Hastur Lord (4 page)

“If they are so eager for a leader,” Regis said hotly, “let them choose one themselves!”

Danvan snorted and made a rude, dismissive gesture. “Bah!
Terranan
notions of democracy have no place here. Darkover needs continuation, stability, and, above all, a solution in accord with our own ancient traditions.”

He paused, visibly regaining his poise. “It must be you, Regis. There is no other. And it must be soon, so that you are prepared to counter this new attempt to destroy everything we hold precious and honorable.”

Regis wished his pulse were not rampaging so insistently. He did not want to wound his grandfather’s pride. He searched for a way to tell the truth and yet not be needlessly cruel.

“I will—”
never agree to be king
“—consider what you have said. There may be other options, ones better suited for Darkover as it is now, rather than as it has been in the past.”

“Do not take too long,” Danvan paused, as if formulating another argument. Then his thin shoulders lifted, his vision cleared, and he went on, “While you are
considering
, give some thought to the necessity of a consort.” He raised his voice as Regis began to protest. “Yes, we have been over the reasons why you refuse to take a proper wife.”

Near the end of his tolerance, Regis broke in. “And you have not listened to a word I have said on the subject! I have told you more than once that when I actually meet the woman I can accept as a wife, I want to be free to marry her!” He paused, then plunged on. “Not even you, sir, can accuse me of not doing my duty in providing the Domain with an heir. Between naming Mikhail as my son and—” with a glance at Danilo, who had once resented the times Regis had brought himself to have an affair with some woman eager to bear a Hastur child, “and fathering
nedestro
children, I have more than fulfilled my obligations!”

Danvan glared at him, then subsided. “I cannot fault you on that. Mikhail is a fine lad, and you are training him well. But as king, you require a lady at your side. You need not marry her
di catenas.
A consort will suffice.”

Regis was about to retort that there was no functional difference. He would be saddled with the woman, no matter what her title. Still, it was a remarkable concession for his grandfather to make.

In all truth, he admitted to himself, he had once thought that in Linnea Storn he had met a woman with whom he could spend the rest of his life. Danilo, surprisingly, had liked her. In the end, the intense flurry of emotional intimacy, fostered by the events surrounding the gathering of telepaths for the new council, had died down. They had parted amicably.

Regis rose, unwilling to pursue the conversation any farther. He bowed to his grandfather, assuring him that he would give the subject of a wife or consort equal consideration with that of the throne, and departed.

With Danilo following close behind, Regis strode down the corridor and through the arched entrance to the stairs. He slowed his pace only when they were well beyond the Castle gates.

Regis recalled Danilo’s words on one of the many past occasions when his grandfather had been pressuring him.

“You lighten it with your understanding,”
Regis had replied,
“so that I need not face the future alone.”

The old sympathy began to weave itself between them, closer than words, the telepathic bond of
laran
, of sworn brotherhood, and more.

Regis felt the coming of night, the swift veil of crimson-edged darkness that swept across the unseen sky like a vast hush of wings. The earth itself shifted, drawing into itself for the long, lightless cold. Throughout the city, candles and rush torches cast pools of fragile light while above the galactic arm stretched in milky glory across the heavens. Mormallor rose, shimmering in pearly light, followed by mauve Idriel.

This,
he thought,
this will endure.
He knew in the fearful recesses of his mind that it might not. Among those points of brilliance, men plotted and schemed, men with knives and blasters and weapons far more dreadful, men with poisons to leave soil and ocean barren, to warp the very nature of living cells, to steal the will and crush the hope of his people.

The bedroom fire had died down, its embers glowing like molten gems, then drifting into ashes with a sound that was softer than a maiden’s sigh.

Danilo, who had fallen silent and watchful, reached out to touch Regis on the back of one wrist, a telepath’s butterfly-light touch.

Regis met the other man’s gaze. In the psychic rapport catalyzed by touch, he felt as if there were no barriers between them. His heart was joined to Danilo’s, as it had been for so many years. They both understood, without the need for speech, that one reason Regis had chosen to remain in this house was that here they might find a modicum of privacy. The love between men was not shameful by Darkovan standards, but their constancy in the face of Regis’ refusal to marry made both of them targets for scandal and censure.

They also knew that if the issue of Federation membership was as urgent as they feared, Regis would have to take up his formal position as Regent, as Hastur of Hastur. In order to rule effectively, with all the influence of his position, he must move to his quarters in Comyn Castle, and there they must comport themselves as lord and paxman.

Regis had filled the bedroom with family treasures from Castle Hastur. The bedframe of wood glossy and black with age, the Ardcarran carpet underfoot, the lamps of Shainsa filigree work, the panels of translucent blue stone, all created a haven. The room smelled of leather and spice and love.

They turned to one another with a desperate passion, as if they could lose themselves and all their cares in it.

Long into the night, Regis lay awake in a tumble of bedclothes. Danilo curled on his side, facing away, one shoulder bare. Regis grasped the comforter to cover him. As he moved, Danilo made a small, strangled sound. Regis drew back, for it had been many years since Danilo had cried out in his sleep from the old nightmares. He had learned not to ask, just as Danilo respected his own moments of tortured reflection. Some wounds were best left alone. But what, he wondered, had come back to haunt them now?

H
eart pounding, Regis jerked awake. Footsteps sounded outside his bedchamber door, not the clatter of heels, but muffled, as if the wearer had no desire to announce his arrival. Darkness shrouded the chamber, and the air was still and heavy. The mattress still bore the faint imprint of Danilo’s body, but it it was cold. Such a time, Regis thought, invited despair.

He shook himself free of the dregs of sleep and reached out with his
laran.
Immediately, he sensed Danilo’s presence. The door swung open with only the mildest of creaking. The flickering light of a taper shone on Danilo’s face. Shadows etched hollows around his eyes, but the slightly haunted look was not all illusion. He wore his ordinary working clothes, a dagger at his belt. Regis ached for him, for whatever old wound had been touched during the night.

Danilo glided to the bedstand and touched the taper to the candle there. “I’m sorry to disturb you,
vai dom,
but there is an urgent matter requiring your attention.”

“Meaning something you cannot fend off by yourself?” Regis winced at his own dark mood. His anger was not toward Danilo but toward whatever had so disturbed Danilo’s sleep that he should be up and dressed—and armed—at this hour.

The second source of irritation was Danilo’s use of the honorific, the shift from lover and equal to loyal paxman.

“What is it?” Regis asked, more gently.

“A messenger from the Legate.”

“It’s not yet dawn. Couldn’t it wait until a decent hour?”

“Apparently not.”

“Forgive me, I’m in a beastly mood. You have done nothing to displease me.” Regis reached out for the bond between them, heart and mind and body’s sated need.

And if I
should
displease you?

“Zandrua’s frozen hells, Danilo! What does
that
mean? Look, I don’t want to quarrel with you. If I can’t rely on you, you of all people—to whom can I turn?”

Danilo drew a breath, almost disguising how his voice trembled. “I will be here at your side as long . . . as long as you want me.” When Regis reached out a hand to him, he shifted to avoid the touch.

Regis cursed silently, not caring if Danilo sensed his thoughts.
It’s that dream, or the Federation, or old memories. Whatever it is, I won’t let it come between us!

“All right, I’ll see the messenger in the downstairs parlor.” Regis pulled on a dressing robe and shoved his feet into fleece-lined house boots. “I’ll be down in a minute. Make sure the man has something hot to drink.”

A few minutes later, Regis joined Danilo and the Terran messenger around a newly lit fire. Shivering in his synthetic parka, the Terran looked vaguely familiar in the way many off-worlders did, but Regis could not recall meeting him before. From the tray with its steaming pitcher and untouched mugs, Regis surmised the messenger had refused refreshment. Danilo, despite the outward nonchalance of his posture, looked ready to draw his dagger any instant.

“I am Regis Hastur. My paxman says you have a message for me.”

The poor messenger was not only half frozen, but was terrified at facing an armed and obviously suspicious bodyguard. He could not have been more than twenty, probably on his first tour of duty.

“From the Legate,” Regis prompted.

“Your Highness—er, Your Honor—Lord Hastur,” the man stammered and attempted a bow.

“We can dispense with titles,” Regis told him. “I’m sorry you had to come out here on such a night. What is so pressing it cannot wait until morning?”

Some of the stiffness left the messenger’s body. “I don’t rightly know, sir. The Legate—Mr. Lawton—he asked if you could please come up to Medical. As soon as possible.”

“Medical? He’s not ill?” Regis felt a little frisson of fear. Why would Dan Lawton send for him, of all people? He had no medical training and only the most rudimentary knowledge of
laran
healing, so he could be of little use there. If Dan were badly injured, dying, he might send for Regis—to disclose what?

The messenger shook his head. “I wasn’t g-given that information, j-just to ask you to come.”

Regis nodded, decisive. “I’ll be ready shortly. Wait here, and for Evanda’s sake, man, get some hot drink into you!”

Outside, clouds had blotted out the stars. Needle-edged rain slashed down, a harbinger of the coming spring. Although the temperature was above freezing, the damp wind penetrated even the warmest woolen clothing.

A motorized ground transport stood waiting for them outside the gated grounds of the town house. Regis sensed Danilo’s abhorrence of the machine, an echo to his own. The messenger held the door open. Regis sighed as and he and Danilo slid into their seats. The conveyance was practical, given the hour and the weather. Truthfully, he was glad not to have to walk, to arrive at Terran HQ shivering and soaked.

Danilo, tautly vigilant, eyed the Spaceforce patrolmen as they passed through the checkpoints. Beyond the gates, fences and barricades cut off all view of the spaceport. Stark white lights illuminated the entrance to Central Headquarters. The building was dark, the floors slick. The heels of their boots clattered on the hard synthetic surface. Although an underground power plant heated the complex, the entrance hall was frigid. To Regis, the chill was as much of the spirit as of the flesh.

As they made their way up the strange rising shafts and along the corridors of the Medical section, the lighting shifted, became less harsh. Perhaps the sick required illumination that soothed and sustained instead of assaulting the senses. Unlike the outer areas of the building, the Medical section was as busy at this hour as during the day. Staff in white uniforms, and some in pale green or blue, hurried by, speaking in pairs, clutching recording tablets. A few stared at Regis and Danilo.