Hastur Lord (11 page)

Regis felt a smile rise from his heart, stopping just short of his lips. He nodded to Danilo and followed the servant inside. The room, like the rest of the suite, was very much as Regis remembered it, untouched by time. A faint aroma of beeswax polish, paper, and leather book bindings hung in the air. A fire brightened the hearth, and ranks of candles produced enough light for even aged eyes to read easily.

Danvan Hastur stood beside his writing table, bracing himself on one hand, a man who once had been strongly built, of commanding presence, but who had now shriveled into a husk. Looking at his grandfather, Regis felt a wave of pity. Time and too many seasons had quenched the fire that once burned in those blue eyes. How many years did the old man have left, and how many of those would he insist on wasting in service to a world that, very possibly, no longer wanted it?

Regis paused, bowed formally, and then approached. Danvan held out his free hand. Regis took it, feeling the bony joints, the slight trembling in the withered muscles.

“Good morning, sir.”

“So you’re back from seeing the Storn woman,” Danvan lowered himself into his chair and gestured for Regis to be seated as well.

“News travels fast,” Regis said neutrally.

Danvan’s scowl deepened. “What a dreadful mess you’ve made of it! You’ve managed to lose a perfectly eligible young woman, one who’s already borne you a child so we know she’s fertile, and, of course, there’s not the slightest question of her parentage or
laran
. Did you deliberately offend her so that she wouldn’t have you? And do you intend to do that with every other suitable young woman—” Danvan broke off, wheezing and coughing.

“Grandfather, please calm yourself,” Regis said, alarmed at the old man’s breathing. “You mustn’t make yourself ill.”

“It isn’t
me
that’s making myself ill,” Danvan snarled.

“I regret that you think I arranged for my proposal to be refused in order to annoy you,” Regis said hotly. “My offer to
Domna
Linnea was quite genuine. I am as—as distressed by her answer as you are.”

“I doubt it.”

“Nonetheless, it is done. Are you sure you are well? Can I get you
jaco?
A tisane? Hot wine?”

Danvan leaned heavily on one armrest, still breathing with difficulty. At the mention of hot wine, he nodded, and Regis called Rondo to bring some. A few minutes later, the servant returned with the drinks. He hovered, face furrowed with worry, as Regis poured out a goblet. A little of the wine spilled as Danvan grasped the cup in both hands and brought it to his lips. He took a large gulp, closed his eyes, and sagged in his chair.

“Rondo, don’t linger,” Danvan grumbled. “My grandson can tend to me.” The servant glided away.

“You aren’t well, sir,” Regis said. “Have you seen a healer?” There was no point in asking if Danvan had consulted a Terran physician.

“I’m fit enough for the work before us,” Danvan muttered. “The only thing wrong with me, other than the passage of time, is I was foolish enough to think that when you went to High Windward, you’d finally acquired sense: marriage, then accepting the throne, standing up to the Federation . . . But I was mistaken. You haven’t come around to my way of thinking, have you?”

Regis shook his head. “We’ve had this discussion a dozen times before. Nothing you can say will change my mind. I don’t believe returning to a monarchy will solve anything. In fact, I believe the opposite, that we must move toward broader participation, increased literacy and communication, not a concentration of authority.”

“Spare me your degenerate notions! Clearly, you’ve been contaminated by your
Terranan
friends. Next you’ll be saying we should look to the common people for leadership, against all our history and traditions.”

“If you’ll forgive me saying so,” Regis said stubbornly, “the days when we Comyn were regarded as descended from the gods are long over. Darkover is in transition, and such times are never easy. The old ways are gone, and we must create new ones, a culture that embodies the finest of who we are. I have a great deal more trust in the people than you do. If we allowed them more education, if they understood what was at stake, then they could fully take part—”

“Where would that get us? The rabble see only the advantages of Terran citizenship, the luxuries. They have no concept of the price. It’s up to
us
to maintain our integrity in the face of these temptations—we, the Comyn, what is left of us.” The old man subsided. He had half-risen from his seat in the heat of the argument, but now he sank back. Under his breath, he muttered something that sounded to Regis like, “—if you won’t do your duty, there is another who will—”

What was the old man talking about? Had he not emphasized, time and again, that Regis had the only legitimate claim to the throne? The only other possibilities were the minor Elhalyn children, hidden away by their reclusive mother.

“Grandfather, I think it prudent that we discontinue this conversation. Clearly, it is distressing to you, and neither of us can possibly say anything that will change the other’s mind. I wish you good day, then, and take my leave of you.” Without waiting for an answer, Regis bowed and strode out of the room.

Regis passed Rondo outside the door. “Look after him.” Rondo nodded and went inside.

W
hen Regis returned to his townhouse, a message was waiting for him. Dan Lawton had sent word of the vote in the Terran Senate. The Empire was now a Federation. Pending the reformulation of planetary classification protocols, all Class D Closed Worlds, including Darkover, were now Protectorates of the new Terran Federation.

Regis barely had a moment to sleep in the next tenday. Half the people he talked to reacted with outrage to Protectorate status as a
de facto
military takeover, and the other half rejoiced in it as a step toward full Federation membership. Several small riots had taken place in the markets, for the warming weather had brought a stream of traders and farmers who feared its impact on their livelihoods.

Working closely with Gabriel Lanart, Commander of the City Guards, Regis was able to disperse the worst of the gatherings with a minimum of violence. It had been a decade since he had led Darkover through the World Wreckers crisis, and many people still remembered him. He began walking the streets when he wasn’t meeting with Telepath Council members, Guild masters, or Cortes judges. His height, features, and distinctive white hair made him stand out in any crowd. Danilo was not happy about this public vulnerability, but he assumed his role as bodyguard with good grace. In a way, it was like old times, the two of them together.

Felix Lawton improved enough to be discharged from Medical, although he remained housebound. Regis visited from time to time, which allowed him to hold informal discussions with Lawton. The Terran Legate hinted that the newly reconstituted Federation Senate was unlikely to take immediate action on Darkover’s planetary status. They had time to plan their strategy, but plan they must, for the reprieve could not last.

With the lengthening days, the roads through the mountains became passable once more. Word had gone out about the Senate vote, by telepathic relay or by simple messenger. By this time, almost all the remaining Comyn knew about the new Federation, and some journeyed to Thendara to make their voices heard. Just as Regis was making preparations for an informal gathering of Comyn that summer, Rondo arrived at the town house with a private message that Danvan Hastur had been taken suddenly, seriously ill.

Regis raced through the hallways of Comyn Castle, Danilo at his heels.

Regis could not imagine Darkover without the old man.

Rondo waited at the entrance to the Hastur apartments. The servant had no perceptible
laran,
but grief surrounded him like a dark halo. He opened the door to the bedroom and stood back for Regis and Danilo to enter. This time, Regis would not ask Danilo to wait outside.
I go to make my farewells as I am, not as he would have me.

Regis could not remember the last time he had stepped into the ornately furnished bedchamber. By far, the majority of his visits had been conducted in the presence-chamber or the study. Light filtered through the windows with their thick, irregular panes of glass. A film of dust lingered on the polished surfaces of the chairs and desk, the huge blackwood armoire, the immense old-fashioned bed with its headboard carved in a scene of a stag leaping through a stylized forest. Over the headboard, a coat of arms bore the Hastur device, the silver fir- tree, and motto in the archaic plural form:
Permanedó.

Rondo closed the door behind them. The room, although spacious, seemed filled with people, Danvan’s secretary, looking very agitated, a couple of servant women, and three or four young pages. One of the women was wringing out a cloth over a basin on the washing stand, and the other was measuring a tincture into a goblet.

For a terrible instant, Regis feared he had come too late. His grandfather lay so still, it was impossible to tell whether he was still breathing. Then the old man groaned and shifted. Regis crossed the room in a few long strides and bent over the bed.

Pale blue eyes opened, blank and unfocused, without a hint of recognition. One withered hand pawed the bedcovers. The gesture moved Regis unexpectedly.

“Grandfather,” he murmured, “it’s Regis. Don’t you know me?”

He almost expected the old man to sit up and berate him for one thing or another, mocking his concern as weakness. As the seconds blended into minutes, Regis knew this would not happen. In fact, his grandfather very possibly would never recognize him again.

Regis turned to Rondo, who had come to stand, like a mute sentinel, at the foot of the bed. “What’s wrong with him? Has a healer been consulted? Why isn’t someone attending him properly?”

“It was a stroke, a seizure of the brain.” One of the women that Regis had taken for a servant stepped forward, goblet in hand. She looked vaguely familiar, and he realized that he had seen her in the Terran Medical Building. She was one of the Bridge Society Renunciates, although garbed in ordinary women’s clothing.

“I am sorry,” she said, “there’s very little we can do for him.”

“Surely, the Terrans have treatments—I must apologize,
mestra,
I have not greeted you properly. I don’t know your name.”

“Ferrika n’ha Margali.”

“The same who helped Felix Lawton?”

She smiled, a lightening of the corners of her mouth. As she stepped closer to the bed, the light shone on her ruddy hair.

“Then I am doubly in your debt. Has Dr. Allison been sent for?”

“
Dom
Danvan would never permit it,” Rondo interrupted.

“My grandfather is in no condition to protest.”

Rondo glared at Regis for an instant before bowing his head.

Ferrika gestured for Regis to come apart from the others. “Lord Regis, not even the most sophisticated Terran medical technology can reverse old age. If your grandfather had not suffered a stroke, then it would be something else. I am sorry to sound harsh, but neither do I wish to offer you false hope. After a century of living, the body falls apart; it is only a matter of which organ system will fail first.”

Regis could not tell whether his grandfather was aware of their conversation, and if so, what he thought. The old man would doubtless make a caustic comment about the weakness of will that could not overcome such a trivial inconvenience as death.

“How long does he have?” Regis asked.

Ferrika glanced away. “Only Avarra knows the length of a man’s years. If he improves in the next two days, then he may live on for a time. But not, I think, for very long.”

“Live on . . .?” Regis echoed her words. “Like this?”