Hastur Lord d-23

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  The motion of the ferry changed. The sounds of water and wind blended like music. They glided across the river, slipping through the waves like dancers moving through the figures of a set. Kierestelli clapped her hands and the boatman grinned.

  When the ferry reached the wharf on the far side, Regis almost felt sorry the crossing was over. He paid the boatman more than the usual fee. The dun leaped free of the boat and clattered across the wood-plank wharf, eager for solid land.

  Before them lay tangled thickets and broken rocks rising to hills covered by twisted, leafless trees. The air was less chill than over the water but also less welcoming. It seemed to Regis that winter had never lifted from this forest.

  Regis lifted Kierestelli to the horse’s back and then mounted behind her. She stared at the ferryman for a long moment, but he was already turning the boat.

  “He thought I was one of the Beautiful Folk of the Forest,” she said in her piping child’s voice. When Regis made no immediate answer, she went on, “That’s where you’re taking me, isn’t it?”

  Even before it came into view, Regis scented the Yellow Forest. They had been traveling for days, camping cold and rough at night, forcing their way through narrow openings and up jagged trails. Regis had begun to wonder if he had made a terrible mistake, if he had risked both their lives on a panic- born impulse. More than once, he thought they were lost. Under the overcast sky, the hills looked the same in every direction. Each time his courage wavered, however, the ghost of a trail would beckon and the horse would step forward, as if on the way to its own stable.

  On the fourth afternoon, the air, which had previously carried only the smell of cold wet earth, grew warmer. They had been following a path along the side of a hill, dipping and then laboriously climbing again. Gnarled black-barked trees and underbrush had blocked their view. As they came around the next curve, the vegetation thinned. The path widened, dry and gravelly, as it led upward.

  They crested the rise. Regis drew the horse to a halt and breathed in astonishment. The entrance to a wooded valley stretched before them. The trees shimmered, their trunks gray, their leaves pale yellow. A breeze turned the foliage into a rippling carpet of gold.

  The Yellow Forest.

  The next moment, the light shifted and the forest was no longer a jewel-bright garden but only a patch of trees clinging to last autumn’s leaves. They looked old, withered. Soon they would fall, from the battering of winter storms or the simple erosion of time. New growth would take their place, according to the natural cycle. There might be a dozen, a hundred such valleys through these mountains.

  Regis felt his heart sink within his chest. The air, which had seemed so sweet, turned ashen. Hope had illuminated the scene below, but only for a moment.

  They were almost out of food and probably lost. Kierestelli had not complained, but he could see in the gray tinge around her mouth that she was near the end of her strength.

  Regis nudged the dun with his legs, and the horse started downhill, tucking its hindquarters. Knowing better than to hurry the beast, he let it set its own pace.

  The bottom of the slope led to an apron of gravel and wind- twisted weeds. The gelding’s hooves rang on the loose stones. The place felt empty, without even the cry of a far-off raptor or the skitter of insect or rodent. The forest seemed to be holding its breath. As Regis halted the gelding a few paces before the edge of the trees, he sensed a flicker of—vitality? awareness? or simple wariness of any encounter in such a remote and lawless place?

  “Halloo, the forest!” He raised himself in the stirrups. “I am Regis Hastur, and I seek the Folk of the Yellow Forest!”

  He paused, not sure if he truly wanted an answer. Then a notion came to him that whether or not the last of the chierilived here, he ought to request permission before entering.

  “I ask your leave to search for them here.”

  He waited for a long moment, and then another. There was no response. Of course not. What had he expected, that the trees would part and open a path for him? That one of the Beautiful Folk would step forward, hands raised in welcome? Keral himself?

  Keral . . .

  The chierihad come down from these mountains to seek Regis, to offer help during the crisis of the World Wreckers. At first meeting, Keral had seemed a tall boyish figure with the exquisite beauty that marked Regis and all his kin. The chieriwas deceptively strong and yet possessed an endearing uncertainty. How much courage it must have taken to leave everything safe and familiar, to journey into a land of strangers and their machines.

  Keral, no longer in neuter phase but fully female, dancing in ecstasy, silken hair rippling around the slender body . . .

  Keral’s radiant smile as he gazed down upon his own baby, the firstchieri to be born in so many years . . .

  After the departure of the World Wreckers, Keral and his child had gone back to the Yellow Forest, or so it was supposed. His mate, a Terran doctor, had disappeared about the same time. Keral’s child would be the same age as Kierestelli . . .

  The dun had started moving forward of its own accord, neck arched, each foot placed with ceremonial precision. Regis sat, hands quiet on the reins, trusting the animal’s instinct.

  They passed the edge of the forest, moving through dappled shade. Dry leaves crackled under the horse’s tread. A breeze ruffled branches overhead. Again came that hint of sweetness in the air, that stirring of life . . .

  With it came a faint mental touch, so delicate that Regis could not be sure he had sensed it. Kierestelli shifted her weight, pressing against him. She took the reins from his hands. In trust, he closed his eyes, lowered his mental barriers—reached out with his laran.

  Regis? Is it you, my friend?

  Keral!

  As quickly as it had come, the contact vanished. Regis shuddered with the recoil. No easy fading this, but a severing, brutal in its finality. Only a moment ago, his mind had been filled with the alivenessof the forest and the presence of Keral. Now he felt only an aching absence.

  He would have given up in utter desolation, would have surrendered to a loss too great to bear, had the horse not kept going. The beast never paused in its careful stride.

  How long they continued like this, Regis could not have said. He lost all awareness of the swollen Bloody Sun creeping across the sky beyond the canopy of wind-kissed leaves. Unshed tears left him half-blind. After a time, he became conscious of someone singing. He could not make out words, only a melody compounded of hope and regret, of joy remembered and echoed.

  The singer sat in the saddle before him, his own daughter.

  The horse came to a halt in a clearing. Slanting light touched the grasses and the low brush that, against the order of the season, bore a profusion of star-bright flowers. Regis breathed deeply, inhaling their perfume.

  Kierestelli gestured that she wished to get down. Regis dismounted and helped her to the ground. She walked to the center of the clearing and halted. He hesitated, unsure if he should follow. Beside him, the gelding stood as if rooted in the layers of fallen leaves, head up, ears pricked, nostrils flaring.

  Suddenly Kierestelli laughed and glanced back at Regis, her face alight. The next moment, something flickered in the forest directly ahead, a shift of light-filled shadow.

  A chieristepped into the clearing. Regis caught his breath, but it was not Keral. This creature was far older, more ancient even than the trees behind him. Like Keral, he was tall, willowy thin, and seemed to dance rather than walk across the grass. He wore a flowing garment of the same opalescent silver as his hair. Bones arched, delicate and strong, beneath milky skin. The eyes that watched Regis with wary regard were likewise pale, almost colorless. And cool, neither welcoming nor hostile. Measuring.

  “Child of Grace . . .” Without conscious intent, Regis formed the traditional greeting. He wanted to rush forward, to fall on his knees before this being of a race that had traveled the far reaches of space before his own kind had learned to walk upright.

 
Keral had been a child, lost and overwhelmed in the land of men. This chieriwas old, experienced, and in his own territory.

  But Regis was Comyn, and Hastur. Whether his own lineage descended from the first Hastur, son of Aldones who was Lord of Light, or whether from the interbreeding of lost Terran colonists with this ancient race, his heritage was still a proud and honorable one. Respect he would offer, for respect was certainly due, but not groveling.

  He came forward and bowed. “ S’dei shaya,Noble One.” You lend us grace.

  “What seek ye here?” The voice was light and clear, the words an ancient form of casta.

  “I am Regis Hastur, friend to the one of you known as Keral, and I seek protection for my child.”

  For a long moment, the chieristared at Regis. Meeting that gaze was like looking into the heart of a living starstone.

  “Keral has told us of your people, who kill their own young.”

  Regis held himself erect, although he wanted to cover his face in shame that humans could threaten children, even babes in their cradles. His throat closed around the cry —“No, not all of us!”—but it was true. Whether by direct assault, by abuse or neglect, his kind did not always cherish their children or protect them from those who meant harm. He had lost enough of his own nedestrooffspring, had seen the horrendous damage done to those who survived, even Lew’s daughter Marja, even Lew himself . . . even he, Regis . . .

  The truth, then.

  Regis opened his mind to the slender, gray-eyed creature before him. Chieriwere telepathic. Let this one look into his heart and see the good and the ill, the honor kept and betrayed, the hopes cherished, all his failures revealed. Under that uncompromising regard, he had little confidence in his own worthiness, but he had every faith in Kierestelli’s.

  Not for my sake, but for hers, I ask this.

  He offered the image of his own brother, learning the ways of power from the likes of Valdir Ridenow . . . allowedthat power by Regis himself.

  The time for making excuses for Rinaldo, for rationalizing and temporizing, had passed. No matter how much Regis wanted to think well of his brother—and there wasgoodness in Rinaldo, albeit colored by fanaticism—Regis could no longer stand by, tacitly cooperating with the abuse of power.

  If you will keep my child safe so that I may act without fear of retaliation upon an innocent, then I will stop him.

  Silence, waiting. Then: How?

  In that question, Regis sensed the chieri’sabhorrence of violence. Chieridid not kill, Keral had insisted; they did not even eat meat.

  Truth,came from the chieri’smind. Truth, not fine words.

  “I do not know,” Regis said aloud, “I will find a way.”

  The chierishifted his gaze from Regis to Kierestelli. A gust of air, warm with the scent of flowers, ruffled the silver-gilt hair. Kierestelli took a step and then another, and then she burst into a run. The chieriscooped her up in his arms. With a smile of heartbreaking radiance, he glanced once at Regis, then faded into the forest.

  “Wait!”Regis had anticipated time to say his farewells, to reassure Kierestelli that he would come for her once the danger was passed.

  To tell her that he loved her.

  The chierihad disappeared, leaving a rustle of dead leaves and a sudden chill in the air. With a shiver, Regis wondered if he would be able to find this place and its inhabitants again. He envisioned himself riding through these hills, straining to catch a hint of gold in the trees, each time returning with a heart filled with ashes. He saw Kierestelli grow more and more apart from the human world, cherished but always an outsider. He felt the bitterness festering within her spirit as if it were his own.

  He said he would come for me, but he never did.Is that how she would become a woman, how she would think of her father?

  Memory nudged him, offering comfort: What had the ferryman said?

  “They will findyou.”

  29

  Through the return journey, slower because of the weariness of the horse, Regis tried not to anticipate what he would find. On those occasions when he allowed his thoughts to leap ahead to Thendara and what might have unfolded in his absence, ill-omened images assailed him.

  His absence had gone unnoticed . . . he had been declared a traitor . . . Linnea and the baby were safe, and Ariel back with her family, all forgiven . . . Linnea was imprisoned, Danilo executed—no, the thought was too devastating to contemplate —J avanne and Gabriel were outlawed . . . the Federation had intervened and Rinaldo was now a prisoner . . . there was open fighting in the streets, the Terran Zone blockaded . . . Rinaldo was beside himself with worry, eager for a reconciliation . . .

  It was enough to drive a man mad.

  Regis stopped at an inn along the Venza Road. The dun had been flagging since noon, and he himself was in need of a bath and shave. Regardless of the disguise in which he had left Thendara, Lord Regis Hastur could not come riding into the city looking like the roughest of mountain men. With luck, he would be able to slip past the gates with as little notice as he had left. If not, he must maintain at least the semblance of a proper Comyn lord.

  The inn looked snug and well-kept. Regis kept his hood raised as he negotiated with the innkeeper for a room, a bath, and stabling for the horse. The man, whose stocky frame, rounded cheeks, and watchful eyes attested to the success of his enterprise, asked no questions beyond the desires of his guest, but he demanded payment in advance. Regis added a generous tip from his dwindling supply of coins. The innkeeper grinned and called for the stable boy.

  “See to see to the horse, lad, and give it an extra ration of grain. I’ll warrant it’s seen hard travel this past tenday. Clean its feet well, mind you, and check the leg tendons for heat. As for you, m’lord,” he handed Regis a key, “upstairs and second on the left. Our very best room. Will you be wantin’ dinner in your room or down here, beside the fire? And hot water for the bath now, or after you’ve eaten?”

  Regis glanced around the common room. It was almost empty except for a serving maid, most likely the innkeeper’s wife, and a pair of men in farmer’s thick-spun smocks, bent over their drinks. The fire’s warmth spread through the room. Chips of cedar had been added to the logs to freshen the air, mixing with the smells of fresh bread, roasted meat, and ale.

  The two farmers had taken no overt notice of Regis, and he did not relish hiding in his room until morning. He took a seat in the darkest corner, his back to the wall. The innkeeper brought him a trencher of steaming slices of meat and boiled redroots, two thick, butter-smeared slabs of bread, and a crockery tankard brimming with ale. Regis blew away the froth and sipped, savoring the darkly rich brew. Warmth and contentment spread through his belly. The meat was a bit tough, but the roots were succulent and well-seasoned. A few more customers came in, locals by their greetings.

  Regis waved the serving maid away when she would have refilled his tankard. The voices of the other men drifted over him. He should retreat upstairs before too many more came in. Just as he gathered himself to make an exit, bits of the conversation startled him into immobility.

  “Ye’re daft to believe it, I tell yer,” one of the farmers pronounced. “Why, there’s not been a Comyn king since before me grampa’s time.”

  King?

  “Aye,” his mate chimed in. “What would the folk in Thendara want with a king?”

  “Especially the likes of—what was his name? The young one that were killed about the time Sharra rose up in Caer Donn? Darrak? Derik?”

  “That were he. Last of the royal line, he were.” One of the newcomers went on to express the opinion that the only sane thing the Elhalyns had ever done was to agree to the Hastur Regency.

  Regis hardly dared to believe what he had just heard. Poor Derik had died without issue, and whatever was left of his kin were distant and scattered. The Elhalyn were not extinct, however, so perhaps one of them had come forward. What kind of Regent would Rinaldo make? He had not been able to dissuade an inexperienced upstart from claiming
the crown.

  Remembering his own feelings when faced with pressure to claim the throne, Regis was not sure whether to be amused or appalled at such folly. What, after all, was there to be king over? A handful of remaining Comyn, who had been rendered irrelevant by the upheavals of the last decade? A planet on the edge of colonized space, a marginal world struggling to preserve its identity?

  As for himself, he was just as happy to let whatever idiot Elhalyn who wanted all that meaningless spectacle have it, so that steadier men could get on with the business of guiding Darkover into the future. That meant taking Rinaldo firmly in hand, one way or another. With these black thoughts, Regis slipped up the stairs to his room.

  Regis slept surprisingly well, woke before dawn, and arrived at the city gates just before they opened. The sun crested the eastern hills and swept the valley of Thendara in clear rosy light. The night had been cold but not freezing, and newly sprouted vegetation lined the road. He had been gone over two tendays, and in the interval the last dregs of winter had faded.

  A crowd had assembled outside the gates, farmers and carts laden with spring vegetables, a caravan of fur merchants with their Renunciate escort, and a handful of other travelers.

  The gates swung open, and the line moved forward. The Guardsmen were letting people through with only a greeting. As Regis passed, a Guardsman brought the procession to a halt.

  “Lord Regis? Is that you?”

  For a moment, Regis considered and discarded the notion of denying it. One glimpse of his youthful features and white hair would put a lie to any claim of mistaken identity. He stated he’d been on the road, on Hastur business, which was true enough.

  The Guardsman accepted his explanation without comment. If he thought it odd that a Hastur should travel without an escort, mounted on such a common- looking horse and wearing such clothing, he kept his opinion to himself. Regis decided against asking about the news for fear of appearing suspiciously like a returning fugitive.