Regis did not draw an easy breath until they were once more under the great red sun instead of glaring yellow lights. For what he had inadvertently overheard, as much with his mind as his ears, was his brother saying to Tiphani Lawton,
“. . . forbidden black arts . . . none so lost . . . cannot be saved . . . if the will is strong enough . . .”
15
On one of these rare afternoons when he was able to finish work early, Regis found himself low in spirit. He had determined to dine alone, savoring a few hours of quiet. Javanne had organized so many family dinners that Regis had begun making excuses not to attend. Rinaldo had stepped into the vacuum, regaling Regis with his day’s exploration of the city, work on the Chapel of All Worlds, and meetings with Tiphani Lawton, with whom he was developing an increasing closeness. Regis had heard enough theological discussions in the last tenday to last a lifetime. He no longer cared about the liturgical differences between the cristoforos and the priests of Tiphani’s faith.
The parlor felt empty and too quiet; Regis chuckled at himself for having become unaccustomed to his own company and poured himself a goblet of unwatered wine. He sipped it meditatively, remembering the tavern near the gates of the Guards Hall, where he and Danilo used to sneak away for a tankard of pear cider. It was one of the few places where they could enjoy an evening without people constantly staring. The cadets would throng the outer room, but the back was reserved for officers. It was dark and closed-in, but the Guardsmen understood that even a Hastur needed a little privacy.
Sighing, Regis set down his wine. He no longer wanted it, although the vintage was as fine as any on Darkover. What was the Terran proverb, something about, “Better a crust of bread in a hovel where there is peace than a banquet where there is none”?
A familiar tap sounded on the door. At his greeting, Danilo entered. “Your brother is not here?”
Regis gestured, As you see, I am alone. Danilo had good reason to expect Rinaldo’s presence, for Regis had been spending his little available leisure time with his brother.
Taking a goblet from the sideboard, Regis poured it half full and held it out. Danilo settled on the opposite chair and raised the cup to his lips. “It’s good.”
“Better than we used to drink when we were cadets,” Regis said. Danilo shuddered theatrically. “But the point wasn’t the taste, was it? Not in those days.”
The two men sipped their wine. Regis felt the coiled tension within him ease slightly.
“Regis, I am glad to find you alone. I want to talk privately. No, not about Rinaldo, at least, not directly. About this Chapel of All Worlds that he and Dan Lawton’s wife are building.”
“What of it?” The completed structure would take time, even with Terran construction methods. Once a circle of laran workers under a skilled Keeper could have raised such a structure in a day. Meanwhile, services were held in an old mansion in the Trade City, accessible to all.
“It’s an excellent way to foster understanding between our peoples.” Regis said.
“I thought so too, at first. I was curious to learn more of the off-worlders’ faith, which seems so close to that of the cristoforos, and what wisdom they might have to teach us. I even allowed myself to believe in an all-embracing god who lifts every man’s burdens, no matter what sun we live under.”
Beneath Danilo’s calm words, Regis sensed ambivalence and . . . fear. Fear?
“Danilo, what is wrong?”
Danilo began pacing, wine goblet in hand. The garnet liquid sloshed perilously close to spilling as he gestured. “You know—from our years at Nevarsin, from all we have been through—how I have been at odds with certain aspects of my faith.”
“The injunction against homosexuality, you mean.” Outright phobia was more the case, but Regis did not need to say so.
Danilo paused in his stride, his back to Regis. His shoulders rose and then fell. He nodded, then turned back, dark eyes filled with light.
And love, Regis realized as his own heart responded. How could I ever doubt that?
“I hoped,” Danilo continued, “that since the Terranan are said to be more tolerant, that this coming together of faiths might result in greater openness and acceptance.”
“Not all Terranan,” Regis reminded Danilo. “Remember when Grandfather had to intervene after an off- worlder stabbed a Guardsman who had, he claimed, made him an ‘indecent proposition.’ The Guardsman’s brother quite justifiably filed an intent-to-murder.”
Danilo shook his head in incredulity. “I’d forgotten that incident, it was so long ago. Wasn’t the Terran deported to save his life? He nearly caused an interstellar scandal because he had not the wit to simply decline the invitation.”
“Perhaps,” Regis said delicately, “he did not see that as an option. Or perhaps he was brought up like a cristoforo, unable to consider bedding another man without moral disgust. I’ve never asked you—how did you reconcile what you were taught with what you feel, what we have together? For a time, I thought you might have set aside your cristoforo beliefs, but you did not.”
Danilo took a moment to compose his answer. “For a long time, I made excuses to myself. I told myself that when you married—and each season made that more inevitable—that I too would take a wife. Do my duty as a member of the Comyn. Pass on this damnable telepathic Gift to the next generation.
“Redeem my . . . sin and become a good cristoforo.” He paused, his voice on the edge of trembling. “In the end, I came to understand that the sin was not in the love or the act of love but in the misuse of it. Like laran, a thing of good that can also be abused.”
Or twisted. Regis closed his eyes. Or suppressed, with deadly consequences.
The laran bond between them shimmered with memory, of how Regis had brought himself to the point of death, rather than approach Danilo in a way that would offend him. They had each come close to destroying themselves, trying to hide their true feelings.
Danilo’s voice dropped to a hush. “Nothing is going to change that, bredhyu. Nothing. Ever.”
They did not need to touch one another, so strong and clear was the telepathic embrace.
After a time, their minds drew apart. Returning to his chair, Danilo lowered his eyes to the wine swirling in the cup, like a miniature sea storm. “Regis, something is going on in that chapel. People see it as having the full sanction of the Federation. Every day, more worshipers come. They come to hear your brother preach.”
“That’s a good thing, isn’t it? For Rinaldo to use his monastery training? He’s an educated man; should he not share his knowledge of an ancient and venerable tradition?”
“Look, it’s one thing to submit oneself to the tenets and teachings of one’s faith, but it’s another matter to insist that this is the only way to live. And that anyone who says otherwise has no legitimate authority.”
Regis sat back in his chair. The burned end of one log collapsed into embers, sending up a cloud of ash. “If I understand rightly, you accuse Rinaldo of publicly preaching against any faith but his own. I can’t believe he would do such a thing, no matter how he may personally feel. It will take him time to emerge from the cloister, but he is a fair-minded man.”
“Of course, he makes every effort to appear reasonable to you.” Hardness shaded Danilo’s voice. “He still needs you.”
Regis made an impatient gesture. “Rinaldo may have spent the better part of his life as a monk, but he is not a child. He most certainly does not need me. Even now, he is exploring the city on his own.”
Danilo looked away, his features stony.
“Can we just drop the subject?” Regis said. “I don’t want to quarrel with you again.”
“Nor I with you,” Danilo said quietly.
“Why then do we keep tearing at each other this way?”
“I don’t know! In truth, I can’t blame Rinaldo. We fought even before we knew of his existence.”
“Maybe it’s the times or being Comyn in a world that no longer has a pl
ace for us,” Regis said. “If our way is hard for you and me, who were born to it, how much more difficult must it be for my brother? To be wrenched from a life of quiet and contemplation into this madness?”
Danilo nodded, thoughtful. “I admit there is much good in him. He is earnest and intelligent, and he has faithfully performed his duties as a teacher. But, Regis, he is still inexperienced. Is it is wise to let him wander through the city on his own?”
“Rinaldo is a grown man,” Regis insisted, “and I will not subject him to the kind of tyrannical restrictions that have plagued my own life!”
“No,” Danilo said gently, “you would not wish that on your dearest enemy.”
Regis felt a trickle of foreboding. Danilo might have a valid point. The streets were not as safe as they once were, even by day. “Rinaldo should have been back by now.”
“We would have heard from the watch if he were in trouble,” Danilo said. “Doubtless he has forgotten the time or lost his way. In some districts, the streets are like a maze even to those of us who know them well.”
“I should send a Guardsman to search for him,” Regis said.
“Let me go instead,” Danilo offered. “I know he thinks I dislike him, but that is not true. I simply do not trust him. If I look for him myself, that may show him that I have his best interest—as well as yours—at heart. And if he has become lost, I promise I will not tease him. Anyone can lose his way in the old city.”
Regis nodded. With a bow, Danilo took his leave. Alone with no distraction but his own thoughts, Regis struggled against the sense of something terrible looming over him.
My brother is a grown man, he silently repeated to himself. Danilo is a skilled fighter, more than capable of dispatching a trained assassin, let alone a hapless footpad. He saved my own life more times than I can count. I should not worry.
Regis sat, watching the pattern of reflections cast by the flames. Minutes slipped by. The fire died.
Suddenly, a clamor of intense, desperate emotion burst upon his mind. Deeper and quicker than thought, Regis felt Danilo cry out. In warning—in surprise? In alarm?
Regis was not a strong telepath. There were only a few people with whom he could speak mind-to-mind, even at short distances. Linnea, with her powerful and trained Keeper’s laran, was one of them.
Danilo was the other.
A series of flashing images, like bits of shattered glass and leaves blown in a Hellers gale, flooded Regis.
Shadows cloaking the streets, shop windows grimy in the nightly drizzle . . . searching for a familiar landmark, glancing up at the lighted towers of Comyn Castle through the gloom . . . A flash of recognition: The Starry Plough tavern on Music Street . . .
“Danilo!” called a man’s voice.
Not Rinaldo . . .
His own voice— Dani’s voice: “I am looking for Rinaldo Hastur . . . went off without an escort . . .”
The answering voice was silky and tantalizingly familiar.” . . my duty to assist you in your search . . .”
A man stepped from the shadows into the light cast by the lantern above the tavern door . . . by his movement, a trained swordsman . . . a sword slipping free . . .
Danilo’s hand reaching for his own blade . . . the weight of the world crashing down on his head . . . cobblestones hard beneath his cheek . . .
A dim, vanishing thought: Did they get Rinaldo, too?
The next moment, the thought-touch disappeared, sending Regis reeling into oblivion.
Regis gasped as he jerked back to consciousness. He had fallen across the little table. One of the wine goblets lay on its side, spilling dark liquid on the carpet. For a sickening moment, his eyes would not focus. Nausea clawed the back of his throat. He had not felt such wrenching disorientation in a long time.
Danilo—Danilo was in danger, needed him! He had to do something, but his mind was too muddled to determine what. He should summon help—a Guardsman. Speech seemed impossible.
Although the fire had died into coals, multicolored light filled the room, shifting, surging, and then dissolving into sparkling motes. His breath wheezed through his lungs.
Move, he urged himself. Walking would help stabilize the balance centers in his brain and keep his focus from drifting. With a poignant twist, he remembered that Javanne had been the one to tell him that.
Praying he would not give in to the waves of stomach sickness, Regis clambered to his feet, one foot and then the other, resenting each moment of delay. Minutes later, the worst of the distortions faded, and he felt solid again.
It was time to make plans, to act quickly. The attack on Danilo had occurred in front of The Starry Plough. With a message to Gabriel, a suitably armed escort would be ready in minutes.
A servant answered his summons promptly, but before Regis could issue the message, he heard a muffled shriek coming from another part of the Hastur section.
Mikhail!
Regis raced down the corridors toward Mikhail’s room. The door was open. Inside, a servant lay senseless on the floor. Regis rushed inside.
The room was filled with strange men, their faces concealed behind strips of cloth.
Bandits? Here, within Comyn Castle?
Regis could hardly believe what was happening. Then he was no longer thinking, he had whipped out his dagger and was fighting for his life. Twisting, lunging—at nothing.
As suddenly as they had appeared, the men vanished. Regis was alone once more, crouched in a fighting stance, his dagger in his hand. The residue of battle-adrenaline still saturated the air.
Mikhail—a ttacked here, in his own chamber? Dragged away half- conscious . . . gagged, unable to call for help, reaching out in the only way possible before losing consciousness—
Blessed Cassilda! How had this happened? First Danilo, now Mikhail . . . and Rinaldo as well—lost in the city? Taken captive?
The attacks must be related. Had Rinaldo been lured into a trap? Whoever set it might have guessed that someone would come after him. Mikhail’s abduction must have been planned in advance and therefore was part of a coordinated plan. Anyone might be the traitor. Anyone!
The servant, a maid barely in her teens, roused and opened her eyes. When she saw Regis with a weapon in his hand, breathing hard, his face flushed, she gave a yelp of terror.
He slipped the dagger back into its sheath and lifted the girl to her feet. It took him a moment to remember her name, Merilys. She’d come from Armida with Javanne as part of the household, a plain, hard-working country girl.
“It’s all right,” he murmured. “I won’t hurt you.”
“Lord Hastur,” the girl answered in a whisper. She gulped, righted herself, tidied her apron with a few deft tugs, and bobbed an awkward curtsy. Unfortunately, she remembered nothing about the attack, beyond being knocked unconscious. She nodded in a calm, practical way when he asked her to get someone else to help.
Within minutes, three other servants and a Guardsman arrived. Regis set up the outer sitting room, easily accessible from the hallway, as a base of operations. He issued a stream of orders, to seal off the Hastur section and gather everyone within, to send word to Gabriel as Commander of the Guards and also to Javanne. Merilys took this last upon herself and showed her country good sense, for at the news that Mikhail had been abducted, Javanne came close to hysterics. She recovered enough to count off the servants and identify the one missing, a Thendara native she had hired for the season.
“Find him!” Regis snapped.
Before he could say anything more, young Kennard-Dyan Ardais stumbled through the door, closely escorted by two grim-faced Guardsmen. Regis did not know Kennard-Dyan well, although Danilo did; the lad was Mikhail’s friend, as well as Heir to Ardais. Word had it that his mother, Lady Marilla, was educating him in the Terran manner. Annoyance vied with concern on the youth’s face, both fading into confusion as he recognized Regis.
“Lord Hastur, we found this one coming up the back staircase,” said one of the Guardsmen.
br /> “I’ll have you know I am—” and here, Kennard-Dyan rattled off a string of names and titles. He pulled his arms free. “Dom Regis, what is going on? I came to meet Mikhail, not to be mauled by—” He broke off, glaring at the Guards.
“That’s all right, I’ll handle it,” Regis said. At his nod, the Guardsmen retreated. “You and Mikhail had agreed to meet? Here, at this hour?”
The youth flushed slightly. “We were to go . . . um . . . hawking.”
“Hawking? At night? Is that what they’re calling it now?” Could it be a coincidence that the Ardais youth had come looking for Mikhail at this hour? Regis eyed Kennard-Dyan’s shamefaced countenance. Whom would he suspect next?
Wetting his lips, Kennard-Dyan glanced around the room. “Sir, please . . . is something wrong?”
Regis hesitated, for a moment tempted to enlist Kennard-Dyan’s help. Just then, Gabriel stormed into the sitting room. From his expression, he had already heard news of the kidnapping. His glance took in the scene.
Regis laid one hand on Kennard-Dyan’s shoulder and propelled him toward the door. “There is no time to explain, and in any event, it will all come out soon enough. I require your word of honor that you will say nothing to anyone, not even your mother, until I myself or Commander Lanart-Hastur make an announcement.”
Kennard-Dyan straightened his shoulders. “The word of an Ardais may not carry the same legendary weight as that of a Hastur, but to me it is as precious.”
Regis bade the youth return to his own apartments, then turned to Gabriel. “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but it’s probably true. Mikhail’s been kidnapped, by whom or for what purpose, I have no idea. I heard a scream—the servant girl had been knocked unconscious by the time I got here. I picked up the laran residue of the assault.”
He did not add that his mind was already open, sensitized by Danilo’s anguished mental cry.
“You’re sure no one has entered or left?” Gabriel’s voice was rough with barely masked emotion. “Good.”
“There’s more.” Regis found his legs suddenly unsteady. He lowered himself to the nearest chair. “Danilo has been taken as well . . . and maybe Rinaldo, I’m not sure. There’s no trace of him, but he’s only been gone a few hours. Danilo went in search of him. To a tavern on Music Street—The Starry Plough.”