Bradley, Marion Zimmer - Darkover 09 - The Heritage of Hastur

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DARKOVER LANDFALL (#UY1256—$1.25) HUNTERS OF THE RED MOON (#UY1230—

$1.25) THE SPELL SWORD (#UY1284—$1.25)

DEDICATION for

Jacqueline Lichtenberg

Who convinced me that

this book could and

should be written, and

kept after me until

(and while)

I wrote it

FIRST PRINTING, AUGUST 1975

3456789 10 11

PRINTED IN U.S.A.

THE

HERITAGE

OF HASTUR

Chapter ONE

As the riders came up over the pass which led down into Thendara, they could

see beyond the old city to the Terran spaceport Huge and sprawling, ugly and

unfamiliar to their eyes, it spread like some strange growth below them. And

all around it, ringing it like a scab, were the tightly clustered buildings of

the Trade City which had grown between old Thendara and the spaceport.

Regis Hastur, riding slowly between his escorts, thought that it was not as

ugly as they had told him in Nevarsin. It had its own beauty, an austere

beauty of steel towers and stark white buildings, each for some alien and

unknown purpose. It was not a cancer on the face of Darkover, but a strange

and not unbeautiful garment.

The central tower of the new headquarters building faced the Comyn Castle,

which stood across the valley, with an unfortunate aspect. It appeared to

Regis that the tall skyscraper and the old stone castle were squared off and

facing one another like two giants armed for combat

But he knew that was ridiculous. There had been peace between the Terran

Empire and the Domains all of his lifetime. The Hasturs made sure of it

But the thought brought him no comfort He was not much of a Hastur, he

considered, but be was the last. They would make the best of him even though

he was a damned poor substitute for his father, and everyone knew it They'd

never let him forget it for a minute.

His father had died fifteen years ago, just a month before Regis had been

born. Rafael Hastur had at thirty-five already shown signs of being a strong

statesman and leader, deeply loved by his people, respected even by the

Terrans. And he had been blown to bits in the Kilghard Hills, killed by

contraband weapons smuggled from the Terran Empire. Cut off in the full

strength of his youth and promise, he had left only an

Marion Zimmer Bradley

THE HERITAGE OF HASTUR

eleven-year-old daughter and a fragile, pregnant wife. Alanna Elhalyn-Hastur

had nearly died of the shock of his death. She had clung fitfully to life only

because she knew she was carrying the last of the Hasturs, the longed-for son

of Rafael. She had lived, racked with grief, just long enough for Regis to be

born alive; then, almost with relief, she had laid her life down.

And after losing his father, after all his mother went through, Regis thought,

all they got was him, not the son they would have chosen. He was strong enough

physically, even good-looking, but curiously handicapped for a son of the

telepathic caste of the Domains, the Comyn. A nontele-path. At fifteen, if he

had inherited laran power, he would have shown signs of it.

Behind him, he heard bis bodyguards talking in low tones.

"I see they've finished their headquarters building. Hell of a place to put

it, within a stone's throw of Comyn Castle."

"Well, they started to build it back in the Hellers, at Caer Donn. It was old

Istvan Hastur, in my grandsire's time, who made them move the spaceport to

Thendara. He must have had his reasons."

"Should have left it there, away from decent folk!"

"Oh, the Terrans aren't all bad. My brother keeps a shop in the Trade City.

Anyway, would you want the Terranan back in the hills, where those mountain

bandits and the damned Aldarans could deal with them behind our backs?"

"Damned savages," the second man said. "They don't even observe the Compact

back there. You see them in the Hellers, wearing their filthy cowards'

weapons."

"What would you expect of the Aldarans?" They lowered their voices, and Regis

sighed. He was used to it. He put constraint on everyone, just by being what

be was: Comyn and Hastur. They probably thought he could read their minds. .

Most Comyn could.

"Lord Regis," said one of his guards, "there's a party of riders coming down

the northward road carrying banners. They must be the party from Armida, with

Lord Alton. Shall we wait for them and ride together?"

Regis had no particular desire to join another party of Comyn lords, but it

would have been an unthinkable breach of manners to say so. At Council season

all the Domains met together at Thendara; Regis was bound by the custom of

generations to treat them all as kinsmen and brothers. And die Altons were bis

kinsmen.

They slackened pace and waited for the other riders.

They were still high on the slopes, and he could see past Thendara to the

spread-out spaceport itself. A great distant sound, like a faraway waterfall,

made the ground vibrate like thunder, even where he stood. A tiny toylike form

began to rise far out on the spaceport, slowly at first, then faster and

faster. The sound peaked to a faint scream; the shape was a faraway streak, a

dot, was gone.

Regis let his breath go. A starship of the Empire, outward bound for distant

worlds, distant suns.... Regis realized his fists had clenched so tightly on

the reins that his horse tossed its head, protesting. He slackened them and

gave the horse an absentminded, apologetic pat on the neck. His eyes were

still riveted on the spot in the sky where the starship had vanished.

Outward bound, free for the immeasurable immensities of space, the ship was

beaded to worlds whose wonders he, chained down here, could never guess. His

throat felt tight He wished he were not too old to cry, but the heir to Hastur

could not make any display of unmanly emotion in public. He wondered why he

was getting so worked up about this, but he knew the answer: that ship was

going where he could never go.

The riders from the pass were nearer now, Regis could identify some of them.

Next to his bannerman rode Ken-Bard, Lord Alton, a stooped, heavy-set man with

red hair going gray. Except for Danvan Hastur, Regent of the Comyn, Kennard

was probably the most powerful man in the Seven Domains. Regis had known

Kennard all his He; as a child, he had called him uncle. Behind him, among a

whole assembly of kinsmen, servants, bodyguards and poor relations, he saw the

banner of the Ardais Domain, so Lord Dyan must be with them.

One of Regis' guards said in an undertone, "I see the old buzzard has both his

bastards with him. Wonder how he has the face?"

"Old Kennard can face anything, and make Hastur like it," returned the other

man in a prison-yard mutter. "Anyway, young Lew's not a bastard; Kennard got

him legitimated so he could work in the Arilinn Tower. The younger one—**

Marion Zimmer Bradley

THE HERITAGE OF HASTUR

The guard saw Regis glance his way and he stiffened; the expression slid off

his face as if a sponge had wiped it blank.

Damn it, Regis thought irritably, I can't read your mind, man, IVe just got

good, normal ears. But in any case, he realized, he had overheard an insolent

remark about a Comyn lord, and the guard would have been embarrassed about

that. There was an old proverb: The mouse in the walls may look at a eta, but

he is wise not to squeak about it.

Regis, of course, knew the old story, Kennard had done a shocking, even a

shameful thing: he had taken, in honorable marriage, a half-Terran woman, kin

to the renegade Domain of Aldaran. Comyn Council had never accepted the

marriage or the sons. Not even for Kennard's sake.

Kennard rode toward Regis. "Greetings, Lord Regis. Are you riding to Council?"

Regis felt exasperated at the obviousness of the question—where else would he

be going, on this road, at this season?—until he realized that the formal

words implied recognition as an adult. He replied, with equally formal

courtesy, "Yes, kinsman, my grandsire has requested that I attend Council this

year."

"Have you been all these years hi the monastery at Nevarsin, kinsman?"

Kennard knew perfectly well where he had been, Regis reflected; when his

grandfather couldn't think of any other way to get Regis off his hands, he

packed him away to Saint-Val-entine-of-the-Snows, But it would have been a

fearful breach of manners to mention this before the assembly so he merely

said, "*Yes, he entrusted my education to the cristoforos; I have been there

three years."

"Well, that was a hell of a way to treat the heir to Has-tur," said a harsh,

musical voice. Regis looked up and recognized Lord Dyan Ardais, a pale, tall,

hawk-faced man he had seen making brief visits to the monastery. Regis bowed

and greeted him. "Lord Dyan."

Dyan's eyes, keen and almost colorless—there was said to be chieri blood in

the Ardais—rested on Regis. "I told Hastur that only a fool would send a boy

to be brought up in that place. But I gathered that he was much occupied with

affairs of state, such as settling all the troubles the Terranan have brought

to our world. I offered to have you fostered at Ardais; my sister Elorie bore

no living child and would have welcomed a kinsman to rear. But your grandsire,

I gather,

thought me no fit guardian for a boy your age." He gave a faint, sarcastic

smile. "Well, you seem to have survived three years at the hands of the

cristoforos. How was it in Nevarsin, Regis?"

"Cold." Regis hoped that settled that.

"How well I remember," Dyan said, laughing. "I was brought up by the brothers,

too, you know. My father still had his wits then—or enough of them to keep me

well out of sight of his various excesses. I spent the whole five years

shivering."

Kennard lifted a gray eyebrow. "I don't remember that it was so cold."

"But you were warm in the guesthouse," Dyan said with a smile. "They keep

fires there all year, and you could have had someone to warm your bed if you

chose. The students' dormitory at Nevarsin—I give you my solemn word—is the

coldest place on Darkover. Haven't you watched those poor brats shivering

their way through the offices? Have they made a cristoforo of you, Regis?"

Regis said briefly, "No, I serve the Lord of Light, as is proper for a son of

Hastur."

Kennard gestured to two lads in the Alton colors, and they rode forward a

little way. "Lord Regis," he said formally, "I ask leave to present my sous:

Lewis-Kennard Montray-Alton; Marius Montray-Lanart."

Regis felt briefly at a loss. Kennard's sons were not accepted by Council, but

if Regis greeted them as kinsman and equals, he would give them Hastur

recognition. If not, he would affront his kinsman. He was angry at Kennard for

making this choice necessary, especially when there was nothing about Comyn

etiquette or diplomacy that Kennard did not know.

Lew Alton was a tall, sturdy young man, five or six years older than Regis. He

said with a wry smile, "It's all right, Lord Regis, I was legitimated and

formally designated heir a couple of years ago. It's quite permissible for you

to be polite to me."

Regis felt his face flaming with embarrassment. He said, "Grandfather wrote me

the news; I had forgotten. Greetings, cousin, have you been long on the road?"

"A few days," Lew said. "The road is peaceful, although my brother, I think,

found it a long ride. He's very young for such a journey. You remember Marius,

don't you?"

18 Marion Zimmer Bradley

Regis realized with relief that Marius, called Montray-Lan-art instead of

Alton because he had not yet been accepted as a legitimate son, was only

twelve years old—too young in any case for a formal greeting. The question

could be sidestepped by treating him as a child. He said, "You've grown since

I last saw you, Marius. I don't suppose you remember me at all. You're old

enough now to ride a horse, at least. Do you still have the little gray pony

you used to ride at Armida?"

Marius answered politely, "Yes, but he's out at pasture; he's old and lame,

too old for such a trip."

Kennard looked annoyed. Diplomacy indeed! His grandfather would be proud of

him, Regis considered, even if he was not proud of himself for the art of

double tongues. Fortunately, Marius was not old enough to know he'd been

snubbed. It occurred to Regis how ridiculous it was for boys their own age to

address one another so formally anyway. Lew and he used to be close friends.

The years at Armida, before Regis went to the monastery, they were as close as

brothers. And now Lew was calling him Lord Regis! It was

stupid!

Kennard looked at the sky. "Shall we ride on? It's near sunset and sure to

ram. It would be a nuisance to have to stop and pack away the banners. And

your grandfather will be eager to see you, Regis."

"My grandfather has been spared my presence for three years," Regis said

dryly. "I am sure he can endure another hour or so. But it would be better not

to ride in the dark."

Protocol said that Regis should ride beside Kennard and Lord Dyan, but instead

he dropped back to ride beside Lew Alton. Marius was riding with a boy about

Regis' own age, who looked so familiar that Regis frowned, trying to recall

where they'd met

While the entourage was getting into line, Regis sent his banner-bearer to

ride at the head of the column with those of Ardais and Alton. He watched the

man ride ahead with the silver-and-blue fir-tree emblem of Hastur and the

casta slogan, Permaned&l. I shall remain, he translated wearily, yes, I shall

stay here and be a Hastur whether I like it or not.

Then rebellion gripped him again. Kennard hadn't stayed. He was educated on

Terra itself, and by the will of the Council. Maybe there was hope for Regis

too, Hastur or no.

He felt queerly lonely, Kennard's maneuvering for proper respect for his sons

had irritated him, but it had touched him

THE HERITAGE OF HASTUR

too. If his own father had lived, he wondered, would he have been so

solicitous? Would he have schemed and intrigued to keep his son from feeling

inferior?

Lew's face was grim, lonely and sullen. Regis couldn't tell if he felt

slighted, ill-treated or just lonely, knowing himself different

Lew said, "Are you coming to take a seat hi Council, Lord Regis?"

The formality irritated Regis again. Was it a snub in return for the one he

had given Marius? Suddenly he was tired of this. "You used to call me cousin,

Lew. Are we too old to be friends?"

A quick smile lighted Lew's face. He was handsome without the sullen,

withdrawn look. "Of course not, cousin. But I've had it rubbed into me, in the

cadets and elsewhere, that you are Regis-Rafael, Lord Hastur, and I'm ...

well, I'm nedestro heir to Alton. They only accepted me because my father has

no proper Darkovan sons. I decided that it was up to you whether or not you

cared to claim kin."

Regis* mouth stretched in a grimace. He shrugged. "Well, they may have to

accept me, but I might as well be a bastard. I haven't inherited laran"

Lew looked shocked. "But certainly, you—I was sure—** He broke off. "Just the

same, you'll have a seat in Council, cousin. There is no other Hastur heir."

"I'm all too well aware of that. I've heard nothing else since the day I was

born," Regis said. "Although, since Javanne married Gabriel Lanart, she's

having sons like kittens. One of them may very well displace me some day."

"Still, you are in the direct line of male descent A laran gjft does skip a

generation now and then. All your sons could inherit it."

Regis said with impulsive bitterness, "Do you think that helps—to know that

I'm of no value for myself, but only for the sons I may have?"

A thin, fine drizzle of rain was beginning to fall. Lew drew his hood up over

his shoulders and the insignia of the City Guard showed on his cloak. So he's

taking the regular duties of a Comyn heir, Regis thought. He may be a bastard,

but he's more useful than I am.

Lew said aloud, as if picking up his thoughts, "I expect you'll be going into

the cadet corps of the Guard this season, won't you? Or are the Hasturs

exempt?"

Marion Zimmer Bradley

"It's all planned out for us, isn't it, Lew? Ten years old, fire-watch duty.

Thirteen or fourteen, the cadet corps. Take my turn as an officer. Take a seat

in Council at the proper time. Many the right woman, if they can find one from

a family that's old enough and important enough and, above all, with laran.

Father a lot of sons, and a lot of daughters to marry other Comyn sons.

They've got our lives all planned, and all we have to do is go through the

motions, ride their road whether we want to or not."

Lew looked uneasy, but he didn't answer. Obediently, like a proper prince,

Regis drew a little ahead, to ride through the city gates in his proper place

beside Kennard and Lord Dyan. His head was getting wet but, he thought sourly,

it was his duty to be seen, to be put on display. A little thing like a

soaking wasn't supposed to bother a Hastur.

He forced himself to smile and wave graciously at the crowds lining the

streets. But far away, through the very ground, he could hear again the dull

vibration, like a waterfall. The starships were still there, he told himself,

and the stars beyond them. No matter how deep they cut the track, I'll find a

way to break loose somehow. Someday.

Chapter TWO

(Lewis-Kennard Utontray-Alton's narrative)

I hadn't wanted to attend Councfl this year. To be exact, I never wanted to

attend Council at all. That's putting it mildly. I'm not popular with my

father's equals in the Seven Domains.

At Armida, nothing bothers me. The house-folk know who I am and the horses

don't care. And at Arilinn nobody inquires about your family, your pedigree or

your legitimacy. The only thing that matters in a Tower is your ability to

manipulate a matrix and key into the energon rings and relay screens. If

you're competent, no one cares whether you were born between silk sheets hi a

great house or in a ditch beside the road; and if you're not competent, you

dont come there at all.

You may ask why, if I was good at managing the estate at Armida, and more than

adequate in the matrix relays at Ar-flinn, Father had this flea in his brain

about forcing me on the Council. You may ask, but you'll have to ask someone

else. I have no idea.

Whatever his reasons, he had managed to force me on the Council as his heir.

They hadn't liked it, but they'd had to allow me the legitimate privileges of

a Comyn heir and the duties that went with them. Which meant that at fourteen

I had gone into the cadets and, after serving as a junior officer, was now a

captain in the City Guard. It was a privilege I could have done without The

Council lords might be forced to accept me. But making the younger sons,

lesser nobles and so forth who served in the cadets accept me—that was another

•ong!

Bastardy, of course, is no special disgrace. Plenty of

Marion Zimtner Bradley

THE HERITAGE OF HASTUR

Comyn lords have half a dozen. If one of them turns out to have laran—which is

what every woman who bears a child to a Comyn lord hopes for—nothing is easier

than having the child acknowledged and given privileges and duties somewhere

in the Domains. But to make one of them the heir-designate to the Domain, that

was unprecedented, and every unacknowledged son of a minor line made me feel

how little I merited this special treatment

I couldn't help knowing why they felt that way—I had what every one of them

wanted, felt he merited as much as I did. But understanding only made things

worse. It must be comfortable never to know why you're disliked. Maybe then

you can believe you don't deserve it

Just the same, I've made sure none of them could complain about me. I've done

a little of everything, as Comyn heirs in the cadets are supposed to: I've

supervised street patrols, organizing everything from grain supplies for the

pack animals to escorts for Comyn ladies; I've assisted the arms-master at his

job, and made sure that the man who cleaned the barracks knew his job. I

disliked serving in the cadets and didn't enjoy command duty in the Guard. But

what could I do? It was a mountain I could neither cross nor go around. Father

needed me and wanted me, and I could not let him stand alone.

As I rode at Regis Hastur's side, I wondered if his choosing to ride beside me

had been a mark of friendship or a shrewd attempt to get on the good side of

my father. Three years ago I'd have said friendship, certainly. But boys

change in three years, and Regis had changed more than most

He'd spent a few winters at Arrnida before he went to the monastery, before I

went to Arilinn. I'd never thought about him being heir to Hastur. They said

his health was frail; old Hastur thought that country living and company would

do him good. He'd mostly been left to me to look after. I'd taken him riding

and hawking, and he'd gone with me up into the plateaus when the great herds

of wild horses were caught and brought down to be broken. I remembered him

best as an undersized youngster, following me around, wearing my outgrown

breeches and shirts because he kept growing out of his own; playing with the

puppies and newborn foals, bending solemnly over the clumsy stitches he was

learning to set in hawking-hoods, learning swordplay from Father and

practicing with me. During the terrible spring of

'his twelfth year, when the Kilghard Hills had gone up in forest fires and

every able-bodied man between ten and eighty was commandeered into the fire-

lines, we'd gone together, working side by side by day, eating from one bowl

and sharing blankets at night We'd been afraid Armida itself would go up in

the holocaust; some of the outbuildings were lost in the backfire. We'd been

closer than brothers. When he went to Nevarsin, I'd missed him terribly. It

was difficult to recon-cOe my memories of that almost-brother with this self-

possessed, solemn young prince. Maybe he'd learned, in the interval, that

friendship with Kennard's nedestro heir was not quite the thing for a Hastur.

I could have found out, of course, and he'd never have known. But that's not

even a temptation for a telepath, after the first few months. You learn not to

pry.

But he didn't feel unfriendly, and presently asked me outright why I hadn't

called him by name; caught off guard by the blunt question, I gave him a

straight answer instead of a diplomatic one and then, of course, we were all

right again.

Once we were inside the gates, the ride to the castle was not long, just long

enough to get thoroughly drenched. I could tell that Father was aching with

the damp and cold— he's been lame ever since I could remember, but the last

few winters have been worse—and that Marius was wet and wretched. When we came

into the lee of the castle it was already dark, and though the nightly rain

rarely turns to snow at this season, there were sharp slashes of sleet in it.

I slid from my horse and went quickly to help Father dismount, but Lord Dyan

had already helped him down and given him his arm.

I withdrew. From my first year in the cadets, I'd made it a habit not to get

any closer to Lord Dyan than I could possibly help. Preferably well out of

reach.

There's a custom in the Guards for first-year cadets. We're trained in unarmed

combat and we're supposed to cultivate a habit of being watchful at all times;

so during our first season, in the guardroom and armory, anyone superior to us

in the Guards is allowed to take us by surprise, if he can, and throw us. It's

good training. After a few weeks of being grabbed unexpectedly from behind and

dumped hard on a stone floor, you develop something like eyes in the back of

your head. Usually it's fairly good-natured, and although it's a

24 Marion Zimmer Bradley

rough game and you collect plenty of bruises, no one really

minds.

Dyan, we all agreed, enjoyed it entirely too much. He was an expert wrestler

and could have made his point without doing much harm, but he was unbelievably

rough and never missed a chance to hurt somebody. Especially me. Once he

somehow managed to dislocate my elbow, which I wore in a sling for the rest of

that season. He said it was an accident, but I'm a telepath and he didn't even

bother to conceal how much he had enjoyed doing it I wasn't the only cadet who

had that experience. During cadet training, there are times when you hate all

your officers. But Dyan was the only one we really feared.

I left Father to him and went back to Regis. "Someone's looking for you,** I

told him, pointing out a man in Hastur livery, sheltering in a doorway and

looking wet and miserable, as if he'd been out in the weather, waiting, for

some time. Regis turned eagerly to hear die message.

"The Regent's compliments, Lord Regis. He has been urgently called into the

city. He asks you to make yourself comfortable and to see him in the

morning.*1

Regis made some formal answer and turned to me with a humorless smile. "So

much for the eager welcome of my loving grandsire."

One hell of a welcome, indeed, I thought. No one could expect the Regent of

Comyn to stand out in the rain and wait, hut he could have sent more than a

servant's message! I said quickly, "You'll come to us, of course. Send a

message with your grandfather's man and come along for some dry clothing and

some supper!"

Regis nodded without speaking. His lips were blue with cold, his hair lying

soaked on his forehead. He gave appropriate orders, and I went back to my own

task: making sure that all of Father's entourage, servants, bodyguards,

Guardsmen, banner-bearers and poor relations, found their way to their

appointed places.

Things gradually got themselves sorted out. The Guardsmen went off to their

own quarters. The servants mostly knew what to do. Someone had sent word ahead

to have fires lighted and the rooms ready for occupancy. The rest of us found

our way through the labyrinth of halls and corridors to the quarters reserved,

for the last dozen generations, to the Alton lords. Before long no one was

left in the main hall of

THE HERITAGE OF HASTUR

our quarters except Father, Marius and myself, Regis, Lord Dyan, our personal

servants and half a dozen others. Regis was standing before the fire wanning

his hands. I remembered the night when Father had broken the news that he was

to leave us and spend the next three years at Nevarsin. He and I had been

sitting before the fire in the great hall at Armida, cracking nuts and

throwing the shells into the fire; after Father finished speaking he had gone

to the fire and stood there just like that, quenched and shivering, his face

turned away from us all.

Damn the old man! Was there no friend, no kinswoman, he could send to welcome

Regis home?

Father came to the fire. He was limping badly. He looked at Marius' riding

companion and said, "Danilo, I had your tilings sent directly to the cadet

barracks. Shall I send a man to show you the way, or do you think you can find

it?"

"There's no need to send anyone, Lord Alton." Danilo Syr-rJs came away from

the fire and bowed courteously. He was a slender, bright-eyed boy of fourteen

or so, wearing shabby garments which I vaguely recognized as once having been

my brother's or mine, long outgrown. That was like Father; he'd make sure that

any protege" of his started with the proper outfit for a cadet. Father laid a

hand on his shoulder. "You're sure? Well, then, run along, my lad, and good

luck go with you."

Danilo, with a polite formula murmured vaguely at all of us, withdrew. Dyan

Ardais, warming his hands at the fire, looked after him, eyebrows lifted.

"Nice looking youngster. Another of your nedestro sons, Kennard?"

"Dani? Zandru's hells, nol I'd be proud enough to claim him, but truly he's

none of mine. The family has Comyn blood, a few generations back, but they're

poor as miser's mice; old Dom Felix couldn't give him a good start in life, so

I got him a cadet commission."

Regis turned away from the fire and said, "Danilo! I knew I should have

recognized him; he was at the monastery one year. I truly couldn't remember

his name, Uncle. I should have greeted him!"

The word he used for uncle was the casta term slightly more intimate than

kinsman'. I knew he had been speaking to my father, but Dyan chose to take it

as addressed to himself. "You'll see him in the cadets, surely. And I havent

greeted you properly, either." He came and took Regis in a kinsman's

Marion Zimmer Bradley

embrace, pressing his cheek, to which Regis submitted, a little flustered;

then, holding him at arm's length, Dyan looked closely at him. "Does your

sister hate you for being the beauty of the family, Regis?"

Regis looked startled and a little embarrassed. He said, laughing nervously,

"Not that she ever told me. I suspect Javanne thinks I should be running

around hi a pinafore."

"Which proves what I have always said, that women are no judge of beauty.*' My

father gave him a black scowl and said, "Damn it, Dyan, dont tease him."

Dyan would have said more—damn the man, was he starting that again, after all

the trouble last year—but a servant in Hastur livery came in quickly and said,

"Lord Alton, a message from the Regent"*

Father tore the letter open, began to swear volubly hi three languages. He

told the messenger to wait whfle he got into some dry clothes, disappeared

into his room, and then I heard him shouting to Andres. Soon he came out,

tucking a dry shirt into dry breeches, and scowling angrily.

"Father, what is itr

"The usual," he said grimly, "trouble in the city. Hastur's summoned every

available Council elder and sending two extra patrols. Evidently a crisis of

some sort"

Damn, I thought. After the long ride from Armida and a soaking, to call him

out at night . . . "Will you need me, Father?"

He shook his head. MNo. Not necessary, son. Dont wait up, 111 probably be out

all night." As he went out, Dyan said, "I expect a similar summons awaits me

hi my own rooms; I had better go and find out. Good night, lads. I envy you

your good night's sleep." He added, with a nod to Regis, "These others will

never appreciate a proper bed. Only we who have slept on stone know how to do

that" He managed to make a deep formal bow to Regis and simultaneously ignore

me completely—it wasn't easy when we were standing side by side—and went away.

I looked around to see what remained to be settled. I sent Marius to change

out of his drenched clothes—too old for a nanny and too young for an aide-de-

camp, he's left to me much of the time. Then I arranged to have a room made

ready for Regis. "Have you a man to dress you, Regis? Or shall I have father's

body-servant wait on you tonight?"

*'I learned to look after myself at Nevarsin," Regis said.

THE HERITAGE OF HASTUR

He looked warmer now, less tense. "If the Regent is sending for all the

Council, I suspect it's really serious and not just that Grandfather has

forgotten me again. That makes me feel better."

Now I was free to get out of my own wet things. "When you've changed, Regis,

we'll have dinner here in front of the fire. I'm not officially on duty till

tomorrow morning."

I went and changed quickly into indoor clothing, slid my feet into fur-lined

ankle-boots and looked briefly hi on Marius; I found 'him sitting up in bed,

eating hot soup and already half asleep. It was a long ride for a boy his age.

I wondered again why Father had subjected him to it

The servants had set up a hot meal before the fire, hi front of the old stone

seats there. The lights in our part of the castle are the old ones, luminous

rock from deep caves which charge with light all day and give off a soft glow

all night Not enough for reading or fine needlework, but plenty for a quiet

meal and a comfortable talk by firelight. Regis came back, in dry garments and

indoor boots, and I gestured the old steward away. "Go and get your own

supper; Lord Regis and I can wait on ourselves."

I took the covers off the dishes. They had sent hi a fried fowl and some

vegetable stew. I helped him, saying, "Not very festive, but probably the best

they could do at short notice."

"It's better than we got on the fire-lines,*1 Regis said and I grinned. "So

you remember that too?"

"How could I forget it? Armida was like home to me. Does Kennard still break

his own horses, Lew?"

"No, he's far too lame," I said, and wondered again how Father would manage hi

the coming season. Selfishly, I hoped he would be able to continue in command.

It's hereditary to the Altons, and I was next hi line for it. They had learned

to tolerate me as his deputy, holding captain*s rank. As commander, I'd have

all those battles to fight again.

We talked for a little while about Armida, about horses and hawks, while Regis

finished the stew in his bowl. He picked up an apple and went to the

fireplace, where a pair of antique swords, used only in the sword-dance now,

hung over the mantel. He touched the hilt of one and I asked, "Have you

forgotten all your fencing hi the monastery, Regis?"

"No, there were some of us who weren't to be monks, so

Marion Zimmer Bradley

Father Master gave us leave to practice an hour every day, and an arms-master

came to give us lessons."

Over wine we discussed the state of the roads from Nevar-sin.

"Surely you didn't ride in one day from the monastery?"

**Oh, no. I broke my journey at Edelweiss."

That was on Alton lands. When Javanne Hastur married Gabriel Lanart, ten years

ago, my father had leased them the estate. "Your sister is well, I hope?"

"Well enough, but extremely pregnant just now," Regis said, "and Javanne's

done a ridiculous thing. It made sense to call their first son Rafael, after

her father and mine. And the second, of course, is the younger Gabriel. But

when she named the third MikhaiL, she made the whole thing absurd. I believe

she's praying frantically for a girl this time!"

I laughed. By all accounts the "Lanart angels" should be named for the

archfiends, not the archangels; and why should a Hastur seek names from

cristoforo mythology? "Well, she and Gabriel have sons enough."

"True. I am sure my grandfather is annoyed that she should have so many sons,

and cannot give them Domain-right hi Hastur. And I should have told Kennard;

her husband will be here in a few days to take his place hi the Guard. He

would have ridden with me, but with Javanne so near to her time, he got leave

to remain with her till she is delivered."

I nodded; of course he would stay. Gabriel Lanart was a minor noble of the

Alton Domain, a kinsman of our own, and a telepath. Of course he would follow

the custom of the Domains, that a man shares with his child's mother the

ordeal of birth, staying in rapport with her until the child is born and all

is well. Well, we could spare him for a few days. A good man, Gabriel.

"Dyan seemed to take it for granted that you would be in the cadets this

year," I said.

"I don't know if I'll have a choice. Did you?"

I hadn't, of course. But that the heir to Hastur, of all people, should

question it—that made me uneasy.

Regis sat on the stone bench, restlessly scuffing his felt ankle-boots on the

floor, "Lew, you're part Terran and yet you're Comyn. Do you feel as if you

belonged to us? Or to the Terrans?"

A disturbing question, an outrageous, question, and one I

THE HERITAGE OF HASTUR

had never dared ask myself. I felt angry at him for speaking it, as if

taunting me with what I was. Here I was an alien; among the Terrans, a freak,

a mutant, a telepath. I said at last, bitterly, "I've never belonged anywhere.

Except, perhaps, at Arilinn."

Regis raised his face, and I was startled at the sudden anguish there. "Lew,

what does it feel like to have larariT"

I stared at him, disconcerted. The question touched off another memory. That

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COPYRIGHT©1975,BYMARIONZIMMERBRADLEYAllRightsReserved.CoverartbyJackGaughaaMarionZimmerBradleyinDAWBooks:DARKOVERLANDFALL(#UY1256—$1.25)HUNTERSOFTHEREDMOON(#UY1230—$1.25)THESPELLSWORD(#UY1284—$1.25)DEDICATIONforJacquelineLichtenbergWhoconvincedmethatthisbookcouldandshouldbewritten,andkeptaftermeunti...

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Bradley, Marion Zimmer - Darkover 09 - The Heritage of Hastur

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