Traitor's Sun

  "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