Heritage and Exile (113 page)

“You wouldn't either, would you?” she asked, smiling at him through the tears in her eyes.

He is Hastur . . . and he will stand by Comyn
. . . and then, even in Dio, the curious and inevitable question:
I wonder why he has never married? Surely he could have any woman he wanted . . . surely it is not true that he is, like Lerrys, like Dyan, only a lover of men, he has had women, he has
nedestro
children. . . .

And then, Regis felt it, a return of her own despair and pain,
our son, Lew's and mine, that frightful thing, and I rebuffed him . . . it was only because I was so sick and weak, I did not hate him or blame him, and then Lerrys took me away, before I could tell him . . . Merciful Avarra, he has suffered so much, and I hurt him again, all that horror, when I had promised that he would never have to hide himself from me . . .

And suddenly Regis found himself envying Lew.

Oh, yes, there had been women. He was capable of sudden flaring passion, of taking them with pleasure, given and received; but once the flare of mutual lust had burned out, sometimes even before the woman knew herself pregnant with his child, he had been all too aware of what it was they felt for him; pleasure at his physical beauty, pride that they had attracted the attention of a Hastur, greed for the status and privilege that would be theirs if they bore a Hastur child. Any one of the five or six would gladly have married him for that status; but he had never felt for any of them anything more than that brief flaring of passion and lust; the vague distaste and even revulsion, knowing that their feeling for him was based on greed or pride.

But with what was hanging over them, there was no time for this either. He turned to speak some word of recollection to Dio, when suddenly a shriek of wild terror surged through their minds, a wordless cry of despair and fright and utter panic, pain and fear.
A child, a child is crying in terror
. . . Regis was not sure whether it was his thought or Dio's, but all at once he knew what child it was who shrieked out in such agonized fright, and he pushed Dio before him and ran, ran like a possessed thing toward the Alton apartments.

The great double doors to the Alton suite were standing ajar, swinging on one hinge. Old Andres was lying in a pool of his own blood, half over the threshold where he had been struck down.

He guarded her with his life, as he had sworn
. . . Regis felt dismay; he too had been befriended and fathered by the old
coridom.
Then he realized that Andres was still moving feebly, though he was long past speech. He knelt, tears swelling up in his own eyes for the faithful old man, and Andres, with his last strength, whispered, “Dom Regis . . . lad . . .”

Regis knew that Andres did not see him; the dying eyes were already glazed, past sight. He saw only the boy of ten, Kennard's fosterling, Lew's sworn friend. And with his last strength Andres formed a picture in Regis's mind . . .

Then it was gone and there was nothing living in the room except himself. Regis stood up, stricken with pain.
“Beltran!
But how, in all of Zandru's hells, did he manage to come here, when I left him safely imprisoned . . .”

He did not even need to ask. He had left Beltran with Lord Dyan; and Dyan had agreed with Beltran that Sharra was the ultimate weapon against the Terrans . . . Lew was beyond their reach. But there remained an Alton child. . . .

There remained an Alton child; and one Gifted, even at five years old, with the
laran
of her house . . . and of her
chieri
blood. Regis felt sick; would anything human stoop to use a small child in
Sharra?
He had had reason to know that Dyan could be cruel, could be unscrupulous, but
this?

He realized that all through this, he had been hearing somewhere in his mind, ringing louder and wilder, the terrified shrieks of the child, the sudden flame and terror of the Form of Fire . . . and then it was gone, so suddenly that for a moment Regis was shocked, feeling that Marja must suddenly have died of terror, or been struck silent by a blow of terrifying cruelty . . .

What madness was this? Around him was the silence of death in the Alton rooms, the horrified gasps of Dio who stood on the threshold, but somewhere he was hearing a voice he knew, or was it a telepathic touch rather than a voice?

Fool, this is nothing for a girl-child! I have the strength and I am not squeamish . . . I am not one of your Tower-trained eunuchs, let me take that place rather than one you can never trust . . .
and then almost laughter, silent laughter in mockery.
No, she's not dead, she is beyond your reach, that is all . . . pick on someone your own size, Beltran!

“Lord of Light!” Regis gasped in shock, knowing what had happened. Dyan had
chosen
Sharra. Despite every warning, he had walked of his own free will into that horror which had cost Lew his hand and his sanity, which even now overpowered Regis with dread and terror . . .

“Lord Hastur! Lord Regis—” a gasping servant, come in search of him, stopped in shock, staring at the dead body of the old
coridom
on the floor. “Good Gods, sir, what's happened?”

Regis said, clutching at calm and ordinary things, “This man died defending his master's—his foster-son's property and his child. He should have a funeral fit for a hero. Find someone who can see to it, can you?” He rose slowly, staring at the dead man and at the servants clustering in the doorway of the Alton suite. Then he saw the man who had come to look for him.

“Sir, the Lord Hastur—your grandsire, sir—he has ordered—” again the man, confused, shifted ground, “he has asked if you will come and attend on him . . .”

Regis sighed. He had been expecting that; what conflicting demands was his grandfather to make on him now? He saw Dio and knew she could not bear to be left out of what was happening now. Well, she had a right to know.

“Come along,” he said, “Lew and I were
bredin,
once, and you have a claim on me, too.”

He found his grandfather in the small presence-chamber of the Hastur apartments; Danvan Hastur said, “Aldones be thanked, I have found you!” The Terran Legate has sent a message to you personally, Regis; something about a Captain Scott and permission to authorize Terran weapons—” He looked at his grandson, and tried to speak with the old authority, but only managed a shocking parody of his old strength. “I don't know how you came to put yourself in a position where Terrans could bid you come and go, but I suppose you'll have to deal with it—”

He is old. I am the real power of Hastur now and we both know it; though he will never say so, Regis thought, and spoke to the unspoken part of his grandfather's words, whatever the actual words had been.

“Don't trouble yourself, sir; I'll go and deal with it.” He suddenly felt deep compassion for the old man, who had spent so many years holding the power of the Comyn, without even
laran
to sustain him.

He has had all the troubles of a Hastur and none of the rewards,
he thought, and then was startled and shocked at himself. Rewards? This monstrous
laran
which threatened, unwanted, to split him asunder, so that he walked with the terrible knowledge of a power whose forces he could not even imagine?

Gift? The Hastur curse, rather!
He felt as if his very arms and legs were too big for him, as if he walked halfway between earth and sky, his feet hardly touching the ground, and all without knowing why. Desperately, he wanted Danilo at his side. But there was not even time to send a message to his paxman, and in any case, if Dyan had flung himself recklessly into the danger and terror of Sharra, Danilo was Lord Ardais, for Dyan was as good as dead, and so were they all; let Danilo stay free of this if he could. He said brusquely to the Spaceforce man who had brought the message, “I'll come at once.” Dio turned to follow him and he said, “No. Stay here.” He could not encumber himself with any woman now, certainly not when Danilo had been denied the privilege of attending him.

“I
will
go,” she said wildly, “I am a Terran citizen; you cannot prevent me!”

It wasn't worth arguing. He signaled to the Spaceforce man to let her come, and together they clambered into the surface car. Regis had never ridden in a Terran vehicle before; he hung on breathless, as it tore through the streets, men and women and horses scattering as it roared and jolted over the cobbles; he thought irrelevantly,
we must forbid this, it is too dangerous on such old and crowded streets.
Once through the gates into the Trade City the streets were a little smoother and he hung on desperately, not wanting to show his fright before Dio who was apparently accustomed to this kind of breath-taking transport.

Through the HQ gates, the Spaceforce driver barely stopping to flash a pass of some sort at the guard, then tearing across the abnormally smooth terrain to the very gates of the skyscraper; and up in the lift, Dio doggedly keeping at his heels all the way, then into Lawton's office.

Rafe Scott, white as death, was there, and Lawton didn't waste words. He gestured, and Rafe poured it out.

“Kadarin has gone to Hali! I suddenly discovered that I was reading Thyra—I don't know why—”

Regis did. He could
feel
Sharra, through and around Rafe, a monstrous and obscene flame, unbodied, inchoate . . . and Rafe was part of that ancient bonding.

“Well?” Lawton said crisply, “Will you authorize me to send a helicopter, and men properly armed with blasters, to arrest Kadarin out there? Or are you going to stick to the letter of your Compact, while they work with something which is farther outside of your Compact than a superplanetbusting bomb, let alone a blaster or two?”

Am I going to authorize . . . who does he think I am?
Then, in the sudden humility of power recognized and feared, Regis knew that he could no longer avoid the responsibility. He said, “Yes. I'll authorize it.” He managed to write his name, though his hand shook, on the form Lawton held out to him. Lawton spoke into some kind of communicator.

“All right; Hastur authorized it. Let the copter go.”

“I want to—”
I should go with the copter. Maybe I can still do something for Lew . . . or his matrix if it's sealed to Sharra . . .

Lawton shook his head. “Too late. They've taken off. All you can do now is
wait.
”

They waited, while the sun sank slowly behind the mountain pass. Waited, while time wore away and dragged, and finally Regis saw the helicopter, a tiny black speck hovering over the mountain pass, coming nearer, nearer.

Dio rose and cried out, “He's hurt! I—I have to go to him—” and dashed for the lift. Lawton simultaneously answered some kind of blinking light, listened, and his face changed.

“Well,” he said grimly to Regis, “I waited too long, or you did, or somebody. They've got Kadarin, yes, but it looks as if he's managed to commit another murder while everybody stood by and watched. They're going to take him down to Medic. You'd better come along.”

Regis followed, through the sterile white walls of the Medical division. An elevator whined softly to a stop and Spaceforce men hauled out prisoners. Dio had eyes only for Lew, carried between two of the uniformed men. Regis could not tell whether he was alive or dead; his face was ghastly, his head lolled lifeless, and the whole front of his shirt was covered in blood.

Bredu!
Regis felt shock and grief surging over him. Dio was clinging to Lew's lax hand, crying now without trying to hide it. Behind, Kadarin moved manacled between two guards. Regis barely recognized him, he was so much older, so much more haggard, as if something were consuming him from within. Thyra, too, was handcuffed. Kathie looked pale and frightened, and one of the guards was carrying Callina, who appeared to have fainted; they set her in a chair and gestured to someone to bring smelling-salts, and after a minute Callina opened her eyes; but she swayed, holding to the chair. Kathie went swiftly to her and held her up. One of the Medic personnel said something and she frowned and said, “I'm a nurse; I'll look after her. You'd better look after Mr. Montray-Alton; the woman stabbed him, and it looks as if it may have finished him—he was still alive when the helicopter landed, but that's not saying much.”

But Regis looked at the long sword Kathie had let slide to the floor; and something inside him, something in his blood, suddenly awoke and shouted inside his veins.

THIS IS MINE!

He went and picked it up; it felt warm and
right
in his hands. Callina opened her eyes, staring, a strange, cold, blue gaze.

The moment Regis had the sword in his hands, looking at the curling letters written on the scabbard, all at once he seemed to be everywhere, not just where his body was, but as if the edges of his body had spread out to encompass everything in the room. He
touched
Callina and saw her with a strange double sight, the woman he knew, the plain quiet Keeper, still and prim and gentle, and at the same time she was overlaid with something else, cold and blue and watchful, like ice, strange and cold as stone. He
touched
Dio and felt the flood of her love and concern and dread; he
touched
Kadarin and drew back, THIS IS THE ENEMY, THIS IS THE BATTLE . . . NOT YET, NOT YET! He
touched
Lew.