Danilo shook his head in incredulity. “I’d forgotten that incident, it was so long ago. Wasn’t the Terran deported to save his life? He nearly caused an interstellar scandal because he had not the wit to simply decline the invitation.”
“Perhaps,” Regis said delicately, “he did not see that as an option. Or perhaps he was brought up like a cristoforo,unable to consider bedding another man without moral disgust. I’ve never asked you—how did you reconcile what you were taught with what you feel, what we have together? For a time, I thought you might have set aside your cristoforobeliefs, but you did not.”
Danilo took a moment to compose his answer. “For a long time, I made excuses to myself. I told myself that when you married—and each season made that more inevitable—that I too would take a wife. Do my duty as a member of the Comyn. Pass on this damnable telepathic Gift to the next generation.
“Redeem my . . . sin and become a good cristoforo.” He paused, his voice on the edge of trembling. “In the end, I came to understand that the sin was not in the love or the act of love but in the misuse of it. Like laran,a thing of good that can also be abused.”
Or twisted.Regis closed his eyes. Or suppressed, with deadly consequences.
The laranbond between them shimmered with memory, of how Regis had brought himself to the point of death, rather than approach Danilo in a way that would offend him. They had each come close to destroying themselves, trying to hide their true feelings.
Danilo’s voice dropped to a hush. “Nothing is going to change that, bredhyu.Nothing. Ever.”
They did not need to touch one another, so strong and clear was the telepathic embrace.
After a time, their minds drew apart. Returning to his chair, Danilo lowered his eyes to the wine swirling in the cup, like a miniature sea storm. “Regis, something is going on in that chapel. People see it as having the full sanction of the Federation. Every day, more worshipers come. They come to hear your brother preach.”
“That’s a good thing, isn’t it? For Rinaldo to use his monastery training? He’s an educated man; should he not share his knowledge of an ancient and venerable tradition?”
“Look, it’s one thing to submit oneself to the tenets and teachings of one’s faith, but it’s another matter to insist that this is the onlyway to live. And that anyone who says otherwise has no legitimate authority.”
Regis sat back in his chair. The burned end of one log collapsed into embers, sending up a cloud of ash. “If I understand rightly, you accuse Rinaldo of publicly preaching against any faith but his own. I can’t believe he would do such a thing, no matter how he may personally feel. It will take him time to emerge from the cloister, but he is a fair-minded man.”
“Of course, he makes every effort to appear reasonable to you.” Hardness shaded Danilo’s voice. “He still needs you.”
Regis made an impatient gesture. “Rinaldo may have spent the better part of his life as a monk, but he is not a child. He most certainly does not need me. Even now, he is exploring the city on his own.”
Danilo looked away, his features stony.
“Can we just drop the subject?” Regis said. “I don’t want to quarrel with you again.”
“Nor I with you,” Danilo said quietly.
“Why then do we keep tearing at each other this way?”
“I don’t know! In truth, I can’t blame Rinaldo. We fought even before we knew of his existence.”
“Maybe it’s the times or being Comyn in a world that no longer has a place for us,” Regis said. “If our way is hard for you and me, who were born to it, how much more difficult must it be for my brother? To be wrenched from a life of quiet and contemplation into this madness?”
Danilo nodded, thoughtful. “I admit there is much good in him. He is earnest and intelligent, and he has faithfully performed his duties as a teacher. But, Regis, he is still inexperienced. Is it is wise to let him wander through the city on his own?”
“Rinaldo is a grown man,” Regis insisted, “and I will notsubject him to the kind of tyrannical restrictions that have plagued my own life!”
“No,” Danilo said gently, “you would not wish that on your dearest enemy.”
Regis felt a trickle of foreboding. Danilo might have a valid point. The streets were not as safe as they once were, even by day. “Rinaldo should have been back by now.”
“We would have heard from the watch if he were in trouble,” Danilo said. “Doubtless he has forgotten the time or lost his way. In some districts, the streets are like a maze even to those of us who know them well.”
“I should send a Guardsman to search for him,” Regis said.
“Let me go instead,” Danilo offered. “I know he thinks I dislike him, but that is not true. I simply do not trust him. If I look for him myself, that may show him that I have his best interest—as well as yours—at heart. And if he has become lost, I promise I will not tease him. Anyone can lose his way in the old city.”
Regis nodded. With a bow, Danilo took his leave. Alone with no distraction but his own thoughts, Regis struggled against the sense of something terrible looming over him.
My brother is a grown man,he silently repeated to himself. Danilo is a skilled fighter, more than capable of dispatching a trained assassin, let alone a hapless footpad. He saved my own life more times than I can count. I should not worry.
Regis sat, watching the pattern of reflections cast by the flames. Minutes slipped by. The fire died.
Suddenly, a clamor of intense, desperate emotion burst upon his mind. Deeper and quicker than thought, Regis feltDanilo cry out. In warning—in surprise? In alarm?
Regis was not a strong telepath. There were only a few people with whom he could speak mind-to-mind, even at short distances. Linnea, with her powerful and trained Keeper’s laran, was one of them.
Danilo was the other.
A series of flashing images, like bits of shattered glass and leaves blown in a Hellers gale, flooded Regis.
Shadows cloaking the streets, shop windows grimy in the nightly drizzle . . . searching for a familiar landmark, glancing up at the lighted towers of Comyn Castle through the gloom . . . A flash of recognition: The Starry Plough tavern on Music Street . . .
“Danilo!” called a man’s voice.
Not Rinaldo . . .
His own voice—Dani’s voice: “I am looking for Rinaldo Hastur . . . went off without an escort . . .”
The answering voice was silky and tantalizingly familiar.” . . my duty to assist you in your search . . .”
A man stepped from the shadows into the light cast by the lantern above the tavern door . . . by his movement, a trained swordsman . . . a sword slipping free . . .
Danilo’s hand reaching for his own blade . . . the weight of the world crashing down on his head . . . cobblestones hard beneath his cheek . . .
A dim, vanishing thought: Did they get Rinaldo, too?
The next moment, the thought-touch disappeared, sending Regis reeling into oblivion.
Regis gasped as he jerked back to consciousness. He had fallen across the little table. One of the wine goblets lay on its side, spilling dark liquid on the carpet. For a sickening moment, his eyes would not focus. Nausea clawed the back of his throat. He had not felt such wrenching disorientation in a long time.
Danilo— Danilowas in danger, needed him! He had to do something, but his mind was too muddled to determine what. He should summon help—a Guardsman. Speech seemed impossible.
Although the fire had died into coals, multicolored light filled the room, shifting, surging, and then dissolving into sparkling motes. His breath wheezed through his lungs.
Move,he urged himself. Walking would help stabilize the balance centers in his brain and keep his focus from drifting. With a poignant twist, he remembered that Javanne had been the one to tell him that.
Praying he would not give in to the waves of stomach sickness, Regis clambered to his feet, one foot and then the other, resenting each moment of delay. M
inutes later, the worst of the distortions faded, and he felt solid again.
It was time to make plans, to act quickly. The attack on Danilo had occurred in front of The Starry Plough. With a message to Gabriel, a suitably armed escort would be ready in minutes.
A servant answered his summons promptly, but before Regis could issue the message, he heard a muffled shriek coming from another part of the Hastur section.
Mikhail!
Regis raced down the corridors toward Mikhail’s room. The door was open. Inside, a servant lay senseless on the floor. Regis rushed inside.
The room was filled with strange men, their faces concealed behind strips of cloth.
Bandits? Here, within Comyn Castle?
Regis could hardly believe what was happening. Then he was no longer thinking, he had whipped out his dagger and was fighting for his life. Twisting, lunging—at nothing.
As suddenly as they had appeared, the men vanished. Regis was alone once more, crouched in a fighting stance, his dagger in his hand. The residue of battle-adrenaline still saturated the air.
Mikhail—a ttacked here, in his own chamber? Dragged away half- conscious . . . gagged, unable to call for help, reaching out in the only way possible before losing consciousness—
Blessed Cassilda! How had this happened? First Danilo, now Mikhail . . . and Rinaldo as well—lost in the city? Taken captive?
The attacks must be related. Had Rinaldo been lured into a trap? Whoever set it might have guessed that someone would come after him. Mikhail’s abduction must have been planned in advance and therefore was part of a coordinated plan. Anyone might be the traitor. Anyone!
The servant, a maid barely in her teens, roused and opened her eyes. When she saw Regis with a weapon in his hand, breathing hard, his face flushed, she gave a yelp of terror.
He slipped the dagger back into its sheath and lifted the girl to her feet. It took him a moment to remember her name, Merilys. She’d come from Armida with Javanne as part of the household, a plain, hard-working country girl.
“It’s all right,” he murmured. “I won’t hurt you.”
“Lord Hastur,” the girl answered in a whisper. She gulped, righted herself, tidied her apron with a few deft tugs, and bobbed an awkward curtsy. Unfortunately, she remembered nothing about the attack, beyond being knocked unconscious. She nodded in a calm, practical way when he asked her to get someone else to help.
Within minutes, three other servants and a Guardsman arrived. Regis set up the outer sitting room, easily accessible from the hallway, as a base of operations. He issued a stream of orders, to seal off the Hastur section and gather everyone within, to send word to Gabriel as Commander of the Guards and also to Javanne. Merilys took this last upon herself and showed her country good sense, for at the news that Mikhail had been abducted, Javanne came close to hysterics. She recovered enough to count off the servants and identify the one missing, a Thendara native she had hired for the season.
“Find him!” Regis snapped.
Before he could say anything more, young Kennard-Dyan Ardais stumbled through the door, closely escorted by two grim-faced Guardsmen. Regis did not know Kennard-Dyan well, although Danilo did; the lad was Mikhail’s friend, as well as Heir to Ardais. Word had it that his mother, Lady Marilla, was educating him in the Terran manner. Annoyance vied with concern on the youth’s face, both fading into confusion as he recognized Regis.
“Lord Hastur, we found this one coming up the back staircase,” said one of the Guardsmen.
“I’ll have you know I am—” and here, Kennard-Dyan rattled off a string of names and titles. He pulled his arms free. “Dom Regis, what is going on? I came to meet Mikhail, not to be mauled by—” He broke off, glaring at the Guards.
“That’s all right, I’ll handle it,” Regis said. At his nod, the Guardsmen retreated. “You and Mikhail had agreed to meet? Here, at this hour?”
The youth flushed slightly. “We were to go . . . um . . . hawking.”
“Hawking? At night? Is that what they’re calling it now?” Could it be a coincidence that the Ardais youth had come looking for Mikhail at this hour? Regis eyed Kennard-Dyan’s shamefaced countenance. Whom would he suspect next?
Wetting his lips, Kennard-Dyan glanced around the room. “Sir, please . . . is something wrong?”
Regis hesitated, for a moment tempted to enlist Kennard-Dyan’s help. Just then, Gabriel stormed into the sitting room. From his expression, he had already heard news of the kidnapping. His glance took in the scene.
Regis laid one hand on Kennard-Dyan’s shoulder and propelled him toward the door. “There is no time to explain, and in any event, it will all come out soon enough. I require your word of honor that you will say nothing to anyone, not even your mother, until I myself or Commander Lanart-Hastur make an announcement.”
Kennard-Dyan straightened his shoulders. “The word of an Ardais may not carry the same legendary weight as that of a Hastur, but to me it is as precious.”
Regis bade the youth return to his own apartments, then turned to Gabriel. “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but it’s probably true. Mikhail’s been kidnapped, by whom or for what purpose, I have no idea. I heard a scream—the servant girl had been knocked unconscious by the time I got here. I picked up the laranresidue of the assault.”
He did not add that his mind was already open, sensitized by Danilo’s anguished mental cry.
“You’re sure no one has entered or left?” Gabriel’s voice was rough with barely masked emotion. “Good.”
“There’s more.” Regis found his legs suddenly unsteady. He lowered himself to the nearest chair. “Danilo has been taken as well . . . and maybe Rinaldo, I’m not sure. There’s no trace of him, but he’s only been gone a few hours. Danilo went in search of him. To a tavern on Music Street—The Starry Plough.”
“I’ll dispatch my best men there at once.”
Saying the words aloud, hearing them in his own voice, gave them a terrible reality. Dimly, Regis realized he needed to eat, that use of laranexhausted physical as well as mental energies. Cold shivered through his gut. He swayed in his chair.
Gabriel bent to steady him. “You’ve had a shock. Let me get you some wine.”
Regis shook his head, trying to remember what was needed. What had Linnea said? Not wine. “Food, I think. Something sweet.”
Regis slumped forward, head in his hands. What a weakling he was and what a fool! Silently he cursed his traitor body for collapsing just when the people he loved most needed him.
He heard voices, people moving through the room, the door opening and closing. Someone shoved a plate into his hands. It smelled of honeyed pastry. With shaking fingers, he broke off a morsel and chewed it. The sweetness melted over his tongue. Moments later, the trembling eased. He was able to sit up, to focus.
“. . . to see Lord Hastur . . . should we . . .” One of the Guardsmen who had captured Kennard-Dyan stood talking to Gabriel just outside the door.
“Yes,” Gabriel said. “Send her in at once.”
Regis got to his feet. “Send who in?”
A clatter of feet at the top of the stairway drew his attention. The next moment, Linnea came running down the strip of carpet toward him. Her green traveling cloak and the leafy pattern underfoot made her look like a wild creature of the forest. Her hood had fallen back, revealing flushed cheeks.
Regis!Her mind touched his, that light, supple contact he remembered so well.
Linnea, here?Of all the people he could have wished for—
Incredulity melted into relief. Disregarding all propriety, forgetting the audience of Guardsmen and servants, Regis caught her in his arms and buried his face in the auburn tangle of her hair.
16
“How could you come so quickly?” Regis murmured. “How did you know?”
They were sitting together in his private parlor, their chairs drawn up so that her slim fingers could easily rest in his. Within moments of Linnea’s arrival, Regis had ordered
the tightest security and the best guest quarters for her party. He had wanted Gabriel himself to stand guard over Kierestelli, but Linnea had insisted on keeping the girl with her. Regis had forgotten or not allowed himself to remember the shimmering beauty of the child, the quickness of her mind, the calm, almost inhuman serenity of those silvery-gray eyes. Kierestelli sat on the carpet beside her mother, long legs tucked with unselfconscious grace beneath her, one hand resting on Linnea’s knee.
She knows more than she reveals,Regis thought with a pang. He too had been forced to set aside his childhood far too early.
Linnea caught his glance. “Would you have her face this world ignorant and unprepared?”
Did she mean a world in which children—and Mikhail was barely more than a boy, although adult in Comyn eyes—were abducted from their own homes? A world in which others could be set aside, consigned without their consent to lives of privation and servitude? A world in which a boy like Felix Lawton, immensely Gifted, could be brought near death by the superstition of a parent?
“I did not know,” Linnea said, returning to his question, “not when I set out from High Windward. I was on my way, almost at the city gates, when your telepathic sending reached me.”
“Then you know what happened?”
“I know that your mind was linked to Danilo’s when he was assaulted. I did not know about Mikhail until I reached the Castle.” She stroked his wrist with a featherlight touch, a Keeper’s touch. “I am so sorry about Danilo. This must be dreadful for you. I will help in any way I can. And with Mikhail’s disappearance as well.”
As she spoke, she lowered her laranshields, opening her mind, inviting his presence. The simplicity and trust of the gesture was more than Regis could bear. The contact of skin on skin intensified his feelings. He pulled his hand away, but gently, so as not to affront her.
“What is to be done?” he asked, heaving himself to his feet. “They have taken everyone in Thendara dear to me. If you had been here—”
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