Hastur Lord (56 page)

Words reverberated through his mind:
Light calls to Light.

Memory thundered through him, how he had opened himself—offered himself—to the power that men called the Lord of Light.

And something had answered, had filled him, flowed through him,
used
him to defeat Sharra.

Regis pressed the starstone against Felix’s red-streaked chest. Head bent, eyes closed in concentration, Regis shaped his thoughts into a prayer.

Regis felt a quickening, a flicker of electric energy, in the stone under his hand. His fingers were sticky with Felix’s blood—blood as carrier of life—blood as conductor and amplifier of power . . .

And then he had no more words, only,
Please, please
. . .

Power answered. It rang like a crystalline bell in his mind, faintly at first, then louder. Time slowed. Between one breath and the next, the resonant clangor grew until it drove away all other awareness. The sound was beautiful past bearing and more terrible than night. It flooded him, jarred him from his moorings, shredded all resistance.

He had become a single vibrating crystal: the Hastur Gift, the living matrix.

He could shape, direct, use this power as he wished. Or he could let himself be shaped and used by it. With it, he could stride like a god across the face of the world, blasting away all who stood against him. He could remake whole planets to his own desire.

Between his hands, the boy’s life force guttered.

He did not know what to do. He let go—

Light surged through him. He no longer grasped it; he shrank to a speck in an ocean of blue-white brilliance. Knowing it would burn him up like tinder, he gave himself to the light.

Without sight or hearing, he sensed patterns within the effulgence. A form coalesced, at first only a tracery, a suggestion of lines of force. Then details emerged . . . the metallic signature of a long, slender object, the resonances of liquids, gelatinous cells bright with renewed life-energy . . .

As if the boy’s body had turned to glass, Regis made out the dagger as it sat, nested in torn and punctured tissues, the tip almost touching the heart, the severed blood vessels, the nerves still paralyzed by shock.

Power reached through him, not his own will but something deep and sure. An invisible spark propagated through the muscles of the heart. At the same time, the edges of the arteries clamped down. The blood-filled space between the dagger and the pericardial sac took on a new, elastic density, holding the blade in place.

The heart chambers contracted, the first beat rough, but the next smooth and strong, rippling from top to bottom. Blood pounded through the major vessels. The diaphragm shuddered, then clenched under a cascade of nerve signals.

The light faded. Regis dropped into his own body, at once too hot and too cold, too solid and too fragile.

Beneath his palms, Felix’s chest rose in a heaving breath.

Rough hands hauled Regis to his feet. He began to protest, then realized these men had no idea what had just happened. The Terrans saw him as one of the hostage takers, in league with Haldred. Still caught in a maelstrom of grief and guilt and the exhilaration of the healing, he tried and failed to summon words.

“I’ve got a pulse!” The man kneeling on the other side of Felix looked up with an expression of astonishment.

Felix groaned and feebly lifted one arm.

“Lie still, son,” the commander said. “Help’s on the way.”

“Sir? What about this one?” asked one of the men holding Regis.

“Let him go,” the commander answered, his voice thick. “He’s not with—Sweet heavens, it’s Lord Hastur.” He got to his feet, brisk and efficient, and confronted Regis. “What in blazes are
you
doing here?”

Regis glared back. Outrage flared, fueling his words. “Trying to rescue these children. Which I would have done without bloodshed if you had not come barging in. You are in direct violation of the Compact and, need I add, of Federation policy.”

“You savages! Do you think you can kidnap the Legate’s son, a Federation citizen, with impunity? That we would sit back and do nothing? It’s a miracle the kid’s still alive!”
And he still might not make it.

Shaking off the grip of the two Spaceforce men, Regis drew himself up. He had not contradicted the commander’s use of the title,
Lord Hastur
. It was time he took back those responsibilities as well.

“There will be consequences,” Regis promised, “to the ones responsible for this outrage. But your presence here, your disregard for local sovereignty is not only illegal but inflammatory. It will be seen as an act of aggression, an abrogation of all we have worked to achieve between our two worlds.”

“When the safety of a Federation citizen is at risk, we have the right—”

“You have the right to ask Darkovan authorities for assistance, but you do
not
have the right to single- handedly start a war! Is that what you want? Have you forgotten recent history? Do you think we are such backward savages,” Regis deliberately echoed the words of the Spaceforce man, “that we have no means to defend ourselves? Have you so quickly blotted out how the spaceport at Caer Donn was destroyed?”

The commander blanched.

“I will see to it those Darkovans responsible for this tragedy are held accountable,” Regis continued, more quietly now. “What you must do is remove your men and their weapons as quickly as possible.”

Just then, a trio in the uniforms of the Terran Medical Corps pelted into the foyer. Regis had no idea how they had arrived so fast. The commander directed them first to Felix, then to the other wounded. They set about examining the boy with their instruments. Regis did not understand a fraction of what they did, only that they meant to stabilize him for transport.

“He’s a lucky kid,” the head medic told the commander. His gaze flickered to Regis in his gore-stained shirt. He added in Terran Standard,
“What about that one? He looks like one of the local aristocrats.”

“It’s not my blood,” Regis answered in the same language.

A few minutes later, the medics had brought in a rigid carrier for Felix and secured him to it. Regis approached the head medic. “Tell Dan—” his voice caught, then held firm, “tell the Legate how very sorry I am.”

“Nothing—to be sorry—” Felix stumbled, before the medics maneuvered his carrier through the doors.

“And these?” The commander indicated Haldred and his two comrades. One of them was still alive, huddled on the floor while a medic applied an anesthetic spray.

“If you’re willing to treat him, it would be seen as a gesture of goodwill,” Regis conceded. “As for
him,
” with a nod toward Haldred’s corpse, “I’ll inform his family.”

“With your permission, I’ll transport the bodies back to HQ. This will require an internal investigation. We will treat the remains with respect, and the families can claim them as soon as the forensic reports are done.”

Regis was in no mood to dispute such a sound plan.

With practiced efficiency, the Spaceforce team took charge of the wounded and the dead. Regis turned to the priest and issued a string of orders regarding the children. The
cristoforo,
visibly shaken by the turn of events, obeyed meekly. Soon nothing remained of the fight except bloodstains and the reek of charred flesh.

The Terran commander paused at the outer door. “I’m taking a big risk in trusting you to keep your word. How do I know you’ll punish those responsible? That you won’t exonerate them because they’re your own people?”

Regis glared at the man. “I have said it. I am Hastur.”

There it was, his word an unbreakable promise. It was a burden he would bear for all his days.

Something in his tone, his bearing, or perhaps his eyes, reached the Terran. The commander lowered his own gaze, nodded, and retreated back into the street.

Regis held out his hand to Ariel. She stared at him, eyes white-rimmed, mouth set in a tight line. Slowly she slipped her chill fingers into his. Now that the last traces of power had drained from him, Regis felt lightheaded, as if his bones belonged to someone else. He could not rest, not yet.

He lifted his gaze to the waiting children. “Come, little ones. It’s time to go home.”

T
hey looked like a bunch of refugees, some of the children barefoot, others wrapped in oversized cloaks from the storerooms. Regis had worried about how the younger ones were going to walk all the way back to the Castle, but before long, he was able to hail a wagon half-filled with bales of unspun wool. The driver, an elderly, leather-skinned man, said it was no burden to his team to carry such little ones. He lifted the children one by one to perch on the soft bales. The younger ones giggled, as if this were a fine adventure. Ariel huddled beside Regis, clutching his hand.

When they arrived at the Castle gates, Regis dispatched a Guardsman to fetch Javanne. He dared not trust anyone else with the children, for fear of turning them over to Rinaldo’s agents.

A few minutes later, when the children were still clambering down from the wagon and thanking the driver, Javanne burst through the gate. Gabriel followed close behind. Ariel gave a piercing cry. Regis lifted the girl from the wagon and into her mother’s arms. Javanne pressed her daughter close, rocking her with exclamations of relief.

Gabriel caught Regis in a kinsman’s embrace. “You did it! I truly did not believe you could—but you freed them!”

“All is not well,” Regis said somberly. “The Legate’s son is badly injured and Haldred Ridenow—I’m afraid he’s dead. And a couple of other men, I don’t know their names.”

“Zandru’s demons! What happened?” Gabriel fixed on the blood-stained shirt. “Are you hurt?”

Shaking his head, Regis glanced toward the children, now clustered around Javanne. She’d put Ariel down and was herding the others together, clucking over their thinness and pallor like a mother barnfowl.

“Spaceforce sent a rescue party,” Regis lowered his voice. “They were armed with blasters. As you can imagine, the result was some nasty fighting. I’ll tell you more later. For now, we need to notify the families, and I must deal with my brother.”

“He’s in council with Lord Valdir and half a dozen others.”

Leave it to Gabriel, even when relieved of his command, to know the inner workings of the Castle.

“I can’t waste any time,” Regis said. “For all I know, Rinaldo’s already gotten word of what happened. Gabriel, I need your help.”

“You’ve got it. Regis . . . there will be Nine Hells to pay. You and I both know it.”

“That’s why this madness has to stop now, whatever it takes, before any more men die. Before we reach the point of no return with the Federation. Before there is too much anger, too much bloodshed, too much reason for retaliation.”

“Aye, that’s true,” Gabriel muttered. “Once the
Terranan
impose martial law, they’ll never let go. We’ll become little more than a heavily armed spaceport.”

Once given a task, and with Ariel firmly in hand, Javanne regained her composure. She rattled off orders to a stream of servants. Within the hour, the children would be restored to their families. Knowing her, they would first be fed and properly clothed.

With Gabriel a half-pace behind, Regis stormed across the inner courtyard and into the main Castle. Servants and an occasional courtier scurried out of their way. Once a Guardsman began to intercept them but withdrew, bowing respectfully. Regis was not sure whether the man had recognized him or Gabriel as the former Commander, and he did not care.

As they approached Rinaldo’s council chamber, the Guardsman on duty outside the door held his ground. Gabriel stepped to the fore.

“Commander—” the Guardsman protested.

“Move aside, Esteban. That’s a direct order. One way or another, we’re going through that door. I don’t want to lose another good man to this idiocy.”

The Guardsman’s mouth dropped open. He let them pass. Gabriel knocked loudly and then, without waiting for a response, flung the door open.

The chamber was modest, once used for informal Comyn gatherings. A table had been set up in the center, with Rinaldo at the head. Maps and documents were laid out, along with a tray containing a carafe of wine, unwatered by its deep hue.

Rinaldo looked up sharply as Regis and Gabriel entered. To either side sat Valdir Ridenow, two courtiers from minor noble families, and the
cristoforo
priest who had conducted the conversions at Rinaldo’s court. Danilo stood a pace behind and to the side of Rinaldo, but the chair to Rinaldo’s right was conspicuously empty.

“Regis!” Rinaldo exclaimed. “Blessed saints, what has happened? Has there been an attempt on your life?”

“It’s not
my
blood.” Regis heard his own voice ringing through the chamber, then a terrible stillness, a waiting, an expectancy. Every head turned in his direction, some with expressions of amazement, others with dismay. Danilo shifted, his hand going to the hilt of his sword. Valdir’s eyes reflected the despair of a man confronted with his own worst fears.

Regis waited another heartbeat. “Some of this blood belonged to Haldred Ridenow. The man
you
sent to guard those children—children
you
abducted from their families against every principle of honor and decency!”

Several of the council cried out in protest. One started to rise. In a lightning move, Gabriel clamped one hand on the man’s shoulder and forced him back to his seat.

“I?” Rinaldo faltered. “I had nothing to do—”

“If this outrage was not carried out on your orders, then it was done behind your back, and you are still to blame!” Regis cut him off. It took all his discipline not to leap across the table and shake Rinaldo into sense.