Hastur Lord d-23

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  No, not the townhouse,Regis corrected himself. It was one thing for the Heir to Hastur to indulge himself in the isolation of a private residence. He was now the Head of his Domain and must live here, in Comyn Castle, in his grandfather’s old quarters. He shuddered at the thought of those cheerless rooms.

  Regis clapped Mikhail on the arm and stepped back. “We must discuss your future, but this is not the time.”

  Mikhail nodded. “I expected as much. With Great-grandfather’s death, your situation and mine have changed. I expect that you will want me here in Thendara year-round now, and I intend to be of as much assistance to you as I can.”

  Gods, the boy was sharp!

  “Mikhail!” Javanne burst out. “How can you say such things at a time like this! Where are your proper feelings?”

  “What else should he say but the truth?” Regis turned to his older sister. “Mikhail is thinking of the future, as a Hastur must. It’s exactly what Grandfather would have expected of him.”

  “You are right, of course. We must all look ahead, even in the midst of . . .” Javanne went back to the table and picked up a length of fine embroidered linex,as if she would wring it between her hands. “It’s all so sudden and difficult. My entire life, Grandfather has been there, as dependable and enduring as the Wall Around the World.”

  And as unforgiving.

  Her head jerked up, eyes white for an instant. Regis remembered that she had trained for a season or so at Neskaya Tower. He’d have to be more guarded in his thoughts around her. Certainly, she was distressed by their grandfather’s death, but Regis pulled back from a subtle change in her. He could not identify it precisely, only that she was no longer the same sister he once trusted.

  “Ariel, come away with me . . .” Mikhail motioned to his younger sister, and a moment later, they retreated to an inner room and closed the door.

  Regis took Javanne’s hand and led her to a divan. He had to move an armful of shawls and a cloak to make room for both of them.

  “I, too, once believed that Grandfather would last forever,” he said gently. “I put off assuming my full responsibilities because he was always here. The best way we can honor his memory is to strive for the highest standards of honor and duty. Even as he did.”

  Javanne sniffed and wiped her eyes with the corner of one shawl. “You were never unworthy, Regis. He should have told you he was proud of you. I know he was, he was just too—” a sob came out as a hiccough, “—too stubborn to admit it. To either of us.”

  Regis felt his heart give a little jump. He had always thought that Javanne had had an easier life, simply because she was a woman and less was expected of her. She had already fulfilled her primary duty, that of producing sons. She’d given birth to three fine boys and two daughters, one of them with enough laranto be accepted at a Tower. In that moment, Regis realized that she had had no more encouragement or approval from the old man than he himself had. No one, least of all Danvan Hastur, had ever consulted her on her own wishes. Had she wanted to remain at Neskaya? Or choose her own husband? Or not bear one child after another until all her youth and beauty were spent?

  “Javanne . . . did Grandfather ever talk to you . . . about our family?”

  She startled. “Why do you ask?”

  “Before he died, Grandfather revealed to me . . . Javanne, prepare yourself for startling news.”

  Her eyes widened, and Regis caught the flicker of her fears. What terrible secret did the old man lay upon us now? Scandal, rebellion, poison from the skies?

  “No, nothing like that. Breda,we are not alone. We have a brother.”

  “A—no, surely that’s not possible! Mother—”

  “No, not hers. Father’s son.”

  “Father would never have . . .” She collected herself. “Such things happen. In the old days, when a woman was heavy with child, or ill, it was no shame if her husband took another to bed to spare her the burden.”

  The burden? Regis brushed the thought aside. Had Linnea thought their lovemaking a burden?

  “An older brother,” he continued, “conceived most likely before our parents were wed. He is, of course, nedestro.I don’t even know if he’s aware of his parentage. All I have is a name. Rinaldo.”

  “Rinaldo.” Javanne frowned, her brows drawing together, as if she did not quite like the taste of the name. “It’s an old family name, to be sure. I’m certain I’ve never heard of him. Where has he been all these years?”

  “That’s the problem, Grandfather died before he could tell me.” Regis sighed. “But not before he made me promise to find Rinaldo and secure his rights.”

  Javanne’s eyebrows lifted, and her mouth formed a moue of surprise. “Bless Evanda I was born a woman and exempt from such duties. I don’t envy you. Where will you start?”

  “With Grandfather’s private papers, most likely. It’s too much to hope that he kept a record, but the search must be made. I would like Mikhail’s help, and it would give him exposure to the not-so-public history of Grandfather’s Regency.”

  “That’s a good idea,” she said. “You’ll want to keep Mikhail with you, and not just in Council season and Midwinter. While I have appreciated the extra time with him at home, I can’t look at him without thinking he is no longer mine.”

  “Sister, in his heart, he will always be yours.”

  “That is as it may be.” Pain flickered behind her eyes, quickly masked.

  Regis, struck by the vehemence behind her words, looked away. “There is another matter on which I would ask your help.” He did not mean the words to sound so stilted.

  Her expression turned polite. “You are now the Head of our Domain. You have only to ask.”

  “In a few days, the Castle will have more Comyn residing here than it has in years,” he began. “The coridom’s overwhelmed as it is, and the housekeeping staff isn’t adequate to that many. In addition, I must move my own household into Grandfather’s old quarters.” He searched for the right way to phrase his request.

  She nodded. “You can’t possibly oversee all that and attend to the funeral, not to mention your new duties. As sister to the new Head of Hastur, it would not be improper for me to take on the duties of Castle chatelaine.”

  Regis closed his eyes, trying not to sigh audibly in relief. Javanne had capably managed the great estate of Armida.

  “This is only temporary,” she cautioned him, “until you have a wife or an official consort to take over the position.”

  “That event will be a long time coming,” Regis said with an edge of bitterness. “After the season, most of the Comyn will return to their own homes, and we will manage with the staff we have. Perhaps you can recommend additional housekeepers to the coridom.”

  Shrugging, she got to her feet. “Now, if you have no further startling revelations, I really must get back to unpacking.”

  The funeral procession for Danvan-Valentine, Lord Hastur, Warden of Elhalyn and Regent of the Seven Domains, left Thendara along the Old North Road. Except for the Aldarans, all the Domains were represented, for the weather had been mild enough to permit travel. In addition, Dan Lawton attended for the new Terran Federation.

  For the moment, the debate over Federation membership had been set aside. Whatever their differences, the various parties had agreed on the traditional period of mourning. A man of Danvan Hastur’s stature deserved no less. He had not only ruled the Hastur Domain through three generations, but had guided the Domains through the most turbulent and uncertain times in memory.

  Slowly, the cavalcade proceded past the cloud- lake at Hali. Across the seething mists stood the ruins of Hali Tower, a silent testimony to the horrors of unbridled laran. Regis wondered if it would ever be rebuilt, or the Tower in Comyn Castle occupied once more. Beneath him, his fine Armida-bred mare tossed her head, sensing his unease. Something terrible had happened in this place, or something was about to happen, he could not tell which. Only when they moved off, nearing the rhu fead, did he draw an easy brea
th.

  Regis found himself astonished at the quality of his grief. For so many years, he had resented the old man’s meddling. Why should he now feel such a poignant loss? It was beyond comprehension. Danvan Hastur had never had a kind word for his grandson and had never ceased trying to part Regis from Danilo. Now that Regis was finally free of his grandfather’s interference, he missed the old man more than he could put into words.

  Following the ancient custom, Danvan’s body was lowered into an unmarked grave. The hole gaped like a wound in the world. The mourners gathered around. As the highest- ranking person present, Regis was expected to speak first.

  “When I was a child, my grandfather seemed indestructible,” he began, remembering Javanne’s words, “like an elemental force of nature. He was the only father I ever knew, and he wanted me to be an honorable man and a good Son of Hastur. I can only hope to do as well by my own children.” He couldn’t think of anything else to say, and he wanted to finish before tears choked his voice. “Let this memory lighten grief.”

  Javanne came forward, leaning on her husband’s arm. “I was eleven when my parents died, and Grandfather was there when I needed him. He chose a wonderful husband for me,” her hand tightened briefly on Gabriel’s, “and once . . . once, he told me that he was proud of me, that I was a good wife and mother, and that my sons did me credit. Let this memory lighten grief.”

  “When both my sisters died, and I unexpectedly became the head of my Domain,” said Marilla Lindir-Aillard, “Lord Hastur called on me, putting aside his own grief, to help me adjust to my new position. Let this memory lighten grief.”

  Valdir Ridenow, Warden of Serrais, stood a little apart from the others, surrounded by a couple of his kinsmen and his favorite nephew, Francisco. “Some have called Lord Hastur antiquated and hopelessly out-of-date, but that was neither kind nor true. He lived a long time and guided Darkover through many difficult challenges. He always tried to make sure that any change—or lack thereof—was what was best for all of us. Let this memory lighten grief.”

  Ruyven Di Asturien observed, “Lord Hastur oversaw a great deal of change over his lifetime, but he still held to the values of the Comyn. When we last spoke, he told me how proud he was of his grandson, that he trusted Regis to defend and maintain the Comyn. Let this memory lighten grief.”

  Regis heard the unspoken warning. The Di Asturiens had played a pivotal role in Comyn politics for as long as Regis could remember. Theirs was an ancient and dignified family, but as conservative and scheming as any. It was said they never did anything without at least two hidden motives. What had Grandfather and Di Asturien been plotting?

  When Dan Lawton came forward, a few muttered that a Terrananhad no business speaking. Their neighbors quickly hushed them, reminding them that since his mother had been Ardais, he had as much right to be there as any of them. He waited until the flurry died down.

  “Danvan Hastur once told me that it was his ill fortune to rule over a period of upheaval,” he said, “but I cannot think of any man more capable. He did not choose to be chief Councillor to King Stephan, nor to assume the Regency on that King’s death, nor to negotiate with the Terran Empire for over three generations. He never shirked his duty, and his determination and loyalty preserved the Darkover we all love to this day. Let this memory lighten grief.”

  As the other mourners spoke, Danilo had hung back. As the former Warden of Ardais, he had the right to be among the first to speak. Through the turmoil of emotions, Regis could not sense his friend’s thoughts. Danvan Hastur had never found personal fault with Danilo except for his relationship to Regis. Danvan had long since advanced the opinion that the Heir of Hastur ought not to have the reputation of a lover of men, and the sooner Regis married, the better.

  With his face tightly set, Danilo stepped forward. He gathered himself in a moment of silence, and when he spoke, his voice was rough. “I knew Lord Hastur as a man of honor. When I was wronged, he saw to it that justice was done. Let this memory lighten grief.”

  On the journey back to Thendara, rain began to fall, at first a mist, then a sprinkle of ice-edged tears. Finally, sheets of rain slashed down from the darkening skies. Water pooled in the ruts of the road, turning solid ground to mud. The horses snorted and clamped their tails to their rumps. Woolen cloaks were soon soaked, but they retained their warmth.

  About half the party, including Javanne and the other women, stopped at an inn in one of the villages. Regis and Danilo, along with the Ridenow party, pushed on.

  As Danilo dropped back to rearguard position, Valdir Ridenow reined his horse beside Regis. The overcast sky and icy rain made his skin even paler than usual. His hooded cloak and the saddle blanket of his horse were of fine orange and green wool. In the shadow of his hood, his hair gleamed like pale gold, as fair as that of a Dry Towns lord. The reins hung loose in his hands, and from the way he sat his horse, a rangy blood-bay without a speck of white, he clearly possessed the Ridenow empathy with beasts. Regis thought him maybe ten years older than himself, a well-favored man who had been strong and active all his life, but he could not recall ever seeing Valdir in any meeting of the defunct Comyn Council.

  Politely, Regis nodded. As the new Lord of Hastur, he held higher rank, and it was his prerogative to initiate a conversation. Feeling emotionally exhausted, wrung out like a rag, he would have preferred to ride back in solitude. Yet curiosity stirred as Valdir returned the greeting.

  “I did not have a proper chance to greet you on your arrival in Thendara,” Regis said. “You must have had a hard ride from Serrais.”

  “This early in the season, yes. I thank you for your concern, vai dom,” Valdir replied, somewhat formally. “Faced with the two gravest situations in the last decade, I could do no less.”

  He meant the coincidence of the death of Danvan Hastur and the Terran Federation question. “I have no wish to be rude,” Regis said wearily, “but my grandfather is not yet cold in his grave, and we are both chilled and drenched. I have not the slightest intention of discussing the future of Darkover under these circumstances.”

  Valdir’s horse threw up his head, as if reflecting his rider’s reaction. But the Ridenow lord said, “My deepest apologies if I gave that impression. Surely, such matters as the future of Darkovermerit serious attention and thoughtful debate.”

  A debate you intend to be part of?Regis smothered a sigh. “We will speak at the proper time, in the proper setting.”

  With an enigmatic smile, Valdir returned to his own kinsmen.

  Mikhail, who had been riding close enough to overhear the conversation, guided his horse forward. “Was that something I should know about? I can’t tell if DomValdir meant he was your ally or your enemy.”

  “If he is anything like his cousins, we will find ourselves on opposite sides of the Federation membership debate,” Regis said, frowning. “However, men have been known to change their minds. We must wait until we hear what he has to say before placing him in either camp.”

  Mikhail glanced back, peering through the rain at the green and gold cloaks of the Ridenow party. “Francisco Ridenow seems to be a pleasant enough sort. I think I might have a word or two with him, if you don’t mind.”

  “By all means, get to know him. Unless DomValdir produces a son, young Francisco stands in the line of succession, so if you are already on friendly terms, you may be of support to one another.”

  Regis arrived back at his townhouse to find a hot bath waiting. He waved away the help of his servant and stripped off his sodden clothing himself. Danilo helped with his boots.

  Fresh-smelling herbs had been added to the steaming water. He eased himself in, wishing it were large enough for two.

  “I’ll get mine later, once the horses are properly seen to,” Danilo said with a hint of a grin. “Don’t fall asleep.”

  Regis closed his eyes, feeling the heat seep into his aching muscles. The day’s ride had been long, but not beyond his strength. Emotional intensity, not physical exert
ion, had drained him. Around him, he sensed the house with all its familiar and alien aspects. Like so many other things in modern Darkover, it represented an uneasy compromise between the past and the interstellar present. Reluctantly, Regis admitted he would miss the place, but he could not maintain a residence separate from Comyn Castle. Shuddering, he slid deeper into the water. Even the most cheerful Castle rooms had the power to oppress him. As a child, he had fancied the ancient stone walls rising like mountains on all sides, crushing life and breath and hope.

  At least, Regis thought wearily, he had resisted Grandfather’s schemes to make him king.

  He was almost asleep when Danilo glided into the bathroom with a mug of honey-sweetened chamomile tisane.

  Spring lurched to a standstill as cold, damp weather settled over Thendara. It seemed to Regis that Darkover itself mourned the passing of his grandfather. The few social gatherings were subdued. Regis attended only a few, those he could not in all civility decline. With Javanne’s help, he moved his household into the Hastur quarters of Comyn Castle.

  Regis stood in the middle of his grandfather’s study, alone yet hemmed in on every side by memories. The chamber was pleasant enough, designed and furnished for intimate meetings and research. Between the heavy glass windows and the perfectly situated fireplace, the room was warm even in the depths of winter. He would not change the massive desk or the bookcases that looked at least as old as his grandfather had been. The huge bed, on the other hand, he had already ordered moved to another part of the Hastur suite and his own brought from the townhouse.

  Papers and bound ledgers, along with writing supplies and reference books, covered most of the desk. Regis had avoided going through them, as if he would be invading his grandfather’s privacy, snooping where he had no right. A part of him could not comprehend that this room, this library, this archival midden spanning three generations of Comyn history, was now his. He had dreaded this day and dreamed of escaping it. Yet now that it was here, he found himself resigned. He would not have chosen it for himself—indeed, he would have chosen almost anything else—but over the last years, he had become reconciled. He was Hastur, and there was no one else.