Heritage and Exile (112 page)

“That's that,” I said. “Let's get out of here.”

The last light of the sun was setting as we came out of the
rhu fead.
The women went ahead of me; there was no need, now, for me to safeguard Kathie. The Veil was only to screen against those not of Comyn blood getting
into
the chapel; it had never occurred to my forefathers in the Ages of Chaos to guard against anyone getting out. I lingered, half wanting to explore the strange things here.

Then Kathie cried out; and I saw the dying sunlight glint on steel. Two figures, dark shapes against the light, blurred before my eyes; then, I recognized Kadarin, sword in hand, and at his side a woman, slender and vital as a dark flame.

She did not, now, look much like Marjorie; but even so, I knew Thyra. Kathie started back against me; I put her gently aside to face my sworn enemy.

“What do you want?”

I was playing for time. There was only one thing Kadarin could want from me now, and my blood turned to ice with the horror of that memory, and around my neck my matrix began to blaze and to pulse with fire . . .

“Hiding behind women again?” Kadarin taunted. “Well, give me what the Keeper carries, and perhaps I shall let you go . . .
if you can!
” He flung back his head and laughed, that strange laugh that carried echoes of a falcon's cry. He did not look like a man now, or anything human; his eyes were cold and colorless, almost metallic, and his colorless hair had grown long, flying about his head; his hands on his sword were long and thin, almost more like talons than fingers. And yet there was a strange beauty to him as he stood with his head flung back, laughing that crazy laughter. “Why don't you make it easy for yourself, Lew? You know you'll do what we want in the end. Give me that—” he pointed to the Sword of Aldones, “and I'll let the women go free, and you won't have
that
to torment yourself with . . .”

“I'll see you frozen solid in Zandru's coldest hell before that, you—” I cried out, and whipped out my dagger; I stood confronting him. There had been a time when I could probably have beaten him in swordplay; now, with one hand, and a head wound and a slash in my good arm, I didn't think I had a chance. But I might, at least, force him to kill me cleanly first.

“No, wait, Lew,” said Callina quietly. “This is—Kadarin?” There was nothing in her voice but fastidious distaste, not a trace of fear. I saw a shadow of dismay on Kadarin's face, but he was not human enough, now, to react to the words. He said, in a ghastly parody on his old, urbane manner, “Robert Raymon Kadarin,
para servirti, vai domna.
”

She raised the Sword of Aldones slightly in her hand.

“Come and take it—if you can,” she said, and held it out invitingly to him. I cried out, “Callina, no—” and even Thyra cried out something wordless, but Kadarin snarled, “Bluffing won't help,” and lunged at her, wresting the sword from her hand. . . .

Her hand exploded in blue fire, and Kadarin went reeling back, in the blue glow; the Sword of Aldones flared with brilliance, the brightness of copper filings in flame, and flared there, lying on the ground between us, while Kadarin, stunned and half senseless, slowly dragged himself to his feet, snarling a gutter obscenity of which I understood only its foulness.

Callina said quietly, “I cannot take it now that it has touched Sharra, either. Kathie—?”

Slowly, hesitating, her hand reluctant, she knelt and stretched out her hand; slowly, frightened, as if she feared that the same blue blaze of power would knock her senseless. But her hand closed over the hilt without incident. Perhaps, to her, it was only a sword. She drew a long breath.

Thyra cried out, “Let me—”

“No, wild-bird.” For an instant, I saw through the monstrous thing he had become, a hint of the man I had, once, loved as a sworn brother; the old tenderness as he drew Thyra back, holding her quiet. “You cannot touch it either—but neither can the Alton whelp, so it's a draw. Let them go; there will be a time and place—” he glared out at me again, the moment of gentleness and humanity gone. “And nothing will protect you then; who has been touched by the flamehair, she will claim again for her own. And then the hells themselves will burn in Sharra's flame. . . .”

Gods above! Once this had been a man, and my friend!
I could not even hate him now; he was not human enough for that.

He was Sharra, clothed in the body of a man who had once been human . . . and he willed it so, he had surrendered of his own will to the monstrous thing he had become!
I could hardly see Thyra at his side, through the illusion of tossing flames which raged between us . . .

“No,” Thyra cried out, “not now! Not now!” and the flames receded. I could see her clearly now; there had never been any fire. She came toward me, hands outstretched; only a woman, small and frail with little bones like a bird's. She was dressed like a man for riding, and her hair was the same rich copper as Marjorie's, and her eyes, clear golden-amber like Marjorie's, looked up to me in the old sweet half-mocking way; and I remembered that I had loved her, desired her . . .

She said, reaching out for a half-forgotten rapport between us, “What have you done with my daughter? Our daughter?”

Marja!
For a moment it seemed I could feel the touch of sweet memory, Marjorie merging into Thyra in my arms, a living flame, the touch of the child-mind . . .

Thyra was in rapport and her face changed.

“You have her, then?”

I said quietly, “You did not want her, Thyra. It was a cruel trick played on a drugged man, and you deserve all the misery you have had from it. . . .”

But for a moment I had forgotten to watch her, forgotten that she was nothing, now, but Kadarin's pawn . . . and in that moment a stab of agony went through my shoulder and my heart felt the agony of death and I knew that Thyra's dagger had wounded me. . . .

I reeled back with the shock of it. Callina caught me in her arms; even through pain and sudden despair . . .
this was the end, and Sharra still raged, I had died too quickly, I had died . . .
I was startled at the strength with which she held me upright. Kadarin made a lunge forward, hauled Thyra bodily off me.

“No! That's not the way—we still need him—ah, what have you done, Thyra—you've killed him—”

I felt myself fainting, darkness sinking down and covering my eyes, a horrid noise battering at my eardrums—was death like this, pain and noise and blinding light? No, it was a Terran helicopter, hovering, sinking, and loud shouts, and one voice suddenly coming clear.

“Robert Raymon Kadarin, I arrest you in the name of the Empire, on charges of . . . lady, drop that knife; this is a nerve-blaster and I can drop you in your tracks. You too—put that sword down.”

Through the wavering darkness before my eyes I made out the dark-uniformed forms of Spaceforce men. I should have known they would find Kadarin, one way or the other, and with Terran weapons prohibited here in the Domains. I could bring charges against them, I thought weakly, they have no right to be here. Not like this. Not with blasters outside the Trade City. I should arrest them instead of them arresting us.

Then I sank into a darkness that was like death indeed, and all I could feel was an immense regret for all I had left undone. Then even that was gone.

Dio watched the horses out of sight, and as they turned out of the Street of Coppersmiths, it seemed to Regis that the woman was weeping; but she shook her head, and one or two bright drops went flying. She looked at him, almost defiantly, and said, “Well, Lord Hastur?”

“I promised I would see you safely back to the Castle,
Domna,
” he said, offering his arm.

She laughed; it was like a rainbow coming out through the cloud. “I thank you, my lord. Not necessary. I've walked unguarded in worse places than this!”

“That's right, you've been offworld,” Regis said, feeling again the old longing, the old envy; for all his suffering, Lew was freer than he was himself, with all the worlds of an interstellar Empire at his command. Oh, to go beyond the narrow skies of his own world, to see the stars . . . he knew now that he would never go. For better or for worse, his fate lay here, whatever it might be; an unwanted crown, the new
laran
which so weighed on him that he felt he would split asunder like a butterfly from its constricting cocoon. He was Hastur; the rest he should put aside, all his old dreams, like the brightly colored tops and balls of his childhood. He walked at Dio's side, along the Street of Coppersmiths, turning at the corner to take the road to the Comyn Castle, and heard the whispers, saw the crowd draw before him in awe and astonishment.

“Comyn . . .”

“It's the Lord Hastur himself . . . the prince . . .”

“No, for sure not, what would the likes o' he be doing here on the street and unguarded . . .”

“It's the Hastur prince, yes, I saw him on Festival Night . . .”

He could not walk down a fairly narrow and unimportant street without collecting a crowd. Lew, a marked man and disfigured, one hand sacrificed to the fires of Sharra, was still more free than himself. . . . If any man stared at Lew it was only with pity or curiosity, not this entire trust, that sense that whatever might come to Darkover, the Hastur-kin would protect them and shield them.

He drew a fold of his cloak over the concealment of his red hair, all unshielded to the mental leakage of the crowd, wonder, astonishment, curiosity. . . .
I cannot dance with a woman or walk with one down the street but my name is linked to hers . . .

“I'm sorry, Dio,” he said, trying for lightness, “but I'm afraid they have you marked out for my Queen already; it is a pity that we must disappoint them. Now, I suppose, I will have to explain to my grandfather that I do not intend to marry you, either!”

She gave him a small wry smile. “I have no wish to be a Queen,” she said, “and I fear, even if you wished to marry me, Lord Danvan would be scandalized. . . .”

He said, gently, “I did not know Lerrys was gone. But I do not blame him for running away, Dio. I wish I could.” After a moment he added, “And if you are a traitor's sister, that does not make you traitor; but the more credit to you that you have remained when others have fled.”

They were standing now before the gates of the Comyn Castle; he saw one of the Guardsmen stare at him, alone and unattended and with Lady Dio Ridenow, and although he was trying not to read the man's mind, he could sense the man's shock and amazement;
Lord Regis, here and without even a bodyguard, and with a woman . . .
and a secret pleasure at this morsel of gossip he could spread among his fellows. Well, everything Regis did created gossip, but he was heartily sick of it.

He crossed the courtyard, wanting to say a polite word or two to Dio and dismiss her. He had too many troubles to share them with any woman, even if there was a woman alive with whom he could share anything except a brief moment of passion or pleasure. And, abruptly, looking at Dio, he was torn by her despair.

“What is it, Dio?” he asked gently, and felt it flood through him.

He was struck numb by the quality of her pain. No woman had ever loved him like that, none ever shown him that kind of loyalty and staunchness. . . .

Regis realized that he should have gone with Lew himself; or he should have taken his matrix, cleansed it as he had done to Rafe's. What gave him this strange power, not over Sharra, but over the Form of Fire? Kadarin was somewhere, with the Sharra matrix, and Lew might fall into his hands. . . .

He should have gone with Lew, or cleansed Lew's matrix. Or at least demanded that Callina take him to Ashara, so that the ancient Keeper of the Comyn could explain this new and monstrous Hastur Gift.
Lew at least is Tower-trained, he knows what strengths he has . . . and what weaknesses; he faces death with full knowledge, not blinded as I am by ignorance!
What was the good of being Hastur, and Lord of Comyn, if he could not even know what this new
laran
might bring him?

Dio was trying to conceal her tears. Part of him wanted to reassure her, but he had no comfort for her and in any case Dio did not want facile lies; she was one of the sensitive Ridenow and she would see through them at once. He said quietly, “It may be that we are all going to die, Dio. But if I have a chance I would rather die to keep Sharra from destroying Darkover—Terran and Comyn alike. And so would Lew, I think; and he has the right to choose his own death . . . and to make amends . . .”

“I suppose so.” Beneath the understanding, she turned to him, no longer trying to conceal her tears, and somehow he realized that this was a kind of acceptance. “It's strange; I have seen so much of his—his weakness, his gentler side, I forget how strong he is. He would never run away to the Terrans because he was afraid; not even if they burned off his other hand first . . .”

“No,” said Regis, suddenly feeling closer to her than to his own sister, “he wouldn't.”