Traitor's Sun (10 page)

Katherine nodded. “Yes, with my connections to the Separatists, you are almost certainly right. But what is going to happen to Renney?”

“I have no idea. I think that the Protected Planets are on their own, or will be soon enough. My best guess, and it is only a guess, is that the Federation will threaten to withdraw its presence, take away its beloved technologies in the assumption that it will force the Protected worlds to submit to its will, and give them what they want most, complete domination of all the planets. I can only guess if they will actually carry out such a threat, and, frankly, I am just too tired to worry about it.”

“This has been coming for a long time, hasn’t it?”

“Yes, it has. The Federation has been jumping at shadows for years, even before I took over Lew’s position as Senator. They have been looking for a fight of some sort, in order to justify all the pillaging they have been engaged in for the past two generations. They have been preparing for a war, and there is no one to fight with except themselves. So they have chosen to believe that the colonies are the enemy, or the potential foe, and that they have to be brought into line by force.”

“The occupation of the Enki system?” Her voice was low and weary.

“That is one example. Now, enough of this. Let’s eat, go take a bath, and get the stink of the ships off our bodies. You will feel much better, I promise. Darkover may be a bit backward in some matters, but in terms of comfort and cleanliness, we are the most civilized world in the galaxy.”

 

Gisela Aldaran-Lanart sat with her feet resting on an upholstered stool, her knees draped with a soft woolen throw. She stared at the glassy plates of the chess game Marguerida had given her three Midwinters before without really seeing it, so familiar was she with the object. It was a beautiful thing, the playing pieces carved by a master’s hand, so the folds and draperies caught the light, making them seem almost alive. They were not, but trapped in stone, and she often felt as if she were one of them.

Often, when she was feeling lonely, she would hold the figures, stroking the draperies, feeling the bone and wood from which they had been carved. She had always liked statues, and when she was little, she had made small things from bits of firewood, until her nurse told her it was a dirty habit and forced her to stop. Gisela had always thought that the forms were already in the woods, just waiting to be released. As she longed to be let out of this pretty prison of a palace.

There were only a few people in Comyn Castle who understood this complex game of chess for her to play with—Lew Alton, Marguerida, Danilo Syrtis-Ardais, and her husband’s nephew, Donal Alar, the paxman to Mikhail Hastur. She avoided her sister-in-law as much as possible, although it was safer to meet her over the eight transparent levels of the game than in the halls of the Castle. Lew Alton was a good opponent, but his playing was erratic, and Danilo was much too clever, so her own playing disappointed him. That left Donal, who had little time away from his duties, although he tried to engage her as often as he could. They were fairly matched, and she almost enjoyed their encounters, as much as she allowed herself to enjoy anything.

Everything was so dreary! She was tired of chess and ancient genealogies, tired of being nothing more than a pawn in the shifting games of power that were played in the Castle. She should have been a queen, of course, and might have been, if only Marguerida had never existed. This thought was threadbare, so often had she dragged it from her mind, and she let it go.

If only she could force herself out of the doldrums that had possessed her for years now, since the birth of her last child. Gisela had consulted healers, drunk filthy tasting draughts, and had deep massages—to no avail. She had no interest in the sort of public efforts that Marguerida indulged in, and thought them nothing more than a way for her rival to show what a gracious lady she was. The worst part was that, after fifteen years of living in Thendara, with almost daily contact with her rival, she could not even manage to hate her. Dislike, certainly—a mean and petty emotion that left her feeling nasty and soiled. If only Marguerida were bossy and demanding, like Javanne Hastur, instead of so damned decent. How galling!

Something like a chuckle rose in her throat, and her dark mood began to break apart. For a moment she tried to hold onto it, to dwell in its somber pleasures, but she was bored with it, and it fled away to wherever such things went. She needed something to do, something real, not the pallid intrigues she had attempted at her father’s behest in her first decade in the city. They had brought her nothing except the distrust of Regis Hastur and, by association, the exclusion of her husband from any actual power. Rafael had never complained, never mentioned it, but she knew it rankled and that she had hurt him deeply.

And she had not wished to. Although she had been completely infatuated with Mikhail Hastur in her youth, she knew now that this was all it had been, a girlish affection combined with the even stronger desire to be powerful. After her mercifully short marriage to her first husband, who had had the kindness to break his neck while hunting before she found a means to murder him, she had sworn to herself that she would never again be her father’s pawn. And the best way to achieve that had seemed to be to marry Mikhail and become the consort of the heir designate. What a fool she was!

Nothing satisfied her, and Gisela knew that this was her own character, not anything else. Years of bitter introspection had left a mark on her soul, even as she struggled to find something worthwhile in her existence. There were the children, but she had never managed to conjure up more than a pretended interest in them. And there was Rafael, the single constant in her life. Strange, really, how she had come to cherish the man, although his patience and silent endurance made her grind her teeth. If only he would shout at her sometimes. She wished he would make her behave, and knew that he never would. That was his character flaw, as envy was hers.

Gisela heard his tread before he entered the room, the particular rhythm of footfalls that she would have known anywhere. Then he was beside her, his clothing smelling of the fresh air beyond the Castle, of charcoal smoke, and the warm scent of horses as well. He had gone to fetch Herm from the port, and now he was back. He bent and kissed her forehead.

“So, is my brother well?” She forced herself to be interested, dragging herself as if through glue back into the present.

“He is, although he is very tired. His wife and children all look as if they have been through hell.”

“It is hard to imagine Herm married, Rafael. What’s she like?”

“Well, I only had an hour with her, and much of that time she was ringing a peal over his head for dragging her to Darkover.” He chuckled softly. “She is very lovely—dark hair and pale skin and a fine smile. Smart, too, I believe, and tough as well. I liked her.”

“Why?” The envy demon extended its talons, jealous of everything.

“Umm . . . I can’t really say. She is tired and confused, but she—her name is Katherine, by the way—kept her head very well. I listened to the questions she was asking him, about why he had brought her and the children off as he did, and she didn’t miss much, even though he was trying very hard to dissemble his way out of it.”

“Well, at least that hasn’t changed. Herm likes to . . . fiddle things. I suppose I should go meet her, shouldn’t I?”

“If you can bestir yourself, yes.” She caught the faint criticism in the words and flinched—sometimes she thought she would almost prefer it if he beat her. “Tomorrow is soon enough though.”

“Yes, tomorrow.” Lovely and smart—Gisela almost hated her already.

M
ikhail Hastur stood up slowly and stretched. His spine popped audibly in the stillness of the sick room, and Lady Linnea, seated on the other side of the bed, looked up, her face drawn with exhaustion. He had been sitting absolutely still for hours, concentrating his mind on the unmoving form resting on the bed. His right hand, where the great matrix which had been passed to him by Varzil the Good was mounted in a huge ring, ached from the energy he had driven through it.

As had so often happened since he had been given the matrix, Mikhail had imagined he had heard Varzil’s calm voice, reaching through time to counsel him. He was never certain whether it was just his own fantasy, or if somehow the long dead
laranzu
actually spoke to him from the overworld through the matrix which had once been his. After fifteen years, it no longer mattered. Yet it remained disquieting to hear the words in his mind. This time they gave him no comfort or reassurance, but only the certain knowledge that Regis Hastur was dying, and there was not a thing he could do to prevent it. He wanted to rail against the cruelty of the fates, to weep for the beloved mentor who would speak to him no more, but he was just too tired.

The chest of the man beneath the covers still rose and fell, but very shallowly now, and he sensed that the end would not be very long in coming. Mikhail would have given a great deal to see his uncle’s eyes open, and the familiar twinkle gleam from beneath the eyelids. He wanted Regis to sit up and demand a haunch of chervine, and a butt of wine. Could Mikhail have accomplished that miracle, he was sure that Lady Linnea would have carried the meat in with her own small hands.

Mikhail had a moment of relief at this foolish vision, and then the grief rose in his throat once again. The smell of the room, thick with burning herbs and candlewax, suddenly threatened to make him gag. He swallowed convulsively and ran the fingers of his left hand through his curling hair. Then he glared at his right, at the ring, and clenched his hand into a fist. It was infuriating. He had spent most of the last fifteen years studying the arts of healing, trying to discover as much as he could about the matrix he had been given by Varzil the Good, and he had become very skilled. But what was it all worth if he was not skilled enough to save his uncle.

Had he tried everything? Mikhail racked his brains again, the futility of it mingling with his own weariness. Yes, he had, and so had Marguerida, who had her own talents in the healing arts. She had also brought in every capable healer in Thendara, and two from Arilinn. The body was still alive, but Regis was barely within it.

He did not want to accept that, and he raged silently, like a child, not a man of forty-three. He had known Regis all his life, and he suddenly found that he could not imagine Darkover without him. He had been preparing to succeed his uncle for decades, but he had not expected it to happen so unexpectedly, nor so soon. The old doubts nagged at him, fears he had thought were long gone. He was not ready to lead Darkover!

The rustle of fabric behind him made him turn. Marguerida came into the chamber, carrying a tray with several mugs on it, doing a servant’s task in spite of all that she had learned through the years. There were dark circles beneath her golden eyes, and deep creases beside her normally smiling mouth. Her fine red hair lay slackly against her skull, the curls barely visible. Without a word, she handed him a mug, and he smelled the refreshing scent of mountain mint and the distinctive odor of Hali honey. Their eyes met for a moment, hers asking an unspoken question and his answering.
No change.

Lady Linnea glanced up from her study of the body of her beloved companion of more than three decades. Her shoulders drooped and she rubbed her eyes, as if they ached. They were the color of harebells, blue and pale, still as young as they had been when he was a lad. But there was no hope in them, only a sorrow that wrenched at him desperately.

Marguerida went to her with the tray, and Linnea took a mug of tea in silence. Then she went to the man standing in the shadow of the bed hangings beside the carved headboard, Danilo Syrtis-Ardais, and offered him one. Mikhail watched the six-fingered hand of his uncle’s paxman slip into the handle of a mug and saw exhaustion and despair in the familiar face.

Marguerida set the tray down on a small table and came to stand beside him. “Dani has just arrived,” she whispered. “He’ll be here in a moment.”

“Good. I think Regis is hanging on for him. You look terrible,
caria.
”

“Probably—but have you glanced in the mirror lately? I finally got Father to lie down for a while. Oh, yes—Herm Aldaran has arrived in Thendara—with his wife and children. Rafael met them and took them to a suite.”

“What? Why?” The world had stopped for him, four days before, and he had nearly forgotten that anything outside this room existed.

He received no answer to his incredulous question, for at that moment, Danilo Hastur, Regis’s son, came into the room. He was wearing a brown tunic and heavy trousers, and he smelled of sweat and horse, a healthy scent against the stuffy air of the chamber. He was a sturdy man of thirty now, not the slender boy that Mikhail remembered so fondly. He and his wife and children lived in the Elhalyn Domain, which stretched from the west side of Lake Hali to the Sea of Dalereuth, and it was clear that he had ridden long and hard to get to Thendara.