“You were two years old; and your sister died at birth. We both knew there should be no more. Elaine—” he had never before spoken her name in my hearing, though I knew it from his friends; always it had been the distant, formal your mother. “Yllana,” he said again, saying the Darkovan version of the name this time. “She knew as well as I, how fragile is the rule of a man with only one son. And you were not a hardy child. Believe me, I did not demand it of her. It was her free choice. And for fifteen years I have borne that burden, and tried never to let Marius feel it… that I grudged him life at the cost of Yllana’s—”
He had never said so much before. I could feel in his harsh voice what it had cost him to say it.
But it had been my mother’s free choice, to risk her life in bearing my brother Marius. Marjorie had had no choice—
Fire. Ravening flames shooting into the sky, the great hovering wings of flame. Marjorie, burning, burning in the flames of Sharra…CaerDonn, the world, Darkover, all in flames—
I slammed the barrier and the blackness down into my mind, heard myself shouting “No!” at the top of my voice, and once again brought up my maimed arm and slammed it down on anything, anything that would send pure physical pain crashing through my mind to the point where I could think of nothing else. He should not make me look at this, that I had killed the only thing I had ever loved or would ever love—
From very far away I heard him calling my name, felt the concerned touch of his thoughts… I slammed the barrier tighter, felt the dark close down. I stood there, not hearing, not seeing, until he went away.
* * *
BOOK ONE: The Exile
* * *
CHAPTER ONE
Darkover: the third year of exile
« ^ »
Regis Hastur stood on a balcony of Comyn Castle, high over Thendara and the valley which lay ahead, looking over the city and the Terran Trade City beyond.
Behind him lay the castle, shadowed beneath the mountains. Before him lay the Terran Trade City, the spaceport beyond it—and the rising skyscrapers of the Terran Headquarters building. As he had thought many times before, he thought: this has its own alien beauty.
For many years he had had a dream. When he had come of age, he would leave Darkover behind him, take passage on one of those Terran starships, and go outward, among the stars, strange suns and worlds multiple beyond all telling. He would leave behind him all that he hated about his life; his own uneasy position, heir to an ancient household and a Regency which was more of an anachronism with every passing year; the continuing pressure to marry, young as he was, and provide heirs to the legacy of the Hasturs: the unknown potential of laran, the inbred psychic ability bred into bones and brain and genes. He would leave behind him the rulership of the contending Domains, each striving for something different in the ever-changing world that was modern Darkover. Regis was eighteen; legally of age three years ago, sworn to Hastur. Now he knew he would never have his dream.
He would not have been the first of the Comyn to leave Darkover and go into the Empire. Adventure, the lure of an alien society and a vast complex universe, had drawn more than one Darkovan, even of the highest nobility, into the Empire.
The Ridenow Domain, he thought. They make no secret of their belief that Darkover should align with the Empire, become a part of this modern world. Lerrys Ridenow has traveled widely in the Empire, and no doubt at Council this season he will be singing their praises again. Kennard Alton was educated on Terra, and he is there now, with his son Lew. And then Regis wondered how Lew fared, somewhere in that alien universe.
If I were free of the burden of the Hastur heritage, I too would go forth and never return. And again the temptation struck him, as he had planned it when he was a rebellious child in his first year in the Cadets of the Guard—the necessary apprenticeship served by all Comyn sons. He and his friend Danilo had plotted it together; they would ship outward on one of the Terran ships, find a place for themselves there… lose themselves in the immensities of a thousand alien worlds. Regis smiled, reminiscently, knowing it had been the dream of children. For better or worse, he was Heir to Hastur, and the fate of Darkover was a part of his life, as intimately as body or brain. Danilo was Heir to Ardais, adopted by the childless Lord Dyan Ardais, being prepared for that high office as Regis was prepared for his own. Last year had been their third year in the cadets together; junior officers, learning command and self-command. It had been a peaceful time; but it was over. Regis had spent the winter past in the city of Thendara, attending sessions of the cortes, dealing with city magistrates, diplomatic envoys from the other Domains and the Dry Towns beyond the Domains, the representatives of the Terrans and the Empire; learning, in short, to take his grandfather’s place as representative of the Domains.
Danilo had paid only one or two fleeting visits to the city since that Festival Night when Council Season had ended; he had had to return to Castle Ardais with Dyan and learn the ordering of the Domain which, if Dyan died still childless, would be his own. Then, Regis had heard, Danilo had been called back to Syrtis by the grave illness of his own father.
Why is Danilo on my mind now, so suddenly? And then he knew; he was not a powerful telepath, but the bond sworn between himself and Danilo was a strong one, and he turned abruptly away from the view of city and spaceport which lay before him, thrusting the curtains closed behind him as he went inside.
It is a boy’s idle dream, to stand there and dream of the stars. My world lies here. He went into the outer room of the Hastur apartments just as one of the servants came in search of him.
“Dom Danilo Syrtis, Heir and Warden of Ardais,” he announced, and Danilo came into the room, a slender, handsome young man, dark-haired and dark-eyed. Regis moved to take him into a formal kinsman’s embrace, but over his shoulder he saw the servant leave the room and the formal greeting somehow transformed itself into an enthusiastic mutual hug.
“Dani! I’m so glad to see you! You can’t imagine how dull the city is in winter!”
Danilo chuckled, looking down at Regis affectionately. He was a little taller, now, than his friend. “I’d have chosen it. I swear to you that the climate of Ardais has much in common with that of Zandru’s coldest hell. I don’t think Lord Dyan was any colder than that in Nevarsin monastery!”
“Is Dyan still at Nevarsin?”
“No, he left it early last winter. We were at Ardais together all the winter; he taught me many things he said I should know as Regent of the Domain. Then we traveled south to Thendara together… Strange, I never thought I would take pleasure in his company, yet he has taken great pains to have me properly educated for the place I will have—”
“He would do that for the honor of his own house,” said Regis dryly.
“Yet when my poor father died he was kindness itself.”
“I am not surprised at that either,” Regis said. “You have grown handsome, Dani, and Lord Dyan has always had an eye for beauty in a boy—”
Danilo laughed. They could laugh together about it, now, though three years ago it had been no laughing matter. “Oh, I am too old for Dyan now—he prefers lads who have not yet grown their beards, and you can see—” with a nervous finger he twisted the small, dark moustache on his upper lip.
“Why, I wonder, then, that you have not grown a full beard!”
“No,” said Danilo, with a strange, quiet persistence. “I know Dyan better now. And I give you my word, never once has he offered me a word or a gesture unseemly between father and son. When my own father died, he showed him all honor; he said it was a pleasure to do honor to one who had deserved it; it made amends, perhaps, for the honor he had had to show to those of his kinsmen who deserved it not.” The old Lord of Ardais had died three years ago, mad and senile after a long and disgraceful life of debauchery.
“Dyan said something like that to me once,” Regis agreed.
“But enough of that—I am glad you are here, bredu. I suppose you are to sit in Council this y
ear among the Ardais?”
“So Dyan says,” Danilo agreed. “But Council will not begin till tomorrow, and tonight—well, I have not been in Thendara for years.”
“I seldom go into the streets,” said Regis, so quietly that it did not even sound bitter. “I cannot walk half a mile without a crowd following me…”
Danilo started to make a flippant answer; then withheld it, and the old sympathy began to weave between them again, a touch closer than words; the telepathic touch of laran, of sworn brotherhood and more.
Well, you are Heir to Hastur, Regis; it is part of the burden of being what you are. I would lighten it if I could, but no one alive can do that. And you would not have it otherwise.
You lighten it by understanding; and now that you are here I am not altogether alone…
No spoken words were necessary. After a time Danilo said lightly, “There is the tavern where the Guard officers go; they at least have grown used to Comyn and do not think we are all freaks or monsters, or that we walk without touching the ground like some heroes from old legends. We could have a drink there without anyone staring.”
The Castle Guard of Thendara at least know that we are human, with all the human faults and failings, and sometimes more… Regis was not entirely sure whether the thought was his own, or whether he picked it up from Danilo. They went down through the great labyrinth of the Comyn Castle, and out into the crowded streets of the first night of Festival.
“Sometimes, at Festival, I come here masked,” Regis said.
Danilo grinned. “What—and deprive every girl in the city of the joys of hopeless love?”
Regis made a nervous gesture—the gesture of a fencer who concedes a hit. Danilo knew he had struck too close to the nerve, but did not make it worse with an apology. Regis picked up the thought anyway; The Regent is pressuring him to marry again, damned old tyrant! At least my foster-father understands why I do not. Then Danilo managed to shield his thoughts; they went into the tavern near the gates of the Guard Hall.
The front room was crowded with young cadets. A few of the boys saluted Regis and he had to speak a word or two to them, but they finally got through to the quieter back room, where the older officers were drinking. The room was semi-dark even at this hour, and some of the men nodded in a friendly fashion to Regis and his companion, but immediately turned back to their own affairs; not unfriendliness but a way of giving the Hastur Heir the only privacy and anonymity he ever could have these days. Unlike the boys in the outer room, who enjoyed the knowledge that even the powerful Hastur-lord was required by law and custom to return their salutes and acknowledge their existence, these officers knew a little of Regis’s burden and were willing to let him alone if he wished.
The tavernkeeper, who knew him too, brought his usual wine without asking. “What would you like, Dani?”
Danilo shrugged. “Whatever he’s brought.”
Regis began to protest, then laughed and poured the wine; the drinking was only an excuse, anyway. He raised his rough mug, sipped and said, “Now tell me everything that’s been happening while you were away. I’m sorry about your father, Dani; I liked him and hoped to bring him to court someday. Did you spend all that time in the Hellers?”
Hours slipped away while they talked, the wine half forgotten between them. At last they heard the drum-roll of “Early Quarters” beat out from the Guard Hall, and Regis started, half rising, then laughed, remembering that he was no longer obliged to answer to it. He sat down again.
“What a soldier you’ve become!” Danilo teased.
“I liked it,” Regis said, after a moment. “I always knew exactly what was expected of me, and who expected it, and what to do about it. If there were war, it would have been a different thing. But the worst trouble I ever had was in breaking up street riots, or escorting drunks to the lockup if they were making a nuisance of themselves, or investigating when a house was robbed, or making somebody tie up a troublesome dog. Last year there was a riot in the marketplace—no, this one is funny, Dani; a cattle-drover’s wife had left him because, she said, she had caught him in her own bed with her own cousin! So she slipped into his stall, and stampeded the animals he’d brought to sell! There were upset stalls and broken crockery all over the place… I happened to be officer of the day, so I caught it! One of the cadets complained that he’d left home so he wouldn’t have to chase dairy animals all day long! Well, we finally got them all rounded up again, and I had to go and testify before the city magistrate. So the cortes fined the woman twelve reis for all the damage the beasts had caused, and it was the husband who had to pay the fine! He protested that he had been the victim, and it was his wife who let the animals loose, and the magistrate—she was a Renunciate—said that it would teach him to conduct his love affairs in decent privacy, in a way that didn’t insult or humiliate his wife!”
Danilo laughed, more at the reminiscent amusement in Regis’s face, than at the story. Out in the other room, he heard the cadets jostling each other and bickering as they paid their accounts and went back to barracks. “Did I see one of your sister’s sons among the cadets out there? They must be great boys now.”
“Not yet this year,” said Regis. “Rafael is only twelve, and young Gabriel only eleven… I suppose Rafael might have been just old enough, but with his father the Commander of the Guard, I suppose he felt it was early for that. Or my sister did, which is the same thing.”
Danilo looked startled. “Gabriel Lanart-Hastur is Commander of the Guards? How did that happen? Has Kennard Alton not returned?”
“There’s been no word from him; not even whether he is dead or alive, my grandfather said.”
“But the Command of Castle Guard is an Alton post,” Danilo protested. “How comes it into Hastur hands?”
“Gabriel is one of the nearest kin to the Altons of Armida. With Kennard and his Heir both offworld, what else could they do?”
“But surely there are Altons nearer of kin than your brother-in-law,” protested Danilo. “Kennard’s other son, Marius—he must be fifteen or sixteen now.”
“Even if he were acknowledged Heir to Alton,” Regis said, “he would hardly be old enough to command the Guard. And Kennard’s elder brother had a son, the one they found on Terra… but he’s chief technician at Arilinn Tower, and knows no more of commanding soldiers than I know of embroidery stitches! Anyway, his Terran education’s a handicap—it doesn’t hurt him out there at Arilinn, but they don’t want him in Thendara to remind them that there are Terrans in the very heart of Comyn Council!” His voice sounded bitter. “After all, they managed to get rid of Lew Alton, and the Council refused again last year to give Marius any of the rights—or duties—of a Comyn son. My grandfather told me—” his smile only stretched his mouth a little— “that they had made that mistake with Lew, and they’re not going to make it again, they said. Terran blood, bad blood, treachery.”
“Lew deserves better of them than that,” said Danilo quietly. “And if he does not, Kennard at least is guiltless of any treachery and should be consulted.”
“Do you think I did not say that? I am old enough to sit in Council and listen to my elders, Dani, but do you think they listen to me when I speak? My grandfather said that he knew Lew and I had been bredin when I was a child—implying that would warp my judgment. If Kennard were here to be consulted, they might listen to him. Most people do. But they are not neglecting Marius, even though they have not allowed him status as Alton of Armida; they appointed Gabriel as his Guardian, and he has been sent to the Terran Headquarters for a proper Terran education. He’s better educated than either you or I, Dani, and what he has learned there probably makes more sense in this day of Empire and star-travel than this—” He gestured around the tavern, at the Guardsmen wearing swords. Regis fully agreed with the Darkovan Compact, which forbade use of any weapon beyond arm’s reach of the man using it, insisting that he who would kill must take his own chance with death. Still, swords were not weapons alone, but tokens of a
way of life which seemed to make little sense in the presence of an interstellar Empire. Danilo followed his thoughts, but shook his head stubbornly.
“I don’t agree with you, Regis. Marius deserves better of the Council than a Terran education. I don’t think Kennard should have gone offworld, and certainly he should not have stayed this long. Hastur should recall him at once—unless your grandfather is greedy for another Domain to pass under the rule of the Hasturs. Already, it seems, he has taken over the Elhalyn Domain—or why is Derik not yet crowned, at eighteen?”
Regis made a wry face. “You do not know our Prince. He may be eighteen, but he is a child of ten—or might as well be. My grandsire wants nothing more than to be free of the burden of the Regency of Thendara—”
Danilo raised a skeptical eyebrow but said nothing. Regis repeated, “Derik is not yet ready to rule. The Council has deferred his crowning till he is twenty-five. There is precedent for that, and if Derik is simply slow to reach manhood and wisdom, well, that will give him time. If not—well, we will fly that falcon when his pinions are grown.”
“And what if Derik, in Hastur’s opinion, is never fit to rule?” Danilo asked. “There was a time when the Hasturs ruled all these Domains, and the rebellion against their tyranny split the Domains into a hundred little kingdoms!”
“And it was the Hasturs who united them all again, in the days of King Carolin,” said Regis. “I have read history, too. In Aldones’s name, Dani, do you think my grandsire is anxious to be King over all this country? Or do I look to you like a tyrant?”
Danilo said, “Certainly not. But in principle, each of the Domains should be strong—and independent. If Lord Hastur cannot crown Derik—and from what little I have seen of him, he looks not much like a King—he should look elsewhere for an Heir to Elhalyn. Forgive me, Regis, but I like it not, to see so much power in Hastur hands; first the Regency which controls the Heir to the Crown, and now the Altons under Hastur rule too. And the Alton Domain carries with it the command of Castle Guard. Where will Hastur turn next? Lady Callina of Valeron is unmarried; will he marry her, perhaps, to you, and bring the Aillard Domain as well under the Hasturs?”
Sharra's Exile Page 2
