“ Youexist. Youare still Heir to Hastur.”
Regis shook his head, refusing to be drawn in. He threw himself into the empty chair. “It’s not so simple. The Terrans have things of value to offer us. Many of the common people—businessmen, crafters, those who’ve profited from Terran technology, even some in the Telepath Council—they’ll look favorably on increased access to those benefits. They want things that make a hard life easier: fire- fighting chemicals to protect our forests and the means to deliver them quickly and effectively, fertilizers and nutrients to restore our soil, medicines to prolong life and reduce infant mortality . . .”
“All these things come at a cost,” Danilo reminded him.
“One we have been able to pay, so far. You more than anyone know that I’m no isolationist, not like my grandfather or the Di Asturiens. I know that Darkover must change. I had hoped the Telepath Council would have accomplished more by now. Sometimes, getting them to agree on any action is like—how do the Terrans put it? herding cats?”
At that, Danilo laughed. They both relaxed. Regis went on, more seriously, “I wish Mikhail were not off at Armida. His generation will have to live with whatever we decide, so we should ask his opinion. If only for his sake, I will not surrender the dream of an independent, DarkovanDarkover, safe from the Empire and its soulless technology. I would have us follow our own path into that future.”
“So you always said,” Danilo smiled, warmth lighting his eyes. He set his half-empty mug on the table. “Many will listen to you. You are Hastur, after all, and you speak with an authority that goes back to the beginning of time.”
Regis looked away, uncomfortable with so much power and half-afraid that he might lack the wisdom to use it. Should one man, no matter how noble his motives, ever wield such overwhelming influence over another?
And yet, if he had not stepped into the position he now held, if he had let others make decisions because he mistrusted his own judgment, Darkover itself and all its people would have paid the price. Once he had asked himself if he sought the love of power or the power of love. He wished the answer were as clear now as it had been then.
Meeting Danilo’s steady gaze, his heart softening in the pulse of acceptance that flowed through their light rapport, Regis almost believed himself worthy of such trust.
“Let’s hope so,” he said, “for I have quarrels enough for the moment. Thanks to Lew, we will have time to plan before the matter of Federation membership becomes public. I should consult my grandfather without delay.”
Danilo’s expression darkened minutely. They both knew that the irascible old man had never relented in pressing Regis to marry and ensure a proper succession. Nor was he the only one. Ruyven Di Asturien would like nothing better than to see his daughter, Crystal, married to Regis; the son she had borne Regis had not lived past his fourth year, but the fact remained that she was fertile, willing, and acceptable to even the most hidebound conservatives.
Together, Regis and Danilo drew up a plan to meet with those members of the Telepath Council who had remained in Thendara for the winter and to contact others through the Tower relays. Danilo suggested that Regis consult Gabriel Lanart-Hastur. Since assuming lordship of the great house at Armida, Gabriel divided his time between running the estate and his duties as Commander of the Guards.
Regis was happy to be doing something, for he never liked waiting for trouble to come to him. However, he was not looking forward to the debate once spring opened the roads and brought people like Valdir and Haldred Ridenow to Thendara.
Leave tomorrow’s sorrows to tomorrow,the old proverb went. He would do his best to follow it.
After a brief midday meal, Regis set off on foot for Comyn Castle, accompanied as always by Danilo. His grandfather maintained a suite of rooms in the Hastur section. One of the tasks Regis had set for himself in overseeing the running of the Castle was to make sure the old man was well cared for.
He should have retired to Castle Hastur years ago, among his own people.But Old Hastur, as he was still called, was not yet ready to surrender the reins of power. He insisted he would remain where he was needed.
A servant greeted them at the entrance to the Hastur apartments. Regis found his grandfather in his study, seated before his writing desk and warmed by a merry fire. Danvan Hastur had once been a tall, strongly built man, but age and care had withered him. His hair was pure white now, thinning but neatly combed. The tunic of supple leather, dyed blue and trimmed with silver fir-tree design embroidery, hung on his bony frame. He looked up from the document he had been reading, tracing the lines of script with one finger. The knuckle was swollen, misaligned.
As he studied his grandfather’s face, Regis had the curious feeling that all normal life had been burned out of the old man, leaving Lord Hastur as pure refined will. How old was he, anyway? Over a century, certainly. Chieriblood ran in the Hasturs, often granting them exceptionally long lives. To Regis, his grandfather had always seemed immortal, like a force of nature. Now he saw an old man, sustained only by the remains of the fire that had tempered him.
Will I look like this someday?Regis wondered. Will that be my face . . . my fate?
“Regis, it is good to see you. No, no formal bowing or anything like that. I’m too tired to get up.”
Unexpectedly moved by the warmth of the greeting, Regis moved to the desk and pressed his cheek against the dry, shriveled side of his grandfather’s face.
After inquiries about one another’s health, mention of the weather and the condition of the streets, Regis and Danilo settled into their respective chairs. The servant came back, bearing a tray with the ubiquitous jacoand a plate of custard tarts, the old man’s favorite. Regis took one out of politeness.
Regis outlined the situation as he understood it from Lew Alton’s message. Danvan listened intently. From time to time, the muscles around Danvan’s eyes tightened and he clenched his jaw. Danvan had spent the better part of his very long life engaged in political maneuvering, ever since he had assumed the Regency for the incompetent King Stefan Elhalyn. He had presided over periods of transition and tumult, one crisis after another.
“This is what comes from trying to negotiate with the Terranan,” he muttered. “To think that we might become a third-rate colony . . .”
“Sir,” Regis said, “that is exactly what we must find a way to prevent. We are not without resources. Let us not forget that we have friends within the Empire, men of good will who still believe that each world has the right to determine its own fate. Lew Alton still represents us in the Senate, and that will not change when the Terran Empire is replaced by a Federation.”
“If there still isa Senate!” Danvan snapped. “We should have held firm right from the beginning. We had no choice in allowing them to land their ships and build their spaceport here. But we should have insisted that the contact end there. We should have forced them to leave us our own way of life and go about their own business without involving us.”
Regis smothered a sigh. They had been over the old argument too many times already, and he saw no point in continuing. The Terran Empire was a fact, impossible to wish away. Banshee chicks could not be put back into their eggs. Given a generation or more of contact with a star-spanning civilization, Darkover could never have continued on its own isolated way.