Heritage and Exile (93 page)

“I don't think they have much choice,” said Danilo. “Whatever his reasons, I don't like it.”

“Then, if you are given a chance to speak in Council you had better say so,” Regis said. “Dyan is expecting you, and Grandfather, no doubt, awaiting me. You had better go.”

“Is this the hospitality of the Hasturs?” Danilo teased. But he gave Regis a quick, hard hug, and went. Regis stood in the door of his room, watching Danilo cross the outer hallway of the suite, and briefly come face to face with Lord Hastur.

Danilo bowed and said cheerfully, “A good morning to you, my lord.”

Danvan Hastur scowled in displeasure, grunting the barest of uncivil greetings; it sounded like “H'rrumph!” He went on without raising his head. Danilo blinked in surprise, but went out the door without speaking. Regis, his mouth tightening with exasperation, went to comb his hair and ask his valet to lay out his ceremonial garb for Council.

Through the window the fog was lifting; high across the valley he could see the Terran HQ, a white skyscraper reddened with the glint of the red sun. His body-servant was fussing with the robes. Regis looked at them in distaste.

I am weary of doing things for no better reason than that the Hasturs have always done them that way,
he thought, and the man flinched nervously as if Regis's uneasy thoughts could reach him. Maybe they could.

He stared morosely at the skyscraper, thinking: if his grandfather had been wise, he should have had the same kind of Terran education as poor Marius. If his grandfather indeed perceived the Terrans as the enemy, all the more so, then—a wise man will take the measure of his enemy, and know his powers.

Regis stopped, the comb halfway to his hair. Suddenly he knew why Danvan Hastur had not done just that.

His grandfather, in the little breakfast room, was still scowling as Regis drew up his chair. Regis said a polite good morning and waited until the servant had gone.

“Grandsire, if you cannot be courteous to my sworn man, I will find quarters elsewhere.”

“Do you expect me to approve?” asked the old man in frigid displeasure.

“I expect you to admit I am a grown man with the right to choose my own companions,” Regis said hotly. “If I brought a woman here for the night, and she was any sort of respectable woman, you would show her civility, at least. Danilo is as well born as I—or you yourself, sir! If I spoke like that to one of
your
friends, you would say I deserved a beating!”

Old Hastur clamped his lips tight, and even a non-telepath could have read his thoughts:
that was different.

Regis said angrily, “Grandfather, it is not as if I were carousing in common taverns, disgracing the Hastur name by letting myself be seen in brothels and such places as the Golden Cage, or keeping a perfumed minion as the Drytowners do—”

“Silence! How dare you speak of such things to me?” Hastur clamped his lips in anger. He gestured to the breakfast table. “Sit down and eat; you will be late for Council.” As Regis hesitated he commanded dryly, “Do as you are told, boy. This is no time for tantrums!”

Regis clenched his fists. The quick wave of anger almost dizzied him. He said icily, “Sir, you have spoken to me as if I were a child for the last time!” He turned and went out of the room, disregarding his grandfather's shocked “Regis!”

As he walked through the labyrinthine corridors of Comyn Castle, his fists were clenched, and he felt as if a weight were pressing inward on his chest. It had been only a matter of time; this quarrel had been building for years, and it was just as well it should be in the open.

In all save this I have been an obedient grandson, I have done everything he asked of me; I am sworn to obey him as the Head of the Domain. But I will not be spoken to as if I were ten years old—never again.
When he entered the Ardais apartments he was still fighting back a wholly uncharacteristic fury. The servant who let him in said an automatic,
“Su serva, dom . . .”
and broke off to ask, “Are you ill, sir?”

Regis shook his head. “No—but ask Lord Danilo if he will see me at once.”

The message was carried, but answered by Danilo himself coming to the outer room. “Regis! What are you doing here?”

“I came to ask if I may join you at breakfast,” said Regis, more calmly than he felt, and Dyan, appearing in the doorway, already in the ceremonial black and silver of Council, said quickly, “Yes, come and join us, my dear fellow! I wanted a chance to speak with you, in any case.”

He went back toward the breakfast room, and Danilo murmured in an undertone, “What's wrong?”

“I'll tell you later, if I may. Grandfather and I had words,” Regis muttered, “Leave it for now, will you?”

“Set another place for Dom Regis,” Dyan ordered. Regis took a seat. Danilo looked at him, a swift questioning look, as he unfolded a napkin, but asked nothing aloud, and Regis was grateful.

He must know that I quarreled with Grandfather, and why.
But he said nothing more, except for a complimentary remark about the food. Dyan himself ate sparingly, a little bread and fruit, but he had provided an assortment of hot breads, broiled meat and fried cakes; when Danilo commented on this, Dyan said, with a comical emphasis, “I am quite experienced at judging the—appetites—of young men.” He caught Regis's eye for a moment, and Regis looked at his plate.

When they had finished and were idling over some fruits, Dyan said, “Well, Dani, I'm glad Regis joined us; I really wanted to talk to both of you. Most of the business of the Council has finished; this will be the final session, and because of the mourning for Kennard, everything's been put off to this last session. And there's much to be done. The heritage of Alton has to be settled—”

“I thought it was settled when Lew came back,” Regis said, his heart sinking as he realized what Dyan was driving at.

Dyan sighed. “I know he is your friend, Regis, but look at realities, will you, without sentiment? It's a pity Kennard died without formally disinheriting him—”

“Why would he do that?” Regis asked, resentfully.

“Don't be a fool, lad! If he hadn't been mortally wounded and ill, you know as well as I that he'd have stood trial before the Comyn for treason, for that Sharra business, and been formally exiled. I don't have any ill will toward him—” but Dyan's glance slid uneasily away as Regis faced him, “and I've no desire to see Kennard's son cast out or stripped of wealth and power. Lew has no son, nor is likely to have, from something I heard—no, don't ask me where. A compromise might be worked out whereby he could have Armida, or its revenues, or both, for his lifetime, but—”

“I suppose you want to set up Gabriel in his place,” Regis said. “I heard that song from Grandfather; I didn't think you would sing it too!”

“With Marius dead, it seems reasonable, doesn't it? I have no wish to see Alton heritage in Hastur hands. But there
is
an Alton child. Fostered in a good, loyal Domain—perhaps even in the care of Prince Derik and Linnell—that child could be trusted to bring back the honor of the Alton Domain.”

“A child of Marius? Or of Kennard?”

“I'd rather not say anything about it until arrangements have been made,” Dyan evaded, “but I give you my word of honor, the child's an Alton, and with potential
laran.
Regis, you are Lew's friend; can't you persuade him to step down and hand over the Domain in return for an assurance that during his lifetime he'll have Armida unquestioned? What do you think of that plan?”

It stinks to high heaven,
Regis thought, but he cast about for some more diplomatic way of saying it. “Why not put it up to Lew? He's never been ambitious, and if this child is an Alton, he might perfectly well agree to adopt him and name the youngster his Heir.”

“Lew's too damned much of a Terran,” Dyan said. “He's lived in the Empire for years. I wouldn't trust him, now, to bring up a Comyn Heir.”

“Kinsman,” said Danilo, in the most formal mode; then he paused and walked restlessly to the window. Regis and Danilo were lightly in rapport, and Regis could see, through his friend's eyes, the view of the high mountain pass above Thendara and the scattered watch-fires of Beltran's army. Abruptly Danilo swung around and said to Dyan angrily, “You pretend to be afraid of Lew because of his Terran education and because of Sharra! Have you forgotten that Beltran, out there, was part of the Sharra rebellion too? And
that's
the man you're trying to bring into the Comyn as full partner?”

“Beltran's devoted himself to undoing what his father did. Kermiac was a Terran lackey; but when Beltran became Lord Aldaran, he renounced that—”

“And renounced honor, decency and the laws of hospitality,” said Danilo angrily. “You weren't there, sir, when he last decided to take action! I saw Caer Donn burning!”

Dyan shrugged slightly. “A Terran city. What a pity he didn't burn one or two more while he was at it! Don't you see, Beltran can use Sharra against the Terrans, to give us the upper hand if they continue to—encroach—on our good will and our world.”

Regis and Danilo stared at him in horror. Finally Regis said, “Kinsman, I think you speak this way because you do not know much about Sharra. It cannot be tamed that way, and used as a weapon—”

“We would not have to use it,” Dyan said. “The Terrans, too, remember Caer Donn and the burning of the spaceport there. The threat would be enough.”

Dyan asked angrily, “Have you too, Regis, been seduced by the Empire? I never thought to see the day when a Hastur would speak treason!”

“I think what you say is worse than treason, Dyan,” Regis said, struggling for calm. “I cannot believe that you would do what you censured Lew for doing—make compromise with Beltran to bring back all those old terrors out of the Ages of Chaos! I know Beltran. You do not.”

“Don't I?” asked Dyan, his eyes glinting strangely.

“If you do, and you still wish this alliance—”

“Look here,” said Dyan harshly, interrupting him, “what we face now is the very survival of the Comyn—you know that. We need a strong Comyn, firmly allied against those who would hand us over to the Terrans. The Ridenow have already gone over—or haven't you heard Lerrys's favorite speech? Write off the Ridenow. Write off Lew—a cripple, half Terran, with nothing to lose! Write off the Elhalyn—” and as Danilo began a formal protest he gestured him imperatively to silence. “If you don't know that Derik's a halfwit, you're the only one in Council who doesn't. Forget about the Aillard—
Domna
Callina is a sheltered woman, a Keeper, a Tower-dweller; she can't do much, but I do have some influence, praise to Aldones, on
Dom
Merryl.” His grin was wolfish. “What does that leave? The three of us in this room, Merryl, and your grandfather—who's over a hundred, and although he's still sharp-witted enough, he can't go on forever! In the name of all of Zandru's frozen hells, Regis, need I say anything more?”

And this is the burden of being a Hastur,
Regis thought wearily.
This is only the beginning. More and more they will come to me for such decisions.

“You think that means we must make an alliance with Aldaran, even at the cost of betraying the legitimate Heads of two Domains?” he asked.

“Two Domains? Lew would have been exiled six years ago, and it seems to me we are being generous with him,” Dyan said.

“And
Domna
Callina? Is a Keeper nothing more than a woman to be married off for a political alliance?”

“If she wished to remain a Keeper,” said Dyan savagely, “she should have remained within her Tower and refrained from trying to meddle in Council affairs! Tell me, Regis, will you stand with me in Council, or are you going to side with the Ridenow and hand us over to the Terrans without making a fight for Darkover?”

Regis bent his head. Put starkly like that, it seemed to give him no choice. Dyan had neatly mousetrapped him into seeming to agree, and either way, he betrayed someone. Lew was his sworn friend from childhood. Painfully he remembered the years he had spent at Armida, running about like a puppy at Lew's heels, wearing his outgrown clothes, riding, hawking, fighting at his side in the fire-lines when the Kilghard Hills went up in flame; remembered a tie even stronger, even older than that with Danilo; the first fierce loyalty of his life. Lew, his sworn friend and foster-brother.

Maybe this was best after all. Lew had said, again and again, that he wants no power in Comyn. Certainly Regis could not allow Dyan to believe that he would side against the Hasturs, and for the Terrans. Regis swallowed hard, trying to weigh loyalties. For all of Dyan's harshness, he knew that the older man was a shrewd judge of political reality. The thought of Darkover and the Domains in the hands of the Terrans, one more colony in a star-spanning Empire, came hard. But there seemed no middle way.

“I will never compromise with Sharra,” he said wearily, “I draw the line there.”

“If you stand firmly with me,” said Dyan, “we will never need to use it. If we take a firm line, the threat is enough—”

“I don't believe that,” said Danilo. “Sharra—” he stopped and Regis knew Danilo was seeing what he saw, the monstrous form of fire, blanking every matrix in the vicinity, drawing power even from those who hated it . . . death, destruction, burning!