Hastur Lord (34 page)

And Linnea? How could he possibly propose to her again in any way that would not be an even graver insult than before?

“If these are truly your terms,” Regis said at last, “then I must accept them. But I swear by all that is sacred that if you play me false, Rinaldo, you will die by my own hand.”

“Never fear, little brother,” Rinaldo said, giving him a brilliant smile. “I too am a Hastur, and my honor is as precious to me as yours is to you.”

“It is done, then,” Regis said, wanting it finished before he lost his nerve.

“It is done.”

Solemnly, Regis took his leave, knowing that he had bartered away the best part of his soul for the two people he loved most in the world.

R
egis paced the length of his townhouse parlor before a hearth as cold and desolate as his heart. One of the servants would have rushed to light the fire, but he had stormed in and locked the door behind him. What was a little cold, a little dark, compared to the monstrous action he had just taken?

He was equally furious at Valdir Ridenow and Rinaldo but most of all at himself. He had saved Danilo’s life but sold him into servitude. He had kept Linnea as safe as he could at the likely cost of a final refusal and then no option but to chain himself to another. That he had not been given a choice was of no importance. He should have found another way to save them. Now he had made his bargain and must live with it.

It was impossible to think clearly when all he wanted to do was hit something. Sick and trembling, he lowered himself to one of the chairs. Not the one he usually sat in, just the nearest. Its unfamiliarity felt right. He did not belong here, in such comfort, in his own home.

Stop it! Self-p ity helps no one!
he railed silently. He must bide his time, wait for a chance . . . outlast Valdir’s ambition—
as if that were possible!
— reason with Rinaldo when they were both calmer . . . get Linnea safely out of the city—
No, don’t even think about her or Stelli!
. . . and find a wife.

He slumped against the rigid chair back.
A wife.
Wouldn’t the gossips of all seven Domains be thrilled with
that
news?

A month. A thrice-damned month. Where was he going to come up with a marriageable woman by then? Javanne would be happy to suggest someone. How she would relish it!

Regis ground his teeth so hard that pain shot through his jaw. Javanne wasn’t his enemy. It would not be fair to ask her advice and then take out his frustrations on her.

He had not slept with any woman besides Linnea since that terrible time of the World Wreckers. The sight of his children, murdered in their cradles, had haunted him. He could not take the chance again. But there might be one or two women from before then . . . Crystal Di Asturien, perhaps. She was a pleasant young woman, although now he remembered how she had made her disapproval of Danilo all too evident.

Crystal, assuming she was still unwed, would be thrilled to become his wife. Even though he was no longer Lord Hastur, she would flaunt her status as if she were a queen. She would never allow him a moment with Danilo, even if Rinaldo relaxed his watch.

And Linnea—

Gods, what was he thinking?
Linnea
!

He buried his face in his hands. The knowledge that he had chosen another would wound her deeply. It would be a repudiation not only of herself but of Kierestelli and their unborn son.

What was he to do?

The following days brought Regis no closer to resolution. The longer he delayed, the more insulting his proposal would be, giving the bride little time to do anything but catch her breath and don her slippers before the wedding. He forced himself back into society, accepting invitations to one social event after another, but never anything small or intimate. The Ridenow guards accompanied him. Danilo’s absence left an emptiness, an ache like a missing limb. Valdir sometimes attended these events, as well as Rinaldo. Once Regis glimpsed Linnea across the room, but she shook her head, warning him off.

The judge, Estill MacNarron, arrived as agreed, entering through the servants’ gate. They sat together in the room Regis used for business. MacNarron was a heavyset man of middle years and grave countenance with a habit of pausing, one finger pressed to the side of his prominent nose, before speaking.

As Regis presented his case against Valdir, MacNarron’s expression shifted, no longer unreadable but visibly concerned. “I see why you hesitated to put any of this in writing. These are very serious charges but without substantive evidentiary proof. I have only your own testimony, and you were neither victim nor direct witness to the kidnap-pings. You assert you are the victim of extortion but can produce no corroboration. The Word of a Hastur may be proverbial, but I must adhere to a more practical standard. We cannot value the sworn word of any one man above another. In justice, all must be equal. You understand my point, Lord Regis?”

Regis nodded. The situation was very much as he’d feared. Without physical evidence or other witnesses, his case was weak at best. Valdir and Haldred would hardly testify against themselves, Rinaldo saw nothing amiss with the transfer of power, and if Regis brought Mikhail back from Ardais, he would place the boy once more at risk. If he moved forward without proof, he would alert Valdir.

“I’m afraid I’ve brought you here needlessly,” Regis admitted. “I have only my own knowledge of these actions, and anything I say will be denied. The case will be reduced to one man’s word against another, suit and countersuit.”

“We understand each other,” the judge nodded. “Yet I do not consider this conversation
needless
or in vain. It is always of benefit to discuss perplexing matters, to reason things out with someone you can trust. No harm has been done this day, and nothing that was said here shall pass the confines of these walls.”

MacNarron rose, gathering up his outer garments. “I sincerely hope we will have further opportunities to converse, if not on this subject then on another. You have a very interesting mind, Regis Hastur, and I look forward to seeing what you will make of this challenging situation.”

About a tenday after the meeting with Rinaldo, Regis stood beside Javanne and Gabriel, welcoming guests to the main ballroom of Comyn Castle. The party was Javanne’s idea, and Regis hoped she would have the chance to enjoy herself. She clearly derived satisfaction from her work, although the stress left her preoccupied and irritable. She had not even wished Mikhail farewell when he and Kennard-Dyan had departed for Ardais. Now she had organized a resplendent evening, the hall as brilliant and lavishly decorated as it would be for a Midsummer festival, the music lively, the food and drink all the best.

Dan Lawton and his wife arrived along with several other Terran dignitaries and joined the queue to greet their hosts. Tiphani, having murmured brief thanks, headed for Rinaldo.

The Legate watched them, his mouth frozen in perfect diplomatic cordiality, then turned back. “Lord Regis, it’s good to see you again.” He held out his right hand, Terran style.

Regis hesitated. Dan had been on Darkover long enough to know how disturbing casual physical touch was for telepaths. The gesture had been deliberate. Regis slipped his hand into Dan’s and felt the rush of thoughts and emotions, catalyzed by the direct skin contact.

Regis cut off the mental contact. He could bear many things, but to reveal his personal torment was not one of them. Quickly he composed himself, aware that the Ridenow guards were close enough to overhear the conversation.

“I’m well, as you see,” Regis said smoothly. “How is
Mestra
Lawton? And your son?”

From the flicker in Dan’s eyes and the residue of psychic contact, Regis sensed his friend’s concern. Not for Felix—the mental image had been encouraging, if complex.

Regis glanced in her direction. She was still talking with Rinaldo, their heads bent together. Her face was flushed, her eyes a little too bright, her gestures a little too wild. He could not read her emotions in the swirl of partygoers.

The next guests in the reception line inched forward. In a moment, Regis would be obliged by politeness to greet them.

“Has there been any news from our mutual friend?” Regis asked.

“Nothing but routine business.” By his tone, Dan implied the matter was of no importance. “All is quiet for the moment.”

“Your Excellency.” Valdir Ridenow appeared at Dan’s shoulder, dressed in Ridenow orange and green. A chain of heavy copper links set with enamel medallions in the same colors, of the finest Carthon artisanship and worth a small fortune, hung around his neck. His smile did not touch his eyes.

“
Dom
Valdir, it’s a pleasure,” Dan replied, returning the Ridenow lord’s bow with the correct degree of formality.

“I’ve been hoping for a word with you,” Valdir said, holding out one arm to invite the Legate to step aside.

“Oh, surely there can be no occasion for serious talk on an evening like this.” Without a backward glance, Dan guided Valdir toward the table where lavish refreshments had been laid out. “I’ve come prepared to relax and enjoy myself. Is it true that whenever three Darkovans get together, they hold a dance?”

Regis turned to the next guests. Properly cordial greetings flowed from his mouth without him having to think of what to say.

As usual, a dozen or so young ladies of good birth and fortune competed for Regis as a dance partner. They did it with varying degrees of flirtation. In any other circumstances, he might have enjoyed their attentions. Now he could not help wondering, with each sidelong glance, each heave of youthful breasts, whether they knew of his urgent need to find a wife.

Nauseated at the entire business, he forced himself to respond graciously even as he avoided any appearance of preference. He never danced with the same woman twice and only danced those sets that involved changing partners.

In one of these, he found himself unexpectedly paired with Linnea. Her gown of pale green silk, cut full around the waist, could not disguise her pregnancy. The color ought to have turned her skin the color of cream against the glory of her hair, but she looked ashen, her eyes huge and dark, almost bruised. Despite this, or perhaps because of it, his heart opened to her. He thought she had never looked so beautiful or so brave.

They moved through the figures of the dance, passing shoulders, never touching. Her skirts swung gracefully, giving her the aspect of a woodland creature. At the end of a slow spin, she stumbled. He reached out to steady her. His fingers closed around hers, and in that instant, her powerful trained
laran
rushed into his mind.

He sent a pulse of unconditional assent.
When? Where?

Before he could reply, the movement of the dance swirled them away from one another and on to new partners.

Later, Regis noticed Rinaldo crossing the floor with Javanne on his arm. From what he glimpsed between the patterns of the dancers, Javanne was performing introductions between Rinaldo and Linnea. Linnea inclined her head, the abbreviated acknowledgment of a Keeper who bows to no man, and glided from the room.