Hastur Lord (48 page)

Regis grasped Javanne’s shoulders and forced her to look at him. She flinched at the first contact, but she did not resist. Her eyes reflected things that were not there.

Breda.
Gently he opened his mind to hers, inviting her permission to make contact. She lowered her barriers.

He moved through the brittle flare of her terror, the confusion and grief—not only the loss of her daughter but the festering resentment over Mikhail, the son taken from her years ago to be the Hastur heir Regis needed. He sensed love twisting into bitterness and blame, at herself, at Mikhail for deserting the family—
running away to Ardais to save his own cowardly skin—n o longer a son of mine!—

I must do something to ease her hurt,
he thought, but had no time for it now.

At least Mikhail is beyond Rinaldo’s reach.
For the moment.

Regis turned his attention back to the churning morass of his sister’s emotions.
You are Hastur, and Comynara, grand- daughter of the greatest statesman of our time.

The crazed light in her eyes shifted, now a clear blue mirror. He conjured images of a woman whose sense of honor and duty had made her a credit to her Domain, one who had taken on responsibilities far beyond her age. A competent, resourceful wife and mother . . .

Regis startled at Linnea’s light touch on his arm. He had lost all sense of passing time. Javanne slumped beside him, pale and drained but calmer. Merilys entered with a tray bearing a pitcher of
jaco,
a tureen of soup, a plate of cheeses, and a basket of nut- studded rolls. At first hesitantly and then with ravenous speed, Javanne devoured the meal.

“I will speak with Rinaldo,” Regis assured her. “He still respects my counsel. I will make him see reason.”

“We must think carefully on how to proceed,” Linnea said.

Javanne got to her feet. “I had best return to the Castle, so messages can reach me without delay.” She looked a little unsteady as she took her cloak from the servant.

Regis asked one of servants to order a litter for Javanne’s comfort. When it came, she paused at the door, gave Regis a hard look, and then departed.

“If you were anyone else, I doubt she would trust you.” Linnea dropped into a chair and closed her eyes. The skin around her mouth had gone white.

Regis took one of her hands in his, feeling the chill in her slender fingers. “I must go to my brother. I cannot allow my sister to suffer like this.”

“You must not go.” Linnea shook her head. “Not yet.”

He knelt beside her, peering into her drawn face. Her eyes burned against the paleness of her skin. “There is no one else he will listen to.”

“Ah, my love, for a man who has grown up in a hotbed of Comyn politics, you are an incurable idealist. Don’t you see? He’ll come after
our
children next if you dare breathe a word against him. Your plan to guide him has failed.”

His muscles went soft with horror. He wanted to contradict her, but in the pit of his belly, he knew she was right.

Regis could not accept that Rinaldo was beyond persuasion. He must give his brother a chance. What else could he do, he who had placed Rinaldo in a position of such power?

Something red and hot, implacable, surged up behind his throat.

“We must get the children beyond his reach,” Regis said. “You’ll have to go, too.”

She lifted her chin, and he saw the negation in her eyes. “That would set the hunt on us for certain. I must remain here, visible. But you must take Stelli to safety.”

“Leave you—at the mercy of kidnappers?”

“I am not helpless.” She drew herself up, and an invisible mantle of power shimmered around her shoulders. “I was a Keeper, and no man touches me without leave. I will be able to keep Dani close to me and protect him, but I cannot see to both children. Stelli is more vulnerable, for she is at the right age for Rinaldo’s school. Regis, promise to take her to those who will understand her—not the Terrans!”

Regis clambered to his feet. He could not afford the luxury of deliberation. The situation called for speed.

Where would his daughter be safely beyond the reach of even a Hastur Lord? And who would nurture her spirit?

Regis summoned a servant and ordered a horse to be made ready immediately. The Armida black was too old, so it must be the dun gelding. He would travel as he had before, in plain clothes, with his face and hair hidden.

“I’ll be but a moment.” He paused at the door to look back at Linnea. “See that she’s warmly dressed.”

Linnea did not ask where he was going. They both understood that no one, not even she herself, must have that knowledge.

Regis never knew what Linnea told the little girl. When, a quarter of an hour later, he swung her up on the saddle in front of him, Kierestelli looked at him gravely and said nothing. Linnea had bundled her in a servant’s cloak. She was so light, like a bird. With a pang, he thought how easily those winged creatures could be broken.

Linnea had packed a set of saddlebags such as any man out for a casual ride might carry. She handed Regis a leather belt, heavy with hidden coins. Kierestelli reached out a hand to her mother; Linnea touched the girl’s fingertips, and Regis felt the connection between them.

The dun pulled at the bit, snorting in excitement. Regis stroked the heavy neck; the beast would need all its strength for the road ahead. Linnea swung the gate open.

A hundred phrases rose to his tongue and died there.

Aloud, he said, “Do what you can to hide my absence. I may be a tenday or more.”

She nodded, a quick decisive dip of her chin, a pulse of warmth caressing his mind, and then the dun surged through the opening and the gate closed behind them.

The most difficult part would be getting out of the city. Too many of the Guards knew him, but most recognized only the trappings of a Hastur Lord, not his features or posture. They would expect him to have an escort, for he rarely left his own walls without Danilo or a Guardsman.

No alarm had yet been raised. Unless Rinaldo meant to seize hostages from all his family members—a thing Regis could not contemplate even now—there would be no reason to forbid Regis from leaving the city. If questioned, Regis would simply have to bluff his way through as he’d done in his younger days.

As luck would have it, as Regis neared the Traders Gate, a procession approached from outside, some in costumes resembling monk’s robes, others in rags.

Mingled with the ringing of bells, the chanting grew louder. Farmers drew their carts aside, worsening the congestion at the gate. Until that moment, Regis had never thought any good might come from Rinaldo’s pilgrimages.

The Guardsmen rushed to tackle the disorder, leaving a space wide enough for a single horse. Regis touched his heels to the dun, and it surged through the opening. Once beyond, Regis maneuvered through the milling pilgrims, farmers, wagons, and laden pack animals. A white-bearded fellow in a shepherd’s coat pulled his
chervine
team to a halt to let him pass. “The lass looks ill.”

Regis nodded his thanks. These simple people saw him not as a Comyn lord but as a father with a child in his arms.

In a surprisingly short time, the open road lay before them. There was still no sign of alarm or pursuit. Regis lifted the reins, and the dun shifted into an easy, ground-covering jog.

Kierestelli huddled against his chest, enduring the jarring gait without complaint. As they climbed the long slope into the Venza Hills, Regis drew the horse to a walk, letting it breathe. Near the top of the pass, he halted.

“Let’s rest here. Would you like to walk a bit?”

She jumped lightly to the ground. Regis was glad to stretch his legs. He’d been too long in the city and too little in the saddle. Joints and muscles unaccustomed to long riding would be sore tomorrow.

The child looked back on the city. “I’m not coming back, am I, Papa?”

“Of course you are,” he hastened to reply. “I will come for you when the trouble is past.”

She seemed all at once bewildered and wise, terrified and unshaken. He did not want to frighten her with tales of men who would threaten children. He would have given anything to reassure her that the world was a safe place and everyone wished her well.

It would be a lie, as he himself had learned at an early age. When this crisis had passed, there would be other threats. No child of his could ever be carefree, not until the four moons fell from the sky. There would always be a compelling cause and a man willing to use violence to advance it.

This was why the Comyn had adopted the Compact, to limit violence to weapons that placed the user at equal risk. No
clingfire
would rain destruction from the skies, no bonewater dust would poison generations to come. No
laran
-fueled inferno would turn cities to ashes and spaceships to crumpled wreckage.

Was Rinaldo guilty of another violation of the Compact by seizing little Ariel, who had no means to defend herself? Regis thrust the thought aside. He would deal with his brother once this precious daughter was safe.

While these thoughts jumbled in his mind, Kierestelli had been studying him. In her silvery gaze, he read trust but also a growing wariness. She understood, in a deep, wordless fashion, that she was being taken away from those who wished her harm . . . because the adults she depended upon could protect her in no other way. He wanted to deny it, to weep with helpless anguish.

“If . . . anything happens, no one must know who you are,” he said as they mounted up again. Thendara’s towers disappeared behind the curve of the sharply rising hills.

“Am I to have a new name? Am I to forget you and Mama?”

Such questions from so young a child.
His heart ached.

“I hope you will never forget us as we will never forget you. But a new name is a good idea, don’t you think? A temporary name for the time you are away. Would you like to choose it?”

“I will think of one.”

Days passed, falling into a rhythm of travel. Skills Regis had not used in years came back to him: how to set a pace that both rider and horse could maintain, when to rest, where to find water and food. At first, they came upon an inn or small village at the end of each day’s travel. Here they found stabling for the horse, hot meals for themselves, and sometimes a bath. As the lands grew wilder, human dwellings became scarce. Regis was leery of using the public travel-shelters for fear of being remarked and remembered. They might also encounter bandits who, caring nothing for shelter-truce, would see him as one man to be easily overpowered, his goods and horse seized. In the end, he took the risk. If he had been alone, he might have chanced finding what shelter he could. The nights were still cold and wet with freezing rain turning into snow, and he decided the greater danger was to Kierestelli’s health. Fortunately, they never met other travelers. Some god—Aldones himself—watched over them.

They reached the River Kadarin on a sullen gray afternoon. The water was turbulent with its own storms. Froth laced the slate-dark water. The far shore was rocky, the trees leafless and stark as a thicket of thorns. A bitter wind whipped down from the Hellers. The dun tossed its head, tail clamped against rump. It didn’t like this place.

Me, either.
Regis remembered stories of wolves ravening through the wild lands beyond the Kadarin. Human wolves roamed there as well.

The bank curved into a natural cove where a ferry boat was tied up at a wharf. A hut and outbuildings stood nearby, and a thread of smoke curled upward from a crude stone chimney.

Regis called out a greeting. An old man emerged from the hut in response. His beard was a wisp of river foam, his back bent, and his movements spare and nimble. He halted a few paces from the horse and swung his head from side to side in an odd searching gesture. Cataracts whitened his eyes.

“We seek river passage, friend. Is the ferryman about?”

“He stands here before you.”

Before Regis could stop her, Kierestelli jumped to the ground. She showed no fear, only curiosity. Awe lighted the ferryman’s weathered features.

“Forgive me, Child of Grace! I never thought to behold one of the beautiful folk!”

Kierestelli turned back to Regis with puzzlement in her eyes. “Papa, what does he mean?”

Blessed Cassilda, he thinks she’s a
chieri!