Hastur Lord (3 page)

In the parlor, a fire had been lit on the unadorned stone hearth. Regis halted before it, stretching his chilled fingers. A moment later, the same servant, a man named Marton, who had grown up on the Carcosa estate, brought in a pitcher of
jaco,
placed it on the little table that stood between two armchairs near the fireplace, and silently withdrew.

“The Ridenow will press for full membership, of course.” Danilo poured a mug and settled into his usual chair, cradling it between his hands. “Aldaran will join in, not that they count. Hastur and Elhalyn—well, that’s you, for all practical purposes. With Lew off-planet and Gabriel Lanart as conservative as he is, Alton’s not a worry, either. Who else is there? Aillard? None of them are left. Ardais?”

“Danilo, you’re going through the roll call of the Domains as if there were still a Comyn Council,” Regis said, a little pettishly. “I very much doubt this decision will be made in the old way, by the heads of the Domains conferring together. For the last ten years, the Council has not existed.”

“
You
exist.
You
are still Heir to Hastur.”

Regis shook his head, refusing to be drawn in. He threw himself into the empty chair. “It’s not so simple. The Terrans have things of value to offer us. Many of the common people—businessmen, crafters, those who’ve profited from Terran technology, even some in the Telepath Council—they’ll look favorably on increased access to those benefits. They want things that make a hard life easier: fire- fighting chemicals to protect our forests and the means to deliver them quickly and effectively, fertilizers and nutrients to restore our soil, medicines to prolong life and reduce infant mortality . . .”

“All these things come at a cost,” Danilo reminded him.

“One we have been able to pay, so far. You more than anyone know that I’m no isolationist, not like my grandfather or the Di Asturiens. I know that Darkover must change. I had hoped the Telepath Council would have accomplished more by now. Sometimes, getting them to agree on any action is like—how do the Terrans put it?
herding cats?
”

At that, Danilo laughed. They both relaxed. Regis went on, more seriously, “I wish Mikhail were not off at Armida. His generation will have to live with whatever we decide, so we should ask his opinion. If only for his sake, I will not surrender the dream of an independent,
Darkovan
Darkover, safe from the Empire and its soulless technology. I would have us follow our own path into that future.”

“So you always said,” Danilo smiled, warmth lighting his eyes. He set his half-empty mug on the table. “Many will listen to you. You are Hastur, after all, and you speak with an authority that goes back to the beginning of time.”

Regis looked away, uncomfortable with so much power and half-afraid that he might lack the wisdom to use it. Should one man, no matter how noble his motives, ever wield such overwhelming influence over another?

And yet, if he had not stepped into the position he now held, if he had let others make decisions because he mistrusted his own judgment, Darkover itself and all its people would have paid the price. Once he had asked himself if he sought the love of power or the power of love. He wished the answer were as clear now as it had been then.

Meeting Danilo’s steady gaze, his heart softening in the pulse of acceptance that flowed through their light rapport, Regis almost believed himself worthy of such trust.

“Let’s hope so,” he said, “for I have quarrels enough for the moment. Thanks to Lew, we will have time to plan before the matter of Federation membership becomes public. I should consult my grandfather without delay.”

Danilo’s expression darkened minutely. They both knew that the irascible old man had never relented in pressing Regis to marry and ensure a proper succession. Nor was he the only one. Ruyven Di Asturien would like nothing better than to see his daughter, Crystal, married to Regis; the son she had borne Regis had not lived past his fourth year, but the fact remained that she was fertile, willing, and acceptable to even the most hidebound conservatives.

Together, Regis and Danilo drew up a plan to meet with those members of the Telepath Council who had remained in Thendara for the winter and to contact others through the Tower relays. Danilo suggested that Regis consult Gabriel Lanart-Hastur. Since assuming lordship of the great house at Armida, Gabriel divided his time between running the estate and his duties as Commander of the Guards.

Regis was happy to be doing something, for he never liked waiting for trouble to come to him. However, he was not looking forward to the debate once spring opened the roads and brought people like Valdir and Haldred Ridenow to Thendara.

Leave tomorrow’s sorrows to tomorrow,
the old proverb went. He would do his best to follow it.

After a brief midday meal, Regis set off on foot for Comyn Castle, accompanied as always by Danilo. His grandfather maintained a suite of rooms in the Hastur section. One of the tasks Regis had set for himself in overseeing the running of the Castle was to make sure the old man was well cared for.

He should have retired to Castle Hastur years ago, among his own people.
But Old Hastur, as he was still called, was not yet ready to surrender the reins of power. He insisted he would remain where he was needed.

A servant greeted them at the entrance to the Hastur apartments. Regis found his grandfather in his study, seated before his writing desk and warmed by a merry fire. Danvan Hastur had once been a tall, strongly built man, but age and care had withered him. His hair was pure white now, thinning but neatly combed. The tunic of supple leather, dyed blue and trimmed with silver fir-tree design embroidery, hung on his bony frame. He looked up from the document he had been reading, tracing the lines of script with one finger. The knuckle was swollen, misaligned.

As he studied his grandfather’s face, Regis had the curious feeling that all normal life had been burned out of the old man, leaving Lord Hastur as pure refined will. How old was he, anyway? Over a century, certainly.
Chieri
blood ran in the Hasturs, often granting them exceptionally long lives. To Regis, his grandfather had always seemed immortal, like a force of nature. Now he saw an old man, sustained only by the remains of the fire that had tempered him.

Will I look like this someday?
Regis wondered.
Will that be my face . . . my fate?

“Regis, it is good to see you. No, no formal bowing or anything like that. I’m too tired to get up.”

Unexpectedly moved by the warmth of the greeting, Regis moved to the desk and pressed his cheek against the dry, shriveled side of his grandfather’s face.

After inquiries about one another’s health, mention of the weather and the condition of the streets, Regis and Danilo settled into their respective chairs. The servant came back, bearing a tray with the ubiquitous
jaco
and a plate of custard tarts, the old man’s favorite. Regis took one out of politeness.

Regis outlined the situation as he understood it from Lew Alton’s message. Danvan listened intently. From time to time, the muscles around Danvan’s eyes tightened and he clenched his jaw. Danvan had spent the better part of his very long life engaged in political maneuvering, ever since he had assumed the Regency for the incompetent King Stefan Elhalyn. He had presided over periods of transition and tumult, one crisis after another.

“This is what comes from trying to negotiate with the
Terranan
,” he muttered. “To think that we might become a third-rate colony . . .”

“Sir,” Regis said, “that is exactly what we must find a way to prevent. We are not without resources. Let us not forget that we have friends within the Empire, men of good will who still believe that each world has the right to determine its own fate. Lew Alton still represents us in the Senate, and that will not change when the Terran Empire is replaced by a Federation.”

“If there still
is
a Senate!” Danvan snapped. “We should have held firm right from the beginning. We had no choice in allowing them to land their ships and build their spaceport here. But we should have insisted that the contact end there. We should have forced them to leave us our own way of life and go about their own business without involving us.”

Regis smothered a sigh. They had been over the old argument too many times already, and he saw no point in continuing. The Terran Empire was a fact, impossible to wish away. Banshee chicks could not be put back into their eggs. Given a generation or more of contact with a star-spanning civilization, Darkover could never have continued on its own isolated way.

“Whether we chose rightly or not, we are part of the Empire now,” Regis said. “If we had refused permission for them to build their spaceport here in Thendara, they would have gone elsewhere. Caer Donn was bad enough, but what if they had chosen Shainsa? Would the Dry Town lords, who have never observed the Compact, have hesitated to trade for blasters and worse?”

Danilo drew in a quick, horrified breath. Danvan masked his own reaction better. In a flash, Regis understood that his grandfather had indeed considered the possibility. As long as the Terrans could be restricted to Thendara, could be monitored and regulated, then the possibility of imported, illegal weaponry was minimized. After the Sharra disaster and the destruction of the Terrans’ secondary spaceport at Caer Donn, the Empire officials had reluctantly agreed to abide by the Compact. How long would that memory last?

Regis went on, “The Terrans granted us Closed World status so that we would not suffer debilitating social upheavals from exposure to their culture.”

“Are you defending them?”

Regis shook his head. “No, I am trying to be realistic. Darkover isn’t suitable for industrialization like the city worlds. Between lack of minerals and a fragile ecology, we simply can’t sustain certain kinds of technologies. The Terrans know this as well as we do.”

Danvan’s blue eyes glinted, although his voice sounded as weary as ever. “Do you think that would stop them? It didn’t stop the World Wreckers from doing their best to bring us to the brink of ruin.”

“Then what would you propose we do . . . sir?” Regis struggled to contain his temper.

“We have only one hope of standing against the power of the Terrans as they play on the ignorance and greed of the people.” With each phrase, Danvan gathered momentum like an avalanche in the Hellers. “We need a single, strong man to unite us.”

Regis closed his eyes. In that moment, he was a boy again, trying to stand up to the most influential, charismatic, and legendary figure on Darkover. He felt Danilo sitting not far from him and opened his mind to his
bredhyu’s
calm resolve.

Just listen,
Danilo thought.
He can’t force you into anything.

They both knew what was coming next.

“Why do you think I’ve held on this long?” Danvan’s burst of passion-fueled vigor was fading, and Regis felt, like a shiver in his bones, the brittleness of his grandfather’s failing strength. “I should have retired as Regent long ago. I would have if there had been someone to take my place.”

Stung, Regis shot back, “What more do you want of me? I stayed on Darkover. I pledged myself to Hastur and to our world.”
I’m only one man! There’s only so much I can give, or I will end an empty husk!

“Yes, you have behaved with honor,” Danvan admitted. His voice lost some of its urgency. “No one questions that. You have stepped forward, at great cost to yourself, when a crisis demanded it.”

Regis sat back, surprised by his grandfather’s concession.

“But . . .” Danvan picked up his argument, “you have not fulfilled the one duty that only you, as Heir to Hastur, can perform—to give our caste, our world, our people the leadership to take them safely into the future. Look around you! As you yourself pointed out numerous times, the Comyn are all but gone, a few noble families here and there clinging to the shards of the past. We no longer meet in Council to decide crucial issues and provide guidance. The Towers have never interested themselves in anything beyond their own walls, and now they have to contend with training any ruffian with a trace of
laran
.”

Thanks to your Telepath Council,
Danvan meant.

Regis gritted his teeth. If the old tyrant insisted on pushing his point to its conclusion, let him be the one to do it.

The charred end of a log broke off and tumbled into the bed of ashes, sending up a tiny spark. The mote of brilliance flared and died.

“Regis, my lad, we both know what you must do,” Danvan said, his voice now hoarse with emotion.

No.
Did he speak aloud, or only in his heart?

“You are the only one with the true right.” Danvan shifted to smooth persuasion born from deeply-held belief. “Not even if Aldones himself wished it could we place an Elhalyn on the throne. Your claim is legitimate, since your mother was King Stefan’s only sister. Not even the most hidebound conservatives will oppose you. Rather, they will gladly unite behind you. How can you not see how they need—they
yearn—
for one voice to bring them together, to speak for Darkover?”