Traitor's Sun

  knew the woman. And Herm did not completely trust her. Then she knew that the

  offer was genuine, that her sister-in-law understood how much she wanted to join

  Herm and was only being generous. "Yes, if you take the children, Giz, I will

  let them go. They like you, and they like your youngsters. Thank you-it is a

  kind thing to do." Then she frowned.

  "What is it, Kate?"

  "Herm told me, before he ran off like a thief in the night, that we were going

  to have to take Ter‚se to this Arilinn for some sort of test." She bit her lip.

  "I don't want anything like that to happen when I am not around-I will not have

  my daughter frightened!"

  "I can promise you, Katherine, that nothing will happen to Ter‚se, and that she

  will not be tested in your absence." Marguerida thought for a moment. "She is a

  little young, and has not shown any sign of threshold sickness yet, so there is

  no need for it."

  "I am going to hold you to that, Marguerida." Kate could hardly contain her

  sudden anxiety for her child. But she knew Marguerida to be a woman of her word,

  and she felt herself begin to calm.

  "Now that everything is all settled, let's order up a proper breakfast. I'll

  help you dress for the rite, Kate. Doing your hair will probably improve my mood

  a bit. I wonder if anyone would mind if I wore a heavy veil, or perhaps a sack

  over my head?"

  Marguerida sputtered over a gulp of tea. When she had regained her breath, she

  said, "Do Kate's hair?" She looked from one woman to the other, as if something

  had occurred between them which had escaped her notice, and she could not quite

  discern what it was. "I have never seen you so . . . helpful, cousin. It becomes

  you."

  "I'd tell you I was reformed, but you wouldn't believe me, would you?"

  "After what I witnessed yesterday, Giz, I would believe almost anything."

  "Marguerida, what did happen in the Council meeting?" Kate asked.

  "Aside from the damper matrices being shattered to pieces, and Regis Hastur

  manifesting out of the beyond and scolding everyone?" Marguerida sighed. "And

  Javanne disowning Mik, and Francisco Ridenow suggesting that Regis' death was

  suspicious? Other than that, it was a useful meeting. Don't look at me as if I

  have lost my mind-just give me a glass of wine. Tea is all very well, but not

  what I need just now. My bones ache with weariness."

  "Regis . . . appeared?" Gisela looked startled.

  "Didn't Rafael tell you?"

  "No, because I haven't seen him since yesterday!"

  "Oh, yes, I had forgotten. Mikhail sent him to Rafe Scott, and the two of them

  are trying to discover if the Sons of Darkover are a real threat to the Comyn."

  "The who?" The name clearly meant nothing to Gisela, and she studied Marguerida

  keenly, her green eyes flashing in the light from the fire. "Kate, give her some

  wine right this minute! Now, Marguerida, begin at the beginning and tell us

  everything. Just pretend it is one of those tales you are always writing."

  Kate poured another goblet of wine and handed it to Marguerida. Then she sat

  down, curved her hands around her still warm tea, and listened to the story. She

  felt suspended in time, as if she had nothing more important to do than sit and

  hear the tale. And when Marguerida stopped speaking perhaps twenty minutes

  later, she was not sure she believed half of what she had just heard.

  The three women sat companionably in silence for several minutes, and then

  Gisela stirred in her chair. "Well, now at least I understand what put Father in

  such a rage. And why Lady Javanne looked so haggard when I passed her in the

  corridor."

  Kate was struck by the oddness of the situation, to be sitting in her bedclothes

  with two women she had not known a week before, drinking tea and speaking of

  plots and ghosts, as if they were the most ordinary things instead of impossible

  ones. Or were they? She thought that Marguerida and Gisela were intelligent

  women and certainly not crazy ones. Maybe these events were not remarkable on

  Darkover. Some of the tales she had heard about the ghost groves on Renney would

  probably strike them as very odd indeed. Katherine decided she would accept the

  story, for the present.

  "Kate, I am going to go tell the maid to pack some things for your children, and

  get them dressed for the funeral. They will likely be so bored with it that they

  will regard a carriage ride to Arilinn as an adventure." Gisela paused and

  smiled at Katherine. "Don't worry, breda. Just go and find Hermes and mend your

  fences with him, and leave the rest to me."

  Katherine nodded in agreement. She knew she could stay in Comyn Castle, or go

  with the children herself, but neither of those choices would keep her from

  worrying about her husband. She had not really understood, until now, how

  absolutely vital he was to her, and if he were killed in what seemed to her to

  be an insane venture against the Federation, she would rather perish with him

  than live another forty or fifty years without him. She did not want to think

  about this possibility, but she had to. And, if the worst occurred, she was

  certain that Gisela would see that her children were cared for.

  The enormous courtyard on the north side of Comyn Castle had not seen a

  gathering of the populace since Mikhail had been proclaimed the heir designate.

  Domenic's elevation to that status had been a much smaller event, almost

  private, due to Regis's fears, and had taken place within the castle itself, not

  in this public space.

  Mikhail stood on the wide steps which rose from one end of the plaza, with his

  back to the high walls of castle, and looked out toward the crowd which had been

  gathering quietly up the length of the plaza for over an hour now. The lords and

  ladies of the Domains and the families of the gentry who had managed to come to

  Thendara were ranged on either side of him, and he could sense his nephew just

  behind his left shoulder, watchful even in his near-exhaustion. He felt safe

  under Donal's eyes, and grateful for such a devoted paxman.

  Regis Hastur's body lay on a bier at the foot of the stairs, covered with a

  swath of fabric in the blue and silver of his house. There was no sign of

  deterioration on the corpse, for it had been placed in a stasis chamber

  immediately after death, and he looked as if he were sleeping. The white hair

  was slack around the quiet face, and the expression on it was calm and serene.

  There were guards on either side of him, and more stood along the path from the

  far end of the courtyard, keeping the crowd in order.

  The people of Thendara, merchants and tradesmen, guild masters and their

  journeymen, women and children, moved along toward it. When they reached the

  body, they paused to express their grief and respect. For many of them, it was

  their first view of Regis Hastur in many years, and for the younger citizens,

  the only time they had seen him in their lives. He had been a stranger to those

  he governed during the end of his life, but that did not appear to have lessened

  the deep affection in which he was held, if the sad faces and tears were any

  indication.

  Except for the wind fluttering in the awni
ngs which had been hung from the wall,

  to afford some shelter in case of rain, there was little sound but the dirge

  from the pipes, the beat of the drums, the shuffle of feet, and the occasional

  cough. After they had looked at the body of their dead ruler, the people removed

  themselves to the other end of the plaza, crowding together and waiting

  patiently. Mikhail realized that these were his people now, his to govern and

  guide, and he felt very humble to receive their trust. He could only hope he

  would deserve it.

  Mikhail was exhausted, and his feet ached, but he stood in his place, refusing

  to indulge himself by releasing his own sorrow. He felt he must not let go. Not

  yet, and not publically. He watched a woman bend over the body, and place a

  single white flower on it, adding to the collection of such offerings. He did

  not know who she was, although her clothing suggested she was from the

  mercantile class, but her sorrow was genuine, and it moved him, so he had to

  strain to continue keeping his face immobile.

  Beside him, Javanne Hastur stood with clenched hands, clearly containing herself

  with enormous difficulty. No matter what their disagreements, he knew his mother

  had loved her younger brother deeply, and that his passing was a great blow to

  her. Then, without warning, he heard her begin to sob, and without thinking,

  Mikhail reached out and put an arm around her. To his surprise, she did not

  stiffen and pull away, but instead leaned most of her weight against him,

  turning her face into his shoulder. He shifted his feet to keep from falling

  backward and held her tightly, as he had not done since he was a very young man.

  Javanne's hand clung to the laces of his dark tunic, and he felt her shudder

  with anguish. In his own weariness, her emotions flooded into him, and Mikhail

  felt his eyes moisten. Tears began to cascade down his cheeks, slipping down and

  falling into her hair. "It is my fault," she whispered.

  "No, Mother. It is no one's fault."

  "If I had not opposed him . . ."

  "Hush! It was his time-that's all." His voice was thick with tears and grief,

  and he barely believed his own words. There was no need to lay blame, but he

  understood his mother's guilt, for he shared it in his own way. Even though he

  now knew that wielding the Sword of Aldones had meant that Regis would be

  shortening his full measure of years, he could not help wondering if fearing his

  nephew had not also contributed to his uncle's untimely demise. He put his other

  arm around Javanne and held her close. "We will both miss him, Mother."

  After several minutes, Javanne began to gain control of her emotions. She drew

  herself apart gently, brushing her cheeks with her fingers. She stood away from

  him and stared down at the continuing procession. Then she reached out and put

  her hand into his ungloved one, lacing her fingers into his and holding tight.

  Mikhail returned her grasp carefully, not wishing to hurt her aging hand with

  his grip, and felt a moment of pure joy in the midst of his sorrow. After all

  that had been said the day before, he treasured the small gesture of her touch

  on his hand, of her turning to him in her grief.

  Dani Hastur was standing nearby with his wife, his mother, and his son Gareth.

  Miralys and Dani were both in tears, but their child just stared blankly into

  the distance, as if completely unaware of what was happening. Mikhail could not

  help thinking about the previous day, and the way Gareth had behaved. Had he

  really stolen Dani's rightful place? Mikhail did not think he had, but he could

  see how a youngster would believe that. With a sickening certainty, he knew they

  had not heard the last of it either. And, covertly studying Gareth's emotionless

  expression, he was very happy that Domenic was not there.

  The line of mourners still stretched to the end of the courtyard, and it would

  be some time before the final ceremony took place. It felt like it had been

  hours already.

  He tore his eyes away, since the steady movement of people was starting to make

  him feel sleepy. To try to rouse his exhausted mind a little, he studied the

  members of the Comyn again. Their faces were somber, as befitted the occasion.

  No one would have guessed from their expressions how divided they had been a day

  before. They appeared to him to be like actors in some play, not the people he

  had known for years. Lady Marilla Aillard was standing beside her son, Dyan

  Ardais, her usually placid face troubled. For a moment he wondered what was

  bothering her. Then she shifted her stance and grimaced, and he realized that

  she was just as tired as he was, and that her bones were aching. Standing on

  cold stones in a chilly midday was a trial for her, as it must be for everyone.

  Time slowed for him now, and the sound of the pipes was like the wailing of a

  hundred storms, sad and desolate. Mikhail lost himself in the dirge, forgot for

  a span everything except his sense of loss. He did not even think of the perils

  that might await them on the morrow, although he was aware that it remained in

  the back of his mind.

  He came back to himself with a start, still holding Javanne's hand in his, and

  realized that the pipes had at last ceased. There was a stillness in the

  courtyard, a sense of waiting. The space around the body of Regis Hastur was

  vacant except for the Guards who stood at each corner of the bier, and the

  parade of mourners was a sea of faces at the other end of the plaza.

  A chorus from the Musicians Guild began to sing, twenty men and woman giving

  voice to a hymn that had not been heard in decades.

  "Oh, stars that in the elder days,

  In Majesty unstained did blaze

  And suns that in the deeps of night

  Yet burn with uncorrupted light . . . "

  It was a painfully sad melody, the ancient words rising in the air and drifting

  across the courtyard, wrenching him back into his grief again. Two harpers

  accompanied the singers, and it seemed to him that the gentle notes from the

  strings were even sadder than the pipes had been.

  "Shine forth in splendor, show the way

  Surpassing sight of mortal eyes,

  For Hastur's Son departs this day

  To seek his Father in the skies . . . "

  A shiver of movement went through the crowd. Mikhail turned and saw that the

  great central doors of Comyn Castle were swinging open. The two sections swung

  ponderously on their hinges-they were only used for official occasions, and

  until this morning, when Regis' body was borne into the courtyard, Mikhail's

  proclamation as heir had been the last time they were opened. The singers

  continued-

  "But darkness gathers here below,

  Evanda's flowers are hid by snow,

  The wounded sun sinks in the sky,

  In fear the scattered moons do fly-"

  Mikhail shivered, hearing in the song an echo of his own fears. The verse seemed

  uncannily appropriate to their situation. He wondered gloomily if the song was

  an exaggeration of Darkovan fears, intended to express conventional mourning, or

  whether the Hasturs had always left their heirs in such confusion.

  But now white-robed figures were emerging from the dark rectangle
of the

  doorway. They must be the Servants of Aldones, who had come down from the Shrine

  at Hali. They had arrived during the meeting of the Council, and he had not even

  had time to greet them, but at least they were there. He felt a pang of guilt at

  having left Marguerida to bear so much of the burden of arranging the funeral.

  He supposed he should be grateful to Gisela, who had found the ancient book

  describing the ritual in the castle archives. He knew he would have hated asking

  his mother if she could recall what had been done when Danvan Hastur had died.

  "The banshee wails across the snows,

  Kyorebni gather scenting war,

  Oh, who will stand against our foes

  When Hastur's son rides forth no more?"

  The people lifted their voices once more in loss and longing, and Mikhail felt

  his gut clench with fear. They could not know how great a danger threatened

  them, but he did. Why had Regis laid this burden upon him? He was not worthy-he

  could never take the place his uncle had filled so well and for so long. He

  realized he was trembling, and in astonishment felt his mother squeeze his hand

  reassuringly, as she had done decades ago, when he was still a child and had

  come to Comyn Castle for the first time.

  The five white-robed figures circled the bier, and as they did so, the Guards at

  its corners bowed and stepped away. The first, and youngest, of the Servants,

  carried a silver basin of water, which he sprinkled as he moved. The next, a

  tall man who strode as if he had once been a warrior, carried fire in a lantern.

  The third man swung a censer whose chains clashed and rattled as it circled,

  sending smoke swirling into the air. The one who followed him scattered sand

  from the shores of Hali. As they moved, the chorus began the next verse, picking

  up their tempo, so that the tune seemed less a dirge than a battle cry.

  "Camilla weeps in darkest night

  But still Cassilda sings in light;

  Hastur's radiance shines above

  Blessing all below with love-"

  The fifth of the white-clad Servants of Aldones, an old man who seemed too frail

  for the weight of his robes, took his place at the head of the bier, arms lifted

  so that the wide sleeves rippled in the wind. The smell of the burning herbs

  began to drift across the courtyard, pungent and sharp. Mikhail's eyes stung,