"Then you did not know that Regis was sick?" Nana knew he had the Sight-but this
is too much . . . first telepaths and then clairvoyants. I wonder what else he
as not telling me. No, I don't want to know! Not now, not today. I could not
bear another revelation.
"I had an inkling, you might say, and while I got both the sense of some
terrible thing about Regis and Nagy's move at the same time, I did not have
anything to tell me when. For all I knew, Regis' illness might be weeks or years
in the future, or might have already happened. The Aldaran Gift is not precise,
and not all foreseeings come to pass. For instance, I might see that someone
would be in an accident-an aircar crash, maybe-but on the day of it, this person
decided to stay home instead. I was on fairly firm ground about the dissolution
of the legislature, because we had not been able to do any real business in
nearly two months, and everyone was sort of holding their breath, waiting for
the ax to fall. I suspect that some of my colleagues with no paranormal
abilities whatever were anticipating something of what happened to occur. I just
had the advantage, if you can call it that, of a little more warning than they
did. It was more a leap of faith on my part than anything else-that I believed
what I foresaw and acted on it. That is the most I can tell you."
"Who will take over when Regis is gone?"
Herm chuckled. "My brother-in-law, Mikhail, who is the younger brother of
Rafael. I met him just before I left Darkover, when he was in his early
twenties. A good man."
"The younger brother? Isn't that a little odd?"
"Yes, it is. You see, long ago, Regis named his youngest nephew as his heir,
before he married Lady Linnea. Mikhail is the son of his sister, Javanne Hastur.
Regis had other children, but they were murdered in their cradles, along with
any number of other people, by the World Wreckers-a covert organization run by
Terranan. Then he married Linnea, and they have three children: a son, Danilo,
and two daughters."
"But, then, why is this Mikhail going to succeed him?" Katherine let herself be
distracted almost unconsciously. She desperately wanted to think about
something, anything, but telepaths. It was too much just now. And she had to
keep talking, to keep herself from thinking.
"It is a very complicated affair, but essentially Danilo Hastur abdicated the
direct succession in favor of becoming the heir to the Elhalyn Domain, through
his marriage to Miralys Elhalyn. The Elhalyn have been the kings of Darkover
since the beginning of recorded history, but the power of rule has always
remained in the hands of the Hastur family. The two families are related, and
Regis' mother was Alanna Elhalyn . . . Your eyes are glazing over."
"Are they? I suppose they must be, for my head feels full of buzzing bees. Herm,
I am so tired! I slept and slept because I knew you would not tell me what was
going on, and it frightened me so much. Every time I was awake, I wanted to
strangle you! Yet I feel so wrung out. And afraid, too. What is going to happen
to us?"
"Well, the first thing that is going to happen is that we are going to get
something to eat, some real food, and then we are going to sleep in a real bed."
"You know what I mean!"
"Yes, I do. I believe that we are here, on Darkover, for the foreseeable future,
my dearest. I am sorry that I could not consult you first, but I had to make my
decision quickly, or risk ending up in a Federation prison as an enemy of the
state. And, as suspicious as the Terranan have become recently, you and the
children would probably have been locked up with me."
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 hav
e 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.
3
Mikhail 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 fr
om 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