Hastur Lord

Table of Contents

 

 

 

 

 

SWORD AND SORCERESS I-XXI

 

 

EXILE’S SONG
THE SHADOW MATRIX
TRAITOR’S SUN

 

THE ALTON GIFT
HASTUR LORD
(With Deborah J. Ross)

 

The Clingfire Trilogy
(With Deborah J. Ross)
THE FALL OF NESKAYA
ZANDRU’S FORGE
A FLAME IN HALI

 

 

HERITAGE AND EXILE
The Heritage of Hastur | Sharra’s Exile

 

THE AGES OF CHAOS
Stormqueen! | Hawkmistress!

 

THE SAGA OF THE RENUNCIATES
The Shattered Chain | Thendara House
City of Sorcery

 

THE FORBIDDEN CIRCLE
The Spell Sword | The Forbidden Tower

 

A WORLD DIVIDED
The Bloody Sun | The Winds of Darkover
Star of Danger

 

DARKOVER: FIRST CONTACT
Darkover Landfall | Two To Conquer

TO SAVE A WORLD
The World Wreckers | The Planet Savers

Copyright © 2010 by The Marion Zimmer Bradley Literary Works Trust

 

All Rights Reserved.

 

 

DAW Book Collectors No. 1497.

 

DAW Books are distributed by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

 

 

All characters in this book are fictitious.
Any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

 

 

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eISBN : 978-1-101-19670-0

 

 

 

 

First printing, January 2010

 

 

Marion Zimmer Bradley: To Cynthia McQuillin, who allows me to indulge my favorite vice, talking about Darkover.

—July 26, 1998

 

Deborah J. Ross: To Betsy Wollheim, who preserved what Marion had written, until it was to time to finish it.

—December 19, 2008

Marion Zimmer Bradley: For those with an obsessive need to know which book comes after which on Darkover, these events occur after
The World Wreckers
and before
Exile’s Song—
about ten years.

 

Deborah J. Ross: Marion created Darkover over the span of three decades, from the 1962 publication of
Planet Savers
and
Sword of Aldones
until her death in 1999. Over the years, she developed, matured, and reworked many aspects of this rich, marvelous world. In such a process, given that Marion never let previously published details interfere with a good story, minor inconsistencies of geography and time are inevitable. What is important is that each story be whole in itself and emotionally satisfying.

A
bove the ancient city of Thendara, the great crimson sun of Darkover crept toward midday. Winter was drawing to a close, yet even at this hour, shadows stretched across the narrow, twisting streets of the Old Town. Snowfall had been light for the last tenday, and the marketplaces surged with renewed life, anticipating the approach of spring.

Regis Hastur, the Heir of his Domain, stood on a balcony of Comyn Castle and wrapped his fur-lined cloak more tightly around his shoulders. He was a tall man in his mid thirties, with startling white hair and the intense masculine beauty of his clan. His gaze slowly swept from the spires and towers of Thendara to the Terran Trade City, the rising steel edifice of the Empire Headquarters complex and, still farther, the spaceport.

Throughout this past winter, he had divided his time between attending sessions of the Cortes, negotiating disputes and trade agreements between city magistrates and various guilds, and meeting with representatives of the Terran Empire and diplomatic envoys from the Seven Domains that once had formed Darkover’s ruling Council.

Oddly, Regis found himself nostalgic for the days when the Comyn gathered together, debating and discussing, scheming and plotting, planning marriages and trading gossip, even those times when a traditional evening of dancing and music was punctuated by the occasional formal duel.

Those days, he reflected, would never come again. Between a low birth rate, natural decline, and the targeted assassinations of the World Wreckers, the Comyn had been decimated, their remnants scattered. These last ten years had been an unbroken struggle to restore the ecology of the planet while trying to develop a new system of government. In his more pessimistic moments, Regis admitted that his idea for a new ruling Council, one open to telepaths of any caste, had been a singularly lame-brained scheme. What had he been thinking, to exchange men who had been educated for leadership since birth for a patched-together assembly that was inexperienced, sometimes illiterate, often pathologically independent? Even the Keepers, with years of rigorous discipline in the use of their psychic powers, had little training in matters beyond their own Towers.

The only saving grace, he thought ruefully, was that the Telepath Council was so disparate and disorganized, it was unlikely to do anything effective on a large scale. What would happen if a crisis demanded unified action? He supposed the remains of the Comyn would rally; certainly, the people would, if he asked.

Regis no longer needed to be on constant guard against an assassin’s dagger or Compact-forbidden Terran blaster, but no power under the Bloody Sun could erase the look of awe as he passed through the streets or silence the murmured whispers,
“The Hastur Lord.”
The people bowed to him in respect and gratitude, having no idea how their adulation ate like acid into his soul.

Even without the hushed footsteps, Regis knew by the softening of his mood and the lightening of his heart that Danilo Syrtis-Ardais had come into the room behind him. He closed his eyes, opening the space in his mind where their thoughts met.

With a click of the latch, Danilo closed the door and came to stand beside Regis. “
Bredhyu,
” he inflected the
casta
term in a far more intimate mode than the usual meaning of
sworn brother.

“What troubles you, Regis?”

Regis turned his back on the city to face his paxman. Danilo wore the Hastur colors, blue and silver, with a winter-weight cloak of dark gray wool folded back over one shoulder so that his sword was within easy reach. Concern darkened his eyes.

“Nothing more than this foul mood of mine,” Regis replied, trying to keep his voice light. “It will pass soon enough, now that you are here.”

Danilo’s eyes flickered to the weathered stone wall. The Castle was a city unto itself, a massive accretion of centuries, with towers, courtyards and ballrooms, a mazelike labyrinth of halls and corridors, stairs and archways, fireplaces and parapets, the living quarters once reserved for the use of each Domain during Council season, and the glittering domed ceiling of the Crystal Chamber. The main Guard hall was on the lower level, with its own barracks, armory, and training yards.

Danilo’s expressive mouth tightened. “This place is like a tomb.”

“Yes, but one that requires constant tending. Even with whole sections shut up, the rest must be maintained. The Castle won’t run itself, and Grandfather isn’t up to it.”

Regis fell silent, deliberately avoiding the logical next point in the discussion. What the Castle needed, as Danvan Hastur reminded Regis on a regular basis, was a chatelaine, a Lady Hastur to see to its orderly function.

With a slight inclination of his head, Danilo opened the balcony door and stepped back so that Regis could precede him.

“The dregs of winter are always depressing,” Danilo said. “Things will be better in the spring,” alluding not only to the brighter days but also to the old Comyn custom of gathering in Thendara for Council season. Old habits died hard.

“Things,” Regis replied, “will be better in about an hour.”

They clattered through the chamber behind the balcony, once a pleasant sitting room that formed part of the Hastur quarters, then down the corridor and past the office Regis still maintained, although he did not live in the Castle, and down a flight of stairs.

“Oh?” Danilo arched one eyebrow. “We’re bound for the Terran Zone, then?”

Regis grinned like a boy sneaking away from his lessons. He still felt the lure of the spaceport, with its promise of worlds that were strange and deliciously terrifying. Years ago, he had accepted that his duty lay here, on the planet of his birth, with all that implied.

Walking briskly, Regis and Danilo made their way to Terran Headquarters. They were not the only ones taking advantage of the temporary lessening of winter’s bitter grip. They passed men in fur cloaks, women muffled to their eyes in layers of wool, an occasional Terran looking miserably chill in his synthetic thermal parka, and wagons pulled by blanket-draped horses or hardy antlered
chervines.
A girl in a red jacket swept a layer of snow, no more than a single night’s worth, from the stone steps in front of a shop. On the corner, a woman sold apple fritters, scooped steaming and fragrant from a vat of hot oil and then dusted with Terran sugar.