Sharra's Exile

  The curtains were drawn around the Alton Domain’s enclosure too. It had been empty for the last five seasons; now, at the beginning of the sixth, Regis supposed that either Lew or Kennard or both would be there, to head off the threatened action—to declare the Alton Domain vacant and place it formally in the hands of Gabriel Lanart-Hastur as Warden of the Domain. But had either of them returned? He could not believe that Kennard would return without paying at least a courtesy call on Lord Hastur, and there had been no such call. On the other hand, if Lew had returned, Regis found it unlikely that he would not have sent some word to Regis himself.

  We were friends. I think Lew would have let me know.

  But there had been no word, and Regis was beginning to be troubled. Perhaps Lew and Kennard had decided to let the Domain go by default. In the days that were inevitable, a feudal lordship over an enormous Domain might have no meaning. Marius was well-to-do; Kennard owned a good deal of property aside from the Great House at Armida. Perhaps, Regis thought, he was better spared that kind of feudal Wardenship of the ancient Domain, as Regis himself would as soon have been spared the changes that were certainly coming in Darkovan society; let Gabriel have the thankless task of dealing with them.

  He looked around the Chamber. He could see someone stirring behind the partially closed curtains of the Ridenow enclosure; perhaps Lord Edric’s wife or any of her grown daughters. Well, there were enough Ridenow sons and daughters; they were not, apparently, cursed by the barrenness which plagued some of the older Domains. The direct line of the Aillard was extinct; a collateral line, the Lindir-Aillard family, ruled that house, with Lady Callina as formal head of the Domain; she had a younger sister Linnell, who had been another of Kennard’s fosterlings, and a brother who was one of Dyan Ardais’s circle, though Regis was not sure (and did not care) whether the boy was Dyan’s lover and favorite, or simply a hanger-on. Latterly, Merryl Lindir-Aillard had been seen more often in the company of young Prince Derik Elhalyn. On one occasion Regis’s grandfather, Danvan, Lord Hastur, had expressed some distress at the company the prince kept.

  “I don’t think you need to worry, sir,” Regis had said, a little wryly. “No matter what Merryl is, Derik’s a lover of women. Merryl flatters him, that’s all.”

  And because of what he was, telepath—and, although there were telepathic dampers all around the Crystal Chamber, they had not yet been set or adjusted—Regis was not surprised to hear the Guardsman at the door, his voice changed from the friendly, though respectful tone he had used with Regis to a flat deference.

  “No, vai dom, you have come early; there is no one here but the Lord Regis Hastur.”

  “Oh, good,” said the high voice of the young prince. “I haven’t seen Regis since last season,” and Regis turned and bowed to Derik Elhalyn. But Derik disregarded that and came to give Regis a kinsman’s embrace.

  “Why have you come so early, cousin?”

  Regis smiled and said, “I might ask the same of you, my lord. I wasn’t aware I was all that early—I hadn’t expected to be the first one here.” There were one or two, even in the Comyn, to whom he might have said, forthrightly, Grandfather was badgering me again about letting my marriage be arranged this season, and I walked out because I didn’t want to quarrel with him again. But, although Derik was three years older than Regis himself, tall and good-looking, such adult affairs seemed out of place when talking to Derik.

  The Domain of Elhalyn had once been a Hastur sept—although, in fact, all the Domains had once been descended from the legendary Hastur and Cassilda, the Elhalyn had retained their kinship to Hastur longer than the rest. A few hundred years ago, the Hastur kings had ceded their ceremonial functions, and the throne itself, to the Hasturs of Elhalyn. Regis’s mother had been a sister of King Stephen, and so the “cousin” was not courtesy alone. Regis had known Derik since they were little children; but by the time Regis was nine years old, it was already apparent that Regis was quicker and more intelligent, and he had begun to treat Derik almost as a younger brother. The adult Regis wondered sometimes if that was why they had separated them and sent Regis to be fostered at Armida, so that the young prince might not feel his inferiority too much. As they all grew older, it had become painfully obvious that Derik was dull-witted and slow. He might have been crowned at fifteen, the age at which a boy was legally a man; at that age, Regis had been declared Heir to Hastur, and given all the responsibilities that went with that position; but Derik’s crowning had been delayed, first until he was nineteen, then till he should reach twenty-five.

  And what then, Regis wondered. What will my grandfather do when it becomes painfully obvious that Derik is no readier to rule at five-and-twenty than he was at fifteen? Most likely he would crown the youngster, retaining the unofficial Regency in the eyes of all Darkover, as many Hasturs had done over the centuries.

  “We should have a new banner when I am crowned,” said Derik, standing outside the rails of the Elhalyn enclosure. “The old one is threadbare.”

  Merryl Lindir-Aillard, standing behind him, said softly, “But the old one has seen the crowning of a hundred Elhalyn kings, sir. It holds all the tradition of the past.”

  “Well, it’s time we had some new traditions around here,” said Derik. “Why aren’t you in uniform, Regis? Aren’t you in the Guards anymore?”

  Regis shook his head. “My grandfather needs me in the cortes.”

  “I don’t think it was fair that they never let me serve in the cadets as all the Comyn sons do,” said Derik. “There are so many things they don’t let me do! Do they think I haven’t the wit for them?”

  That, of course, was exactly what they thought; but Regis had not the heart to say so. He said, “My grandfather told me once that he was cadet-master for a few seasons, but they had to replace him because all the young cadets were too much in awe of him as a Hastur.”

  “I’d have liked to wear a cadet uniform, though,” said Derik, still sulky, and Merryl said smoothly, “You wouldn’t have liked it, my prince. The cadets resent having Comyn among them—they made your life miserable, didn’t they, Dom Regis?”

  Regis started to say, only during the first year, only until they knew I wasn’t trying to use the privileges of rank to get special favors I hadn’t worked for. But he supposed that was beyond Derik’s understanding. He said, “They certainly gave me a lot of trouble,” and left it at that.

  “Even if they’ve delayed my crowning, they won’t delay my marriage again,” said Derik. “Lord Hastur said that he would speak to Lady Callina about announcing the betrothal with Linnell at this Council. I think I should ask you instead, Merryl. You are her guardian—aren’t you?”

  Merryl said, “As the Comyn is now arranged, sir, the Aillard line is ruled by the female line. But Lady Callina is very busy with her work in the Towers; perhaps it can be arranged so that the lady need not be troubled with such minor matters as this.”

  Regis asked, “Is Callina still Keeper at Neskaya—no— Arilinn, Dom Merryl?” He used the formal address, annoyed by the way in which the youngster was planting the thought in Derik’s mind that perhaps he, Merryl, should be consulted before the rightful Warden of the Domain. Merryl scowled and said, “No, I believe she has been brought here to serve as Keeper to work with the Mother Ashara.”

  “Merciful Avarra, is old Ashara still alive?” Derik asked. “She was a bogey for my nurse to frighten me with when I was six years old! Anyway, Callina won’t be there long, will she, Merryl?” He smiled at his friend, and Regis thought there was some secret understanding there. “But I’ve never seen Ashara, and I don’t think anyone else has—my great-aunt Margwenn was under-Keeper for her a long time ago, before I was born; she said she had hardly seen her. Ashara must be as old as Zandru’s grandmother!”

  Regis was trying to remember what he had heard of the ancient Keeper of the Comyn Tower. “I think we would have heard if she was dead,” he said. “But surely she is too old to take any real part in Comyn affairs. Is s
he Hastur, or Elhalyn? I don’t think I ever knew.”

  Derik shook his head. “For all I know,” he said, “she could have been foster-sister to the Cassilda of the legends! I suppose she has chieri blood—I have heard they are incredibly long-lived.”

  “I have never seen a chieri,” Regis said. “Nor has anyone, I think, in our lifetimes; though Kennard told me once that once, on a journey into the mountains with his foster-brother, he had been guested in a chieri dwelling; he was not out of his teens then. For that matter, our grandfather seems likely to live as long as a chieri,” and he smiled. “That is fine as far as I am concerned—may his reign be long! I am not at all eager to take over the Domain of Hastur!”

  “But I am ready for the Domain of Elhalyn,” said Derik sullenly. “My first act will be to find you a noble wife, Regis.”

  But before they could pursue it further, there was a stir in the Ardais sector, and Dyan Ardais came in through the entrance at the back of the Ardais section, and went into one of the private boxes. Danilo was with him, and Regis went to speak to him, briefly, while he saw Derik and Merryl separate and go to their individual Domains.

  “Dom Regis.” As always before strangers, Danilo was excessively formal. “Is your Heir to sit in Council today?”

  “No; Mikhail’s only eleven. Time enough for that when he’s declared a man,” said Regis. Six years ago, under the spur of danger, he had adopted the youngest son of his sister Javanne for his Heir.

  Mikhail is eleven. In two more years he will be old enough for the Cadet corps, and then for all the responsibilities of a Comyn son. Javanne’s elder sons, Gabriel and Rafael, are in the cadets now—fifteen and fourteen. If their father, the older Gabriel, is made Warden of the Alton Domain, will they be Alton or Hastur? Rank follows the higher parent; they are Hastur, then…

  He glanced at Dyan Ardais. Today the Ardais lord wore, not his usual unrelieved black, but the glimmering black and silver of his Domain, somber and elegant. He said to Dyan, not quite a question:

  “There is no one in the Domain of Alton—”

  Dyan, if anyone, would know if Kennard had returned—

  Perhaps I should tell him about—about what happened two nights ago, about Marius, and Rafe Scott—and Sharra.

  But Dyan said, “Regis, the Domain will not fall unchallenged into the hands of the Hasturs. I promise you that.” And Regis, looking at the flat, metallic eyes of the Ardais lord, unreadable as if shuttered, knew he could not ask Dyan exactly what he had arranged. He bowed and went to his own place in the railed-off section, beneath the blue and silver fir-tree banner of the Hasturs.

  Other men and women were coming in now, arranging themselves under the banners of the different Domains. A faint distant hum told him that someone was setting the telepathic dampers; when the Comyn Castle and the Crystal Chamber were built, it had been assumed that everyone here, everyone with blood-right in the Domains, was laran-gifted, and by tradition there were telepathic dampers set all about the Chamber at strategic intervals, to prevent involuntary (or voluntary) telepathic eavesdropping.

  Everyone here, Regis thought, is my kinsman, or should be. Everyone in the Comyn held descent from the legendary seven sons of Hastur and Cassilda. Legend, all of that; legend called Hastur a god, son of Aldones who was Lord of Light. Hastur the god, so they said, had put off his godhead for love of a mortal woman. Whatever truth might lie behind the legend was veiled in time and prehistory, before ever the Ages of Chaos came down to split the country of the Domains into a hundred little kingdoms, and at the end of those ages, though the Hastur-kin had reclaimed their powers, all but a few Towers lay shattered and the laran of the Comyn had never recovered.

  And yet, he thought, the Terrans claim, and say they can prove it that we here on Darkover, Seven Domains, Comyn and all, are descended from a colony ship which crashed here, Terran colonists. What is the truth? Even more, what does the truth mean? Whence came the legends? If we are all Terrans, where had the laran come from, the Comyn powers? In the Ages of Chaos, Regis knew from the history he had read at Nevarsin, there had been a time of great tyranny, when the Comyn Council had ruled over a breeding program which would fix the gifts of each Domain into their sons and daughters; matrix technology had reached its height, even meddling with the genes of the Comyn children.

  And we are suffering still from that great inbreeding and genetic meddling. Look at Derik. And many of the Ardais are unstable; Dyan’s father was mad for decades before his death, and there are those in Council who think Dyan himself is none too sane.

  Javanne Lanart-Hastur, with her husband, Gabriel, came in through the rear doors of the Hastur enclosure. She embraced Regis, in a flurry of scent, curls, ruffles, and took her seat. Gabriel—tall, burly, wearing the uniform of the Castle Guard as Commander—nodded good-naturedly to Regis as he took his place. Their oldest son, Rafael, a scrawny, darkhaired youngster of fifteen, who reminded Regis of his own mirrored face at that age, bowed to Regis and sat down on one of the back benches. He wore cadet uniform and side-arms.

  Two more years and I will be expected to enroll Mikhail in the cadet corps. And in the name of Aldones, Lord of Light, and Zandru, lord of all the hells, what sense does it make for me to send the Heir to Hastur into the cadets, as I was sent, as Javanne is dutifully sending her sons? Yes, of course, if Mikhail is one day to inherit the power and might of the Hasturs—and I have never seen the woman I wish to marry, so it’s likely Mikhail will inherit—he must learn to command himself, and others. But with the Empire on Darkover, with the inevitability of an interstellar empire at our very doorstep, surely there is a better way to educate the Heir to Hastur than sending him to be schooled in swordplay and the code duello, and taught unarmed combat and the best way to keep drunks off the streets! Regis sighed, thinking of the inevitable outcry it would cause if he, Heir to Hastur, should choose to have his son given the Terran education which Marius, Kennard’s son, had had.

  And where was Marius? Surely he should have come into the Alton Domain’s enclosure! He was old enough, now, and if he wished to lay claim to the Domain, before it was declared vacant, surely it should be now!

  Perhaps he too has bowed to the inevitable, or decided he would rather leave the Wardenship of the Domain to Gabriel. Again, Regis sighed, remembering a time when he had told his grandfather that he would as soon leave the Domain to Javanne’s sons.

  One, at least, of my sons, should have a Terran education. If not Mikhail, he thought, then his son by Crystal di Asturien. It was early to think about that—the boy was a hearty toddler not yet two years old, and Regis had seen him fewer than a dozen times. He had two other children, too, daughters, through similar liaisons. Terrans educate their daughters. I will see that the girls, at least, are educated, though I suppose there will be trouble about it; their mothers are conventional enough to think it an honor to bear a child to a Hastur Heir. He knew perfectly well the women had not had much interest in him aside from that, and his undoubted good looks— women pursued him for that and it grew a little wearying.

  At this point his train of thought was interrupted by a loud cry from the Guardsmen at the door.

  “Danvan Hastur of Hastur, Warden of Hastur, Regent of Elhalyn and of the Comyn!”

  Regis rose with the rest as his grandfather—Hastur of Hastur, an aging man, his light hair still retaining some gold among the gray, clad in the ceremonial blue and silver of the Hasturs—came into the Crystal Chamber and went slowly to his seat. He seated himself in the front row and looked round the Crystal Chamber.

  “Kinsmen, nobles, Comynari,” he said, in his rich voice. “I welcome you to Council. Highness—” he bowed to Derik— “will it please you to call the roll of the Domains?”

  So Lord Hastur had decided that he must give Derik some privileges and responsibilities, however empty and ceremonial! Derik rose and came forward; like the Hasturs, he was wearing blue and silver with the golden crown of the Elhalyns across the fir-tree emblem.


  “I speak for Hastur of Elhalyn,” he said. “Hastur of Hastur?”

  Danvan Hastur rose and bowed. He said, “I am here at your service, my lord Derik.”

  “Ardais?”

  Dyan Ardais stood up and bowed. “Dyan-Gabriel, Warden of Ardais.”

  “Aillard?”

  There was a small stir behind the curtains of one of the boxes in the enclosure of the Aillards, and Callina Aillard, thin and pale, in the formal gray and crimson draperies of the Aillards, said quietly, “Para servirte, vai dom.” Regis saw Merryl, looking sullen, in a seat somewhat below his half-sister; then a handful of loosely related families, Lindir, Di Asturien, Eldrin. Regis did not know most of them by sight at all.

  “Ridenow of Serrais.”

  This was out of order, Regis thought; the Alton Domain was higher in rank than the Ridenow. But perhaps he was giving them ample time to answer.

  “I speak for Ridenow, and I am here at your command, vai dom,” said Edric Ridenow. An enormously fat man, well into middle age, he sat with his half-grown sons and a small herd of his brothers; Regis recognized Lerrys, and Auster who had been in the Guards as officers. There were others he didn’t know. There were a few women behind the curtains in the private boxes; the Ridenow lived at the very borders of the Dry Towns and were of Dry-town blood, and while they did not follow Dryland customs and chain their women, they did keep them in somewhat greater seclusion than most of the mountain Domains.

  “Alton?” Derik called, and for some reason he looked pleased.

  Silence.

  “Alton of Armida, Alton of Mariposa—”