Heritage and Exile (2 page)

To the faithful followers of the chronicles of Darkover, whose greatest delight seems to be discovering even the most minute inconsistencies from book to book:

 

This book tells a story which a great many of the friends of Darkover have asked me to tell—the story of the early life of Regis Hastur, and of the Sharra rising, and of Lew Alton's first encounter with Marjorie Scott and the man who called himself Kadarin.

 

The faithful followers mentioned above will discover a very few minute inconsistencies between the account herein, and the story as Lew Alton told it later. I make no apology for these. The only explanation I can make is that in the years which elapsed between the events in this book, and the later novel dealing with the final destruction of the Sharra matrix, Lew's memories of these events may have altered his perceptions. Or, as I myself believe, the telepaths of the Arilinn Tower may have mercifully blurred his memories, to save his reason.

MARION ZIMMER BRADLEY

As the riders came up over the pass which led down into Thendara, they could see beyond the old city to the Terran spaceport. Huge and sprawling, ugly and unfamiliar to their eyes, it spread like some strange growth below them. And all around it, ringing it like a scab, were the tightly clustered buildings of the Trade City which had grown between old Thendara and the spaceport.

Regis Hastur, riding slowly between his escorts, thought that it was not as ugly as they had told him in Nevarsin. It had its own beauty, an austere beauty of steel towers and stark white buildings, each for some alien and unknown purpose. It was not a cancer on the face of Darkover, but a strange and not unbeautiful garment.

The central tower of the new headquarters building faced the Comyn Castle, which stood across the valley, with an unfortunate aspect. It appeared to Regis that the tall sky-scraper and the old stone castle were squared off and facing one another like two giants armed for combat.

But he knew that was ridiculous. There had been peace between the Terran Empire and the Domains all of his lifetime. The Hasturs made sure of it.

But the thought brought him no comfort. He was not much of a Hastur, he considered, but he was the last. They would make the best of him even though he was a damned poor substitute for his father, and everyone knew it. They'd never let him forget it for a minute.

His father had died fifteen years ago, just a month before Regis had been born. Rafael Hastur had at thirty-five already shown signs of being a strong statesman and leader, deeply loved by his people, respected even by the Terrans. And he had been blown to bits in the Kilghard Hills, killed by contraband weapons smuggled from the Terran Empire. Cut off in the full strength of his youth and promise, he had left only an eleven-year-old daughter and a fragile, pregnant wife. Alanna Elhalyn-Hastur had nearly died of the shock of his death. She had clung fitfully to life only because she knew she was carrying the last of the Hasturs, the longed-for son of Rafael. She had lived, racked with grief, just long enough for Regis to be born alive; then, almost with relief, she had laid her life down.

And after losing his father, after all his mother went through, Regis thought, all they got was him, not the son they would have chosen. He was strong enough physically, even good-looking, but curiously handicapped for a son of the telepathic caste of the Domains, the Comyn. A nontelepath. At fifteen, if he had inherited laran power, he would have shown signs of it.

Behind him, he heard his bodyguards talking in low tones.

“I see they've finished their headquarters building. Hell of a place to put it, within a stone's throw of Comyn Castle.”

“Well, they started to build it back in the Hellers, at Caer Donn. It was old Istvan Hastur, in my grandsire's time, who made them move the spaceport to Thendara. He must have had his reasons.”

“Should have left it there, away from decent folk!”

“Oh, the Terrans aren't all bad. My brother keeps a shop in the Trade City. Anyway, would you want the
Terranan
back in the hills, where those mountain bandits and the damned Aldarans could deal with them behind our backs?”

“Damned savages,” the second man said. “They don't even observe the Compact back there. You see them in the Hellers, wearing their filthy cowards' weapons.”

“What would you expect of the Aldarans?” They lowered their voices, and Regis sighed. He was used to it. He put constraint on everyone, just by being what he was: Comyn and Hastur. They probably thought he could read their minds. Most Comyn could.

“Lord Regis,” said one of his guards, “there's a party of riders coming down the northward road carrying banners. They must be the party from Armida, with Lord Alton. Shall we wait for them and ride together?”

Regis had no particular desire to join another party of Comyn lords, but it would have been an unthinkable breach of manners to say so. At Council season all the Domains met together at Thendara; Regis was bound by the custom of generations to treat them all as kinsmen and brothers. And the Altons
were
his kinsmen.

They slackened pace and waited for the other riders. They were still high on the slopes, and he could see past Thendara to the spread-out spaceport itself. A great distant sound, like a faraway waterfall, made the ground vibrate like thunder, even where he stood. A tiny toylike form began to rise far out on the spaceport, slowly at first, then faster and faster. The sound peaked to a faint scream; the shape was a faraway streak, a dot, was gone.

Regis let his breath go. A starship of the Empire, outward bound for distant worlds, distant suns. . . . Regis realized his fists had clenched so tightly on the reins that his horse tossed its head, protesting. He slackened them and gave the horse an absentminded, apologetic pat on the neck. His eyes were still riveted on the spot in the sky where the starship had vanished.

Outward bound, free for the immeasurable immensities of space, the ship was headed to worlds whose wonders he, chained down here, could never guess. His throat felt tight. He wished he were not too old to cry, but the heir to Hastur could not make any display of unmanly emotion in public. He wondered why he was getting so worked up about this, but he knew the answer: that ship was going where he could never go.

The riders from the pass were nearer now; Regis could identify some of them. Next to his bannerman rode Kennard, Lord Alton, a stooped, heavy-set man with red hair going gray. Except for Danvan Hastur, Regent of the Comyn, Kennard was probably the most powerful man in the Seven Domains. Regis had known Kennard all his life; as a child, he had called him uncle. Behind him, among a whole assembly of kinsmen, servants, bodyguards and poor relations, he saw the banner of the Ardais Domain, so Lord Dyan must be with them.

One of Regis' guards said in an undertone, “I see the old buzzard has both his bastards with him. Wonder how he has the face?”

“Old Kennard can face anything, and make Hastur like it,” returned the other man in a prison-yard mutter. “Anyway, young Lew's not a bastard; Kennard got him legitimated so he could work in the Arilinn Tower. The younger one—” The guard saw Regis glance his way and he stiffened; the expression slid off his face as if a sponge had wiped it blank.

Damn it, Regis thought irritably, I can't read your mind, man, I've just got good, normal ears. But in any case, he realized, he had overheard an insolent remark about a Comyn lord, and the guard would have been embarrassed about that. There was an old proverb:
The mouse in the walls may look at a cat, but he is wise not to squeak about it.

Regis, of course, knew the old story. Kennard had done a shocking, even a shameful thing: he had taken, in honorable marriage, a half-Terran woman, kin to the renegade Domain of Aldaran. Comyn Council had never accepted the marriage or the sons. Not even for Kennard's sake.

Kennard rode toward Regis. “Greetings, Lord Regis. Are you riding to Council?”

Regis felt exasperated at the obviousness of the question—where else would he be going, on this road, at this season?—until he realized that the formal words implied recognition as an adult. He replied, with equally formal courtesy, “Yes, kinsman, my grandsire has requested that I attend council this year.”

“Have you been all these years in the monastery at Nevarsin, kinsman?”

Kennard knew perfectly well where he had been, Regis reflected; when his grandfather couldn't think of any other way to get Regis off his hands, he packed him away to Saint-Valentine-of-the-Snows. But it would have been a fearful breach of manners to mention this before the assembly so he merely said, “Yes, he entrusted my education to the
cristoforos;
I have been there three years.”

“Well, that was a hell of a way to treat the heir to Hastur,” said a harsh, musical voice. Regis looked up and recognized Lord Dyan Ardais, a pale, tall, hawk-faced man he had seen making brief visits to the monastery. Regis bowed and greeted him. “Lord Dyan.”

Dyan's eyes, keen and almost colorless—there was said to be
chieri
blood in the Ardais—rested on Regis. “I told Hastur that only a fool would send a boy to be brought up in that place. But I gathered that he was much occupied with affairs of state, such as settling all the troubles the
Terranan
have brought to our world. I offered to have you fostered at Ardais; my sister Elorie bore no living child and would have welcomed a kinsman to rear. But your grandsire, I gather, thought me no fit guardian for a boy your age.” He gave a faint, sarcastic smile. “Well, you seem to have survived three years at the hands of the
cristoforos
. How was it in Nevarsin, Regis?”

“Cold.” Regis hoped that settled that.

“How well I remember,” Dyan said, laughing. “I was brought up by the brothers, too, you know. My father still had his wits then—or enough of them to keep me well out of sight of his various excesses. I spent the whole five years shivering.”

Kennard lifted a gray eyebrow. “I don't remember that it was so cold.”

“But you were warm in the guesthouse,” Dyan said with a smile. “They keep fires there all year, and you could have had someone to warm your bed if you chose. The students' dormitory at Nevarsin—I give you my solemn word—is the coldest place on Darkover. Haven't you watched those poor brats shivering their way through the offices? Have they made a
cristoforo
of you, Regis?”

Regis said briefly, “No, I serve the Lord of Light, as is proper for a son of Hastur.”

Kennard gestured to two lads in the Alton colors, and they rode forward a little way. “Lord Regis,” he said formally, “I ask leave to present my sons: Lewis-Kennard Montray-Alton; Marius Montray-Lanart.”

Regis felt briefly at a loss. Kennard's sons were not accepted by Council, but if Regis greeted them as kinsmen and equals, he would give them Hastur recognition. If not, he would affront his kinsman. He was angry at Kennard for making this choice necessary, especially when there was nothing about Comyn etiquette or diplomacy that Kennard did not know.

Lew Alton was a tall, sturdy young man, five or six years older than Regis. He said with a wry smile, “It's all right, Lord Regis, I was legitimated and formally designated heir a couple of years ago. It's quite permissible for you to be polite to me.”

Regis felt his face flaming with embarrassment. He said, “Grandfather wrote me the news; I had forgotten. Greetings, cousin, have you been long on the road?”

“A few days,” Lew said. “The road is peaceful, although my brother, I think, found it a long ride. He's very young for such a journey. You remember Marius, don't you?”

Regis realized with relief that Marius, called Montray-Lanart instead of Alton because he had not yet been accepted as a legitimate son, was only twelve years old—too young in any case for a formal greeting. The question could be sidestepped by treating him as a child. He said, “You've grown since I last saw you, Marius. I don't suppose you remember me at all. You're old enough now to ride a horse, at least. Do you still have the little gray pony you used to ride at Armida?”

Marius answered politely, “Yes, but he's out at pasture; he's old and lame, too old for such a trip.”

Kennard looked annoyed. Diplomacy indeed! His grandfather would be proud of him, Regis considered, even if he was not proud of himself for the art of double tongues. Fortunately, Marius was not old enough to know he'd been snubbed. It occurred to Regis how ridiculous it was for boys their own age to address one another so formally anyway. Lew and he used to be close friends. The years at Armida, before Regis went to the monastery, they were as close as brothers. And now Lew was calling him Lord Regis! It was stupid!

Kennard looked at the sky. “Shall we ride on? It's near sunset and sure to rain. It would be a nuisance to have to stop and pack away the banners. And your grandfather will be eager to see you, Regis.”

“My grandfather has been spared my presence for three years,” Regis said dryly. “I am sure he can endure another hour or so. But it would be better not to ride in the dark.”

Protocol said that Regis should ride beside Kennard and Lord Dyan, but instead he dropped back to ride beside Lew Alton. Marius was riding with a boy about Regis' own age, who looked so familiar that Regis frowned, trying to recall where they'd met.

While the entourage was getting into line, Regis sent his banner-bearer to ride at the head of the column with those of Ardais and Alton. He watched the man ride ahead with the silver-and-blue fir-tree emblem of Hastur and the
casta
slogan,
Permanedál
.
I shall remain,
he translated wearily, yes, I shall stay here and be a Hastur whether I like it or not.