It was enough to drive a man mad.
Regis stopped at an inn along the Venza Road. The dun had been flagging since noon, and he himself was in need of a bath and shave. Regardless of the disguise in which he had left Thendara, Lord Regis Hastur could not come riding into the city looking like the roughest of mountain men. With luck, he would be able to slip past the gates with as little notice as he had left. If not, he must maintain at least the semblance of a proper Comyn lord.
The inn looked snug and well-kept. Regis kept his hood raised as he negotiated with the innkeeper for a room, a bath, and stabling for the horse. The man, whose stocky frame, rounded cheeks, and watchful eyes attested to the success of his enterprise, asked no questions beyond the desires of his guest, but he demanded payment in advance. Regis added a generous tip from his dwindling supply of coins. The innkeeper grinned and called for the stable boy.
“See to see to the horse, lad, and give it an extra ration of grain. I’ll warrant it’s seen hard travel this past tenday. Clean its feet well, mind you, and check the leg tendons for heat. As for you, m’lord,” he handed Regis a key, “upstairs and second on the left. Our very best room. Will you be wantin’ dinner in your room or down here, beside the fire? And hot water for the bath now, or after you’ve eaten?”
Regis glanced around the common room. It was almost empty except for a serving maid, most likely the innkeeper’s wife, and a pair of men in farmer’s thick-spun smocks, bent over their drinks. The fire’s warmth spread through the room. Chips of cedar had been added to the logs to freshen the air, mixing with the smells of fresh bread, roasted meat, and ale.
The two farmers had taken no overt notice of Regis, and he did not relish hiding in his room until morning. He took a seat in the darkest corner, his back to the wall. The innkeeper brought him a trencher of steaming slices of meat and boiled redroots, two thick, butter-smeared slabs of bread, and a crockery tankard brimming with ale. Regis blew away the froth and sipped, savoring the darkly rich brew. Warmth and contentment spread through his belly. The meat was a bit tough, but the roots were succulent and well-seasoned. A few more customers came in, locals by their greetings.
Regis waved the serving maid away when she would have refilled his tankard. The voices of the other men drifted over him. He should retreat upstairs before too many more came in. Just as he gathered himself to make an exit, bits of the conversation startled him into immobility.
“Ye’re daft to believe it, I tell yer,” one of the farmers pronounced. “Why, there’s not been a Comyn king since before me grampa’s time.”
King?
“Aye,” his mate chimed in. “What would the folk in Thendara want with a king?”
“Especially the likes of—what was his name? The young one that were killed about the time Sharra rose up in Caer Donn? Darrak? Derik?”
“That were he. Last of the royal line, he were.” One of the newcomers went on to express the opinion that the only sane thing the Elhalyns had ever done was to agree to the Hastur Regency.
Regis hardly dared to believe what he had just heard. Poor Derik had died without issue, and whatever was left of his kin were distant and scattered. The Elhalyn were not extinct, however, so perhaps one of them had come forward. What kind of Regent would Rinaldo make? He had not been able to dissuade an inexperienced upstart from claiming the crown.
Remembering his own feelings when faced with pressure to claim the throne, Regis was not sure whether to be amused or appalled at such folly. What, after all, was there to be king over? A handful of remaining Comyn, who had been rendered irrelevant by the upheavals of the last decade? A planet on the edge of colonized space, a marginal world struggling to preserve its identity?
As for himself, he was just as happy to let whatever idiot Elhalyn who wanted all that meaningless spectacle have it, so that steadier men could get on with the business of guiding Darkover into the future. That meant taking Rinaldo firmly in hand, one way or another. With these black thoughts, Regis slipped up the stairs to his room.
Regis slept surprisingly well, woke before dawn, and arrived at the city gates just before they opened. The sun crested the eastern hills and swept the valley of Thendara in clear rosy light. The night had been cold but not freezing, and newly sprouted vegetation lined the road. He had been gone over two tendays, and in the interval the last dregs of winter had faded.
A crowd had assembled outside the gates, farmers and carts laden with spring vegetables, a caravan of fur merchants with their Renunciate escort, and a handful of other travelers.
The gates swung open, and the line moved forward. The Guardsmen were letting people through with only a greeting. As Regis passed, a Guardsman brought the procession to a halt.
“Lord Regis? Is that you?”
For a moment, Regis considered and discarded the notion of denying it. One glimpse of his youthful features and white hair would put a lie to any claim of mistaken identity. He stated he’d been on the road, on Hastur business, which was true enough.
The Guardsman accepted his explanation without comment. If he thought it odd that a Hastur should travel without an escort, mounted on such a common- looking horse and wearing such clothing, he kept his opinion to himself. Regis decided against asking about the news for fear of appearing suspiciously like a returning fugitive.
Regis had not gone very far into Thendara, heading toward the townhouse, when he heard a man addressing the passing traffic. He nudged the dun through the pedestrians to the corner where the speaker stood on a platform. The reaction of the listeners ranged from acceptance to outrage, with much muttering.
At first, Regis could not make out the words that dismayed so many. When those nearest the platform moved off, he was able to get close enough to hear clearly. He recognized the speaker as a Guardsman who had once performed similar duties for the Comyn Council; now the man wore Hastur livery with a baldric bearing several glittering badges.
“Hear ye! Hear ye! Know all those present, by the order of His Majesty, King Rinaldo Felix-Valentine, that as of this day, no man shall hinder the free practice of the cristoforo faith . . . Hear ye! Hear ye! Know all those present . . .”
Rinaldo . . . King?
Had the entire world taken leave of its senses?
Regis urged the dun through the swirling crowd. The horse, startled by the determination of its rider, lunged forward. Pedestrians scattered. A woman hissed a curse as she snatched her toddler out of the horse’s path.
Once free of the crowd, Regis kicked the dun into a hard gallop. Its hooves clattered on the paving stones. The saddlebags flapped like leather wings against its flanks.
The gelding slid to a halt in front of the town house. Regis jumped to the ground and shoved the reins into the hands of the startled groom.
“Lord Regis, what—”
Regis was already racing to the house. He scrambled up the steps and through the front door.
“Linnea!” he shouted with all the breath left in him.
Everything in the foyer looked as should, with no sign of forced entry.
Linnea!
He darted into the sun-lit parlor where she liked to nurse the baby.
Empty—
Heart pounding, he started toward the stairs. A slight, feminine shape appeared along the shadowed corridor. His heart lifted, but it was Merilys who stood there.
“My wife—” Regis grabbed the girl by the shoulders as if he could shake the answers from her. “Is she—my son—”
Cario, I am here.
Linnea emerged from her own bedroom, a shawl in disarray around her shoulders, little Dani in her arms. His face was flushed with sleep, one cheek reddened where he had pressed himself against her breast. A bubble of milk gleamed at one corner of his tiny mouth.
Regis could not speak. It was enough to breathe.
With a glance that said, We will discuss things privately, Linnea summoned the coridom. The steward arrived a moment later. Linnea excused herself while Regis was giv
ing instructions for the servants to be properly cautioned not to comment on their master’s unorthodox appearance and sudden return.
Linnea came back without the baby a moment later, her dress and hair impeccable. Merilys carried a breakfast tray into the parlor, tidied the hearth, and then departed with a curtsy.
The moment the door closed behind the servant, Regis caught Linnea in his arms. Her body felt brittle with unvoiced questions.
“Stelli is safe,” he murmured, “and will remain so as long as the Red Sun rises.”
Her muscles softened, and she let out a deep breath.
“But you—I should never have left you here!” he cried.
Linnea’s gray eyes darkened. “Where would you have me go? Not to High Windward, not traveling with a baby this early in spring. The roads would be barely passable for the hardiest traveler, let alone a woman with an infant.”
She had a point. High Windward was no longer a fortified strong-hold, and even when it had been, it had fallen to a determined assault. Linnea would not risk so many other lives by seeking sanctuary there. Once Rinaldo realized she had fled, it would be the first place he would send for her.
Only one place on Darkover was truly immune from either royal command or military assault.
Now Linnea shook her head with a firmness Regis had come to recognize. “I will not endanger my friends by bringing them into this quarrel. Since the Ages of Chaos, the Towers have remained neutral. They must continue to do so. Let us speak no more of this. I will remain here, at your side.”
She set about pouring the jaco. “From the uproar of your return, I gather you heard the news.”
Regis took a cup and lowered himself to the divan. She sat down beside him.
“When I first heard, and that was rumor only,” he said, “I thought it must be some halfwit who’s been hiding out in the back corridors of Castle Elhalyn all these years, now seized with delusions of royal glory. It didn’t occur to me it might be Rinaldo. What was my brother thinking, to get himself crowned? The monks at Nevarsin never preached royal ambition.”
“They were quick enough to promote the notion of a cristoforo king,” Linnea said darkly. “Some of Rinaldo’s new ‘councillors’ produced historical records that the Hasturs had once held the throne.”
Regis felt a sudden, heavy tension in his jaw muscles. “Of course, no Elhalyn candidate came forth to protest.”
“This isn’t an usurpation in the strict legal sense. Rinaldo took the matter to a senior judge of the Cortes, who ruled that he has a legitimate claim.”
“The same judge, no doubt, who presided at the crowning.”
Linnea raised one slender eyebrow. “Along with every Comyn in the city . . . except you.”
Regis had hoped his absence might have gone unnoticed. He had not planned on missing such a public event.
“Of course,” Linnea said, “we were both expected to attend the ceremony. I cannot tell you how tempted I was! In the end, though, we both declined with regrets.”
“Hmmm. How did you manage that?”
A smile twinkled behind her eyes. “With dexterous diplomacy, worthy of the most convoluted Tower politics. A touch of milk-fever required my seclusion and your attendance on me. The refusal was remarked, of course. For several days, I expected a summons for you to present yourself and explain.”
“But none came?”
She shrugged. “It seemed my subterfuge had been successful, or Rinaldo was so occupied with his own concerns that other things took precedence.”
“My brother would not overlook my refusal to witness his coronation and thereby endorse it. Another Comyn would use such a lapse as grounds for a blood feud.”
“Rinaldo was . . . annoyed. Disappointed. Furious. Incredulous. Concerned. All in turn, and no reaction lasting very long. Still, you should tread lightly.”
“That is, until this mockery of a kingship has been nullified and things put to rights.”
Linnea got up and moved restlessly about the brightly lit chamber. She seemed a fey, wild creature, and Regis realized that he did not know her well. They had had a few brief, intense encounters and a short span of married life, little more.
“Just because Rinaldo’s coronation was hasty and unexpected does not mean it can be easily undone,” she remarked. “Unless he himself chooses to abdicate, he is King of the Domains. Or would you set aside law and tradition because the particular personalities do not meet with your approval?”
She was right. He must not waste time and resources on the colossal anachronism of a king in this age. He must try to understand Rinaldo’s intentions, reason with him, and guide him. And if he could not . . .
Regis surged to his feet and strode to the window. He looked over the walls to the city beyond. “What about my brother’s court? Who has replaced Gabriel as Guards Commander?”
“At first, it was to be Haldred Ridenow, but at the last minute, Rinaldo changed his mind and appointed Bertram Monterey.”
“I don’t know him.”
“He’s only a junior officer, but he is a devoted cristoforo and absolutely loyal to Rinaldo.”
“How is Gabriel taking all this? And my sister?”
“Javanne expected you to storm the Castle and rescue her daughter, and when you didn’t . . .” Linnea winced.
My poor sister, to have lost two children. First Mikhail to me as my heir, then Ariel . . . “Do you now fault me for seeing to Stelli’s safety first?”
“I have not changed my mind. You did the only thing you could, no matter how disappointed Javanne might be.”
“I suppose you will now remind me of the impossibility of eating nuts without breaking their shells.” Regis could not mask the anguish in his voice.
Linnea’s brows drew together, troubled but resolute. “If it had been Stelli instead of Ariel in Rinaldo’s clutches, I might feel differently, but I would think the same.”
“I wish my sister had your strength of mind. I fear she will never forgive me for betraying the bonds of our kinship.”
I have lost Danilo and my brother, and now Javanne as well . . .
“There is an even greater reason for me to remain here, despite the risk,” Linnea said with quiet intensity. “Regis, you act as if the weight of the world rested on you alone.”
“The failure is mine,” he said stubbornly. “So must the remedy be.”
Linnea regarded him with that deep, searching gaze, but she made no attempt to breach the fragile shell of his isolation.
A heartbeat later, he had gathered himself. “Given what you just told me, I must waste no more time in dealing with my brother.”
“What will you do?”
“Try to reason with him, certainly. He must be brought to see this concentration of power cannot be good for Darkover.”
“And if he will not listen to you? What then?”
“I will fly that hawk when his pinions are grown,” Regis retorted. “Do you mean to cripple me with prophecies of failure?”
She sighed but did not argue further.
Regis went to make himself presentable for a visit to the Castle. He did not know what awaited him or what arguments or actions he might be forced to take. If Rinaldo would not listen to reason, what then?
What then?
30
By the time Regis arrived at Comyn Castle, he had acquired an escort of three off-duty City Guardsmen, all seasoned officers. The sincerity with which they offered him their service as an honor guard bespoke their hope that now all things would be put right. Eventually, Regis would need a paxman, and Gabriel might be willing, but in the urgency of the moment, these volunteers provided the necessary security.
The three Guardsmen sliced through knots of pedestrians. Even the occasional rider steered clear, so they made much better time than Regis could have on his own.
They passed the outer gates of Comyn Castle and entered an open-air courtyard. In summer, the garden would be a haven of flowers and arching green branches. N
ow the benches were rain- wet, and the buds of the branches had only begun to open. The place seemed to be holding its breath.
The three Guardsmen who had attached themselves to Regis, although none had been on active duty since the coronation, were well informed. At this hour Rinaldo was within the Castle, not visiting one of the many new cristoforo shrines about the city. The new king held court daily in the same elegant hall used for his wedding, adjacent to the Grand Ballroom.
Regis would have preferred a private place where each might speak in confidence, most likely the study that Regis still though of as his grandfather’s. He had not anticipated the effect of Rinaldo’s newly royal status.
A pair of Castle Guards stood at attention outside the Grand Ballroom. They looked barely more than cadets, and they offered no objection as their senior officers escorted Regis through.
The hall had been newly furbished with hangings and carpets. Paintings and sculptures of various cristoforo holy images, many of them gilded or bejeweled, dotted the walls. Between these religious objects and tapestries that looked as if they had recently been dragged from the Castle storage rooms, there was hardly an inch of bare wall. Regis, who had never cared for ornate embellishments, felt as if the true beauty of the place, the stones so beautifully cut and placed, and the panels of translucent blue, had been crusted over and obscured.
Regis drew himself up. The decoration was trivial, although it revealed much about the man who had ordered it. He must not allow it to distract him from his own purpose.
With his escort on each side and behind him, Regis marched down the central aisle. Onlookers stared as he passed. The faint, rankling buzz of a telepathic damper blurred his laran senses.
A dais had been erected at the far end. Rinaldo occupied the massive carved chair used by Danvan Hastur when he presided over meetings of the Comyn Council. In fact, Regis realized, the configuration of the room approximated that of the Crystal Chamber. The arrangement of the seating formed a roughly octagonal shape, angled toward the throne. Rinaldo seemed to be saying, As the Comyn once ruled the Domains, I do now.