrally.

  Danvan’s scowl deepened. “What a dreadful mess you’ve made of it! You’ve managed to lose a perfectly eligible young woman, one who’s already borne you a child so we know she’s fertile, and, of course, there’s not the slightest question of her parentage or laran. Did you deliberately offend her so that she wouldn’t have you? And do you intend to do that with every other suitable young woman—” Danvan broke off, wheezing and coughing.

  “Grandfather, please calm yourself,” Regis said, alarmed at the old man’s breathing. “You mustn’t make yourself ill.”

  “It isn’t methat’s making myself ill,” Danvan snarled.

  “I regret that you think I arranged for my proposal to be refused in order to annoy you,” Regis said hotly. “My offer to DomnaLinnea was quite genuine. I am as—as distressed by her answer as you are.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Nonetheless, it is done. Are you sure you are well? Can I get you jaco?A tisane? Hot wine?”

  Danvan leaned heavily on one armrest, still breathing with difficulty. At the mention of hot wine, he nodded, and Regis called Rondo to bring some. A few minutes later, the servant returned with the drinks. He hovered, face furrowed with worry, as Regis poured out a goblet. A little of the wine spilled as Danvan grasped the cup in both hands and brought it to his lips. He took a large gulp, closed his eyes, and sagged in his chair.

  “Rondo, don’t linger,” Danvan grumbled. “My grandson can tend to me.” The servant glided away.

  “You aren’t well, sir,” Regis said. “Have you seen a healer?” There was no point in asking if Danvan had consulted a Terran physician.

  “I’m fit enough for the work before us,” Danvan muttered. “The only thing wrong with me, other than the passage of time, is I was foolish enough to think that when you went to High Windward, you’d finally acquired sense: marriage, then accepting the throne, standing up to the Federation . . . But I was mistaken. You haven’t come around to my way of thinking, have you?”

  Regis shook his head. “We’ve had this discussion a dozen times before. Nothing you can say will change my mind. I don’t believe returning to a monarchy will solve anything. In fact, I believe the opposite, that we must move toward broader participation, increased literacy and communication, not a concentration of authority.”

  “Spare me your degenerate notions! Clearly, you’ve been contaminated by your Terrananfriends. Next you’ll be saying we should look to the common people for leadership, against all our history and traditions.”

  “If you’ll forgive me saying so,” Regis said stubbornly, “the days when we Comyn were regarded as descended from the gods are long over. Darkover is in transition, and such times are never easy. The old ways are gone, and we must create new ones, a culture that embodies the finest of who we are. I have a great deal more trust in the people than you do. If we allowed them more education, if they understood what was at stake, then they could fully take part—”

  “Where would that get us? The rabble see only the advantages of Terran citizenship, the luxuries. They have no concept of the price. It’s up to usto maintain our integrity in the face of these temptations—we, the Comyn, what is left of us.” The old man subsided. He had half-risen from his seat in the heat of the argument, but now he sank back. Under his breath, he muttered something that sounded to Regis like, “—if you won’t do your duty, there is another who will—”

  What was the old man talking about? Had he not emphasized, time and again, that Regis had the only legitimate claim to the throne? The only other possibilities were the minor Elhalyn children, hidden away by their reclusive mother.

  “Grandfather, I think it prudent that we discontinue this conversation. Clearly, it is distressing to you, and neither of us can possibly say anything that will change the other’s mind. I wish you good day, then, and take my leave of you.” Without waiting for an answer, Regis bowed and strode out of the room.

  Regis passed Rondo outside the door. “Look after him.” Rondo nodded and went inside.

  7

  When Regis returned to his townhouse, a message was waiting for him. Dan Lawton had sent word of the vote in the Terran Senate. The Empire was now a Federation. Pending the reformulation of planetary classification protocols, all Class D Closed Worlds, including Darkover, were now Protectorates of the new Terran Federation.

  Regis barely had a moment to sleep in the next tenday. Half the people he talked to reacted with outrage to Protectorate status as a de factomilitary takeover, and the other half rejoiced in it as a step toward full Federation membership. Several small riots had taken place in the markets, for the warming weather had brought a stream of traders and farmers who feared its impact on their livelihoods.

  Working closely with Gabriel Lanart, Commander of the City Guards, Regis was able to disperse the worst of the gatherings with a minimum of violence. It had been a decade since he had led Darkover through the World Wreckers crisis, and many people still remembered him. He began walking the streets when he wasn’t meeting with Telepath Council members, Guild masters, or Cortes judges. His height, features, and distinctive white hair made him stand out in any crowd. Danilo was not happy about this public vulnerability, but he assumed his role as bodyguard with good grace. In a way, it was like old times, the two of them together.

  Felix Lawton improved enough to be discharged from Medical, although he remained housebound. Regis visited from time to time, which allowed him to hold informal discussions with Lawton. The Terran Legate hinted that the newly reconstituted Federation Senate was unlikely to take immediate action on Darkover’s planetary status. They had time to plan their strategy, but plan they must, for the reprieve could not last.

  With the lengthening days, the roads through the mountains became passable once more. Word had gone out about the Senate vote, by telepathic relay or by simple messenger. By this time, almost all the remaining Comyn knew about the new Federation, and some journeyed to Thendara to make their voices heard. Just as Regis was making preparations for an informal gathering of Comyn that summer, Rondo arrived at the town house with a private message that Danvan Hastur had been taken suddenly, seriously ill.

  Regis raced through the hallways of Comyn Castle, Danilo at his heels.

  If he dies, it’s my fault! If I hadn’t provoked him when he was ill, and then ignored him . . .

  Regis could not imagine Darkover without the old man.

  Rondo waited at the entrance to the Hastur apartments. The servant had no perceptible laran,but grief surrounded him like a dark halo. He opened the door to the bedroom and stood back for Regis and Danilo to enter. This time, Regis would not ask Danilo to wait outside. I go to make my farewells as I am, not as he would have me.

  Regis could not remember the last time he had stepped into the ornately furnished bedchamber. By far, the majority of his visits had been conducted in the presence-chamber or the study. Light filtered through the windows with their thick, irregular panes of glass. A film of dust lingered on the polished surfaces of the chairs and desk, the huge blackwood armoire, the immense old-fashioned bed with its headboard carved in a scene of a stag leaping through a stylized forest. Over the headboard, a coat of arms bore the Hastur device, the silver fir- tree, and motto in the archaic plural form: Permanedó.

  We shall remain.

  Rondo closed the door behind them. The room, although spacious, seemed filled with people, Danvan’s secretary, looking very agitated, a couple of servant women, and three or four young pages. One of the women was wringing out a cloth over a basin on the washing stand, and the other was measuring a tincture into a goblet.

  For a terrible instant, Regis feared he had come too late. His grandfather lay so still, it was impossible to tell whether he was still breathing
. Then the old man groaned and shifted. Regis crossed the room in a few long strides and bent over the bed.

  Pale blue eyes opened, blank and unfocused, without a hint of recognition. One withered hand pawed the bedcovers. The gesture moved Regis unexpectedly.

  “Grandfather,” he murmured, “it’s Regis. Don’t you know me?”

  He almost expected the old man to sit up and berate him for one thing or another, mocking his concern as weakness. As the seconds blended into minutes, Regis knew this would not happen. In fact, his grandfather very possibly would never recognize him again.

  Regis turned to Rondo, who had come to stand, like a mute sentinel, at the foot of the bed. “What’s wrong with him? Has a healer been consulted? Why isn’t someone attending him properly?”

  “It was a stroke, a seizure of the brain.” One of the women that Regis had taken for a servant stepped forward, goblet in hand. She looked vaguely familiar, and he realized that he had seen her in the Terran Medical Building. She was one of the Bridge Society Renunciates, although garbed in ordinary women’s clothing.

  “I am sorry,” she said, “there’s very little we can do for him.”

  “Surely, the Terrans have treatments—I must apologize, mestra,I have not greeted you properly. I don’t know your name.”

  “Ferrika n’ha Margali.”

  “The same who helped Felix Lawton?”

  She smiled, a lightening of the corners of her mouth. As she stepped closer to the bed, the light shone on her ruddy hair.

  “Then I am doubly in your debt. Has Dr. Allison been sent for?”

  “ DomDanvan would never permit it,” Rondo interrupted.

  “My grandfather is in no condition to protest.”

  Rondo glared at Regis for an instant before bowing his head.

  Ferrika gestured for Regis to come apart from the others. “Lord Regis, not even the most sophisticated Terran medical technology can reverse old age. If your grandfather had not suffered a stroke, then it would be something else. I am sorry to sound harsh, but neither do I wish to offer you false hope. After a century of living, the body falls apart; it is only a matter of which organ system will fail first.”

  Regis could not tell whether his grandfather was aware of their conversation, and if so, what he thought. The old man would doubtless make a caustic comment about the weakness of will that could not overcome such a trivial inconvenience as death.

  “How long does he have?” Regis asked.

  Ferrika glanced away. “Only Avarra knows the length of a man’s years. If he improves in the next two days, then he may live on for a time. But not, I think, for very long.”

  “Live on . . .?” Regis echoed her words. “Like this?”

  How Grandfather would hate to be trapped in a shell of unresponsive flesh, dependent on others for the simplest care.

  Ferrika’s gaze met his with a disconcerting directness that reminded Regis of Linnea. “Sometimes, a swift ending is a blessing.”

  He nodded, unable to speak. Ferrika began ushering the others from the room. Danvan’s secretary protested, but not too vigorously. Rondo set his jaw and looked as if he would refuse, until she reassured him that he would be summoned if there was any change. In the end, only Danilo remained, on guard just inside the door. Ferrika left the two of them alone with Danvan.

  Regis found a chair and drew it up near his grandfather’s head. His mind had gone blank, as it had when he was a boy called to account by this stern, disapproving old man.

  Moments slipped by, marked by the halting rise and fall of the old man’s chest. With his psychic barriers down, Regis felt Danilo’s steady presence. Danilo believed in him, believed that he could rise above the past. Therefore, Regis must find a way to see the best in this old man, as he had in so many others.

  One of Danvan’s hands lay on top of the covers. The fingers, with their arthritic joints, quivered like the wings of a misshapen bird. On impulse, Regis grasped the hand. Its lightness surprised him, the softness of the paper-thin skin, the frailness of the bones.

  “Grandfather . . .” He could not force the words through his lips, even if he knew what to say.

  Grandfather, there’s so much I never told you . . .

  Tears stung his eyes, but Regis refused to look away. He focused on the pale blue irises that glimmered between crepey lids.

  See me, hear me. Forgive me.

  “I know I often disappointed you,” Regis said aloud. “I couldn’t live up to my father’s reputation—” which grew in glory with each retelling and which you never let me forget.“I couldn’t be the king you so fiercely wanted me to be. I’m sorry if I let you down.”

  Regis paused, unable to overcome the resentments that surged within him. Certainly, he admired his grandfather, for who of the Comyn did not, even when they disagreed with him? Part of him still craved the old man’s approval, although he knew he would never have it. Nothing he did would ever be good enough, nor would any sacrifice of his dreams ever be great enough.

  He had run out of time. Unless he spoke now, he might never have another chance to set aside the old rancor, to summon all his compassion, to send his grandfather to whatever came beyond life with a clear conscience.

  “Grandfather . . .”

  Suddenly, the blue eyes cleared, and the withered mouth moved silently. Regis tensed, and bony fingers closed around his own with desperate, brittle strength. Regis . . .

  Regis gasped, taken by surprise. Danvan Hastur, for all his force of will and personality and his extraordinary statesmanship, had very little of the laranthat characterized the Comyn. He had been able to lead the Domains for three generations by diplomacy, wily cunning, and reasoned argumentation. For him to now speak mind-to-mind required almost superhuman effort.

  Regis . . .

  Grandfather, I am here.

  I . . . am dying . . . have . . . very little time . . .

  One mind, linked directly to another, could not lie about a matter of such importance.

  . . . secret I have carried . . . these many years . . . your brother . . . you have a brother . . .

  Regis startled, almost dropping out of telepathic rapport. A brother? How was that possible? He had always believed that he, like Danilo, was the only son of his parents. To the best of his knowledge, his parents had been so devoted to each other that when Rafael Hastur had been killed, his wife Alanna had lived only long enough to deliver Regis and then had died of a broken heart.

  . . . your father’s son . . .nedestro . . .

  Lord of Light! Had his mother known?

  Danvan’s gaze wavered in intensity.

  No, it was . . . before they married . . . Regis! . . . find Rinaldo . . . bring him to Thendara, ensure his rights . . . as Hastur . . .

  The old man’s mental presence, which had strengthened for a moment, now thinned like mist.

  An older brother! Regis reeled under the thought. For so much of his life, he had struggled under the weight of believing himself the sole Hastur son. Nedestrochildren were often legitimatized; Regis had done this for his own offspring, those that survived infancy.

  Promise me . . .came Danvan’s fading thought, more plea than command.

  “Of course, I will. A brother, I never thought to have a brother!” And a brother with a claim to Hastur, a place among the Comyn.

  Then . . . what would his life be like, as a second son? Might he at last be free to choose for himself?

  Swear . . .

  Regis wrenched his thoughts away from the tumult of possibilities. He felt as if his entire world had just turned inside out. What sort of man would his brother be, after all these years? No, Regis thought, he must set aside these questions for the moment. All would be revealed in the proper time.

  Although he did not know if his grandfather could feel it, he tightened his grasp around the limp hand.

  “I swear.”

  There was no response, neither of the flesh nor of the spirit.

  Regis sat there, holding h
is grandfather’s hand as it began to cool. His eyes were parched, his heart empty and aching, until Danilo touched his shoulder.

  8

  Over the next tenday, Comyn and minor nobility streamed into Thendara to attend the funeral of Danvan Hastur. One of the first to arrive was Javanne Lanart-Hastur, older sister to Regis. Her husband, Gabriel, who commanded the City Guards, had sent word to her immediately. By a feat of organizational skill, she singlehandedly managed the journey from Armida for herself and her household. Her two older sons were already in Thendara, serving as officers in the Guards under their father’s stern eye, and her daughter Liriel was a novice at Tramontana Tower.

  As soon as Javanne had settled in, Regis and Danilo paid her a visit. With Lew Alton and his only child off-world and no other Heir to Alton, Gabriel held the position of Warden of that Domain, and his family now occupied a spacious suite in that section of the Castle. The rooms, although newly cleaned, still retained a musty, disused smell. They had not been in regular use since the days of Lord Kennard.

  Javanne, a bevy of serving women, and her daughter, Ariel, were unpacking a chest of household linens when Regis entered the sitting room. Her features were taut with strain. Awkwardly, he took her in his arms. She drew in her breath as if to speak, but the words choked in her throat. Ariel, a thin girl of fourteen or so, was too nervous and shy to look directly at Regis.

  “I didn’t think to see you so soon, nor under such circumstances,” Regis began.

  “Mother, I can’t find—” Mikhail, sturdy and golden- haired, burst from one of the inner rooms. His face came alight. “Uncle Regis!”

  “Come here, lad.” Regis gave the boy a kinsman’s embrace. No, Regis realized, not a boy. Mikhail had grown into a young man. The season at Armida, a working horse ranch, had added muscle to his body and a steady judgment to his gaze. He had open, generous features and an air of calm beyond his years, sensitivity combined with a naturally even temper.

  I have not done my duty in training him as he deserves,Regis thought, for although he had seen to it that Mikhail had a proper Darkovan education and service in the cadets, he had acted out of his own convenience and not Mikhail’s need for a thorough apprenticeship in statecraft. Now, with Danvan’s death, all that changed. Once the funeral and attendant period of official mourning had passed, he must make arrangements for Mikhail to move into the townhouse.