Hastur Lord
Marion Zimmer Bradley
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
BOOK I: Regis
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
BOOK II: Rinaldo
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
BOOK III: Danilo
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
BOOK IV: Regis
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
MARION ZIMMER BRADLEY
From DAW Books:
SWORD AND SORCERESS I-XXI
THE NOVELS OF DARKOVER
EXILE’S SONG
THE SHADOW MATRIX
TRAITOR’S SUN
THE ALTON GIFT
HASTUR LORD
(With Deborah J. Ross)
The Clingfire Trilogy
(With Deborah J. Ross)
THE FALL OF NESKAYA
ZANDRU’S FORGE
A FLAME IN HALI
Special omnibus editions:
HERITAGE AND EXILE
The Heritage of Hastur | Sharra’s Exile
THE AGES OF CHAOS
Stormqueen! | Hawkmistress!
THE SAGA OF THE RENUNCIATES
The Shattered Chain | Thendara House
City of Sorcery
THE FORBIDDEN CIRCLE
The Spell Sword | The Forbidden Tower
A WORLD DIVIDED
The Bloody Sun | The Winds of Darkover
Star of Danger
DARKOVER: FIRST CONTACT
Darkover Landfall | Two To Conquer
TO SAVE A WORLD
The World Wreckers | The Planet Savers
Copyright © 2010 by The Marion Zimmer Bradley Literary Works Trust
All Rights Reserved.
DAW Book Collectors No. 1497.
DAW Books are distributed by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
All characters in this book are fictitious.
Any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.
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eISBN : 978-1-101-19670-0
First printing, January 2010
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DEDICATIONS
Marion Zimmer Bradley: To Cynthia McQuillin, who allows me to indulge my favorite vice, talking about Darkover.
—July 26, 1998
Deborah J. Ross: To Betsy Wollheim, who preserved what Marion had written, until it was to time to finish it.
—December 19, 2008
NOTES
Marion Zimmer Bradley: For those with an obsessive need to know which book comes after which on Darkover, these events occur after The World Wreckers and before Exile’s Song—about ten years.
Deborah J. Ross: Marion created Darkover over the span of three decades, from the 1962 publication of Planet Savers and Sword of Aldones until her death in 1999. Over the years, she developed, matured, and reworked many aspects of this rich, marvelous world. In such a process, given that Marion never let previously published details interfere with a good story, minor inconsistencies of geography and time are inevitable. What is important is that each story be whole in itself and emotionally satisfying.
BOOK I: Regis
1
Above the ancient city of Thendara, the great crimson sun of Darkover crept toward midday. Winter was drawing to a close, yet even at this hour, shadows stretched across the narrow, twisting streets of the Old Town. Snowfall had been light for the last tenday, and the marketplaces surged with renewed life, anticipating the approach of spring.
Regis Hastur, the Heir of his Domain, stood on a balcony of Comyn Castle and wrapped his fur-lined cloak more tightly around his shoulders. He was a tall man in his mid thirties, with startling white hair and the intense masculine beauty of his clan. His gaze slowly swept from the spires and towers of Thendara to the Terran Trade City, the rising steel edifice of the Empire Headquarters complex and, still farther, the spaceport.
Throughout this past winter, he had divided his time between attending sessions of the Cortes, negotiating disputes and trade agreements between city magistrates and various guilds, and meeting with representatives of the Terran Empire and diplomatic envoys from the Seven Domains that once had formed Darkover’s ruling Council.
Oddly, Regis found himself nostalgic for the days when the Comyn gathered together, debating and discussing, scheming and plotting, planning marriages and trading gossip, even those times when a traditional evening of dancing and music was punctuated by the occasional formal duel.
Those days, he reflected, would never come again. Between a low birth rate, natural decline, and the targeted assassinations of the World Wreckers, the Comyn had been decimated, their remnants scattered. These last ten years had been an unbroken struggle to restore the ecology of the planet while trying to develop a new system of government. In his more pessimistic moments, Regis admitted that his idea for a new ruling Council, one open to telepaths of any caste, had been a singularly lame-brained scheme. What had he been thinking, to exchange men who had been educated for leadership since birth for a patched-together assembly that was inexperienced, sometimes illiterate, often pathologically independent? Even the Keepers, with years of rigorous discipline in the use of their psychic powers, had little training in matters beyond their own Towers.
The only saving grace, he thought ruefully, was that the Telepath Council was so disparate and disorganized, it was unlikely to do anything effective on a large scale. What would happen if a crisis demanded unified action? He supposed the remains of the Comyn would rally; certainly, the people would, if he asked.
If I asked . . .
Regis no longer needed to be on constant guard against an assassin’s dagger or Compact-forbidden Terran blaster, but no power under the Bloody Sun could erase the look of awe as he passed through the streets or silence the murmured whispers, “The Hastur Lord.” The people bowed to him in respect and gratitude, having no idea how their adulation ate like acid into his soul.
Even without the hushed footsteps, Regis knew by the softening of his mood and the lightening of his heart that Danilo Syrtis-Ardais had come into the room behind him. He closed his eyes, opening the space in his mind where their thoughts met.
With a click of the latch, Danilo closed the door and came to stand beside Regis. “Bredhyu,” he inflected the casta term in a far more intimate mode than the usual meaning of sworn brother.
“What troubles you, Regis?”
Regis turned his back on the city to face his paxman. Danilo wore the Hastur colors, blue
and silver, with a winter-weight cloak of dark gray wool folded back over one shoulder so that his sword was within easy reach. Concern darkened his eyes.
“Nothing more than this foul mood of mine,” Regis replied, trying to keep his voice light. “It will pass soon enough, now that you are here.”
Danilo’s eyes flickered to the weathered stone wall. The Castle was a city unto itself, a massive accretion of centuries, with towers, courtyards and ballrooms, a mazelike labyrinth of halls and corridors, stairs and archways, fireplaces and parapets, the living quarters once reserved for the use of each Domain during Council season, and the glittering domed ceiling of the Crystal Chamber. The main Guard hall was on the lower level, with its own barracks, armory, and training yards.
Danilo’s expressive mouth tightened. “This place is like a tomb.”
“Yes, but one that requires constant tending. Even with whole sections shut up, the rest must be maintained. The Castle won’t run itself, and Grandfather isn’t up to it.”
Regis fell silent, deliberately avoiding the logical next point in the discussion. What the Castle needed, as Danvan Hastur reminded Regis on a regular basis, was a chatelaine, a Lady Hastur to see to its orderly function.
With a slight inclination of his head, Danilo opened the balcony door and stepped back so that Regis could precede him.
“The dregs of winter are always depressing,” Danilo said. “Things will be better in the spring,” alluding not only to the brighter days but also to the old Comyn custom of gathering in Thendara for Council season. Old habits died hard.
“Things,” Regis replied, “will be better in about an hour.”
They clattered through the chamber behind the balcony, once a pleasant sitting room that formed part of the Hastur quarters, then down the corridor and past the office Regis still maintained, although he did not live in the Castle, and down a flight of stairs.
“Oh?” Danilo arched one eyebrow. “We’re bound for the Terran Zone, then?”
Regis grinned like a boy sneaking away from his lessons. He still felt the lure of the spaceport, with its promise of worlds that were strange and deliciously terrifying. Years ago, he had accepted that his duty lay here, on the planet of his birth, with all that implied.
Walking briskly, Regis and Danilo made their way to Terran Headquarters. They were not the only ones taking advantage of the temporary lessening of winter’s bitter grip. They passed men in fur cloaks, women muffled to their eyes in layers of wool, an occasional Terran looking miserably chill in his synthetic thermal parka, and wagons pulled by blanket-draped horses or hardy antlered chervines. A girl in a red jacket swept a layer of snow, no more than a single night’s worth, from the stone steps in front of a shop. On the corner, a woman sold apple fritters, scooped steaming and fragrant from a vat of hot oil and then dusted with Terran sugar.
Danilo stayed close, a flowing shadow yet deadly as the steel he carried. Regis had no doubt that any man approaching them with menace would not live to regret it. From the time they had served together in the City Guards, both men had rarely gone unarmed. Their weapons were honorable, not those of a coward, used to kill from a safe distance. Dagger, knife, and sword all placed the man who used them at equal risk. The Compact that eliminated weapons with far reaching targets and those that could cause vast destruction but permitted personal duels had lasted a thousand years, woven into the fabric of Darkovan ethics.
The border between Darkovan Thendara and the Terran Trade sector had blurred over the years, leaving a zone that was a blend of the two cultures, sometimes exotic, sometimes awkward, sometimes the worst of both worlds. Danilo came alert at the sight of a pair of Spaceforce officers in black leather uniforms, but one whispered to the other and they stepped aside.
As they approached the glass and steel tower of Terran Headquarters, one of the guards stationed there smiled and nodded, “Good morning, Lord Hastur.”
Regis refrained from pointing out that as long as his grandfather lived, Danvan remained Lord Hastur, but the man was well-meaning. It would be a waste of breath to chide him for simple ignorance.
After exchanging a few pleasantries, Regis and Danilo passed within, where a receptionist informed them that the Legate was expecting them. If Lord Hastur would wait but a moment, she would summon an escort.
“I know the way,” Regis said mildly. “As you see, I have brought my own escort.” Before she could protest, he and Danilo strode past her into the bowels of the building.
Regis had never been comfortable within Terran walls, but at least here the likelihood of an armed attack was less; the Terrans did not permit their own people to carry weapons inside Headquarters.
Dan Lawton, the Terran Legate, bowed to Regis. Over the years, a sympathy had grown up between the two men, for Lawton was Darkovan-born but had chosen to live as a Terran. Lawton could not have been much more than forty, and that was not old by the standards of Terran medicine, yet his lean, angular face was careworn, etched by the habit of worry.
“It has been too long, Lord Regis,” Lawton began, then smiled as Regis invited him with a gesture to move to a less formal basis.
Regis slipped off his heavy outdoor cloak and took the proffered seat. Danilo sat down as well, clearly at ease.
“You look well, Regis. And you, too, as usual, Danilo. How is Mikhail?” Lawton asked.
“My sister writes he is strong and healthy,” Regis answered. After finishing his term in the City Guards cadets, Mikhail had spent the winter in Armida, learning the duties of a Domains lord. In choosing Javanne’s youngest son for his legal heir, Regis had done better than he expected. Mikhail, although still young enough for occasional foolish high spirits, showed an underlying steadiness of temperament.
In response to a polite inquiry, Lawton replied that he himself was well, that his son and wife had gone for an outing in the Old Town.
Lawton had married a few years prior to the time of the World Wreckers. The couple had met off-world during Lawton’s diplomatic certification training and had wed after a brief, intense courtship. Regis had met the woman once or twice. She was strikingly beautiful, with pearl-bright skin and lushly curling black hair, exotic on a world that fostered pale-skinned redheads. Yet Regis found something unsettling in her manner, beyond the expected awkwardness of a wife who has found herself on a world far from home, confronted with strange customs. He had tried without success to draw her out in conversation. She was the wife of a Terran dignitary and, more than that, of his friend.
“I don’t believe I have ever met your son,” Regis said.
“His name is Felix,” Lawton said, and they both smiled, for the name was popular and much-honored on Darkover. Many Comyn, Regis among them, bore it somewhere in their long string of names. “He’s eleven, and a handful.”
“May the happiness of his name follow him through his lifetime,” Danilo said.
“Thank you,” Lawton replied. “He’s still at the most trying age, no longer a child and not yet a man. If it were up to me, I’d send him to be fostered for a few years at Armida or Carcosa, so that he could use up some of that exuberance learning to ride horses or cutting brush on fire-lines, but his mother won’t hear of it. Today they’re out looking for ‘native treasures’ as offerings for her grandfather’s saint day.”
“I’m not familiar with that custom,” Regis said. “Is it proper to offer best wishes?”
Lawton frowned. “Not on Temperance. Tiphani’s grandfather has been dead for twenty years now, but his entire family still feels obliged to offer sacrifices for the atonement of his sins. Whatever she sends home will be purified and then burned. It seems a waste to me, but it’s their way.”
“Was he as terrible as that?” Regis was familiar with the concept of a punitive afterworld. As a youth, he had studied for some years at the monastery school at St.-Valentine’s-of-the-Snows. Altogether too aware of the universality of human frailty, Regis had little sympathy with the monks’ obsession with purity and perditi
on.
Or, he added silently, with a quick glance in Danilo’s direction, their condemnation of certain expressions of love.
“I never met the man,” Lawton continued. “For myself, I prefer to be remembered for the good I achieved and the happiness I brought to those I loved.”
“So should we all.”
Lawton turned back to the console on his desk. He engaged the visiphone with a few efficient strokes. “I’ve set it to play the priority message that arrived on coded frequency for you. I’m afraid it’s formatted as play-and-destruct, so you’ll only be able to watch it once. Touch this panel to begin and this one here to record a reply, if any.” He got to his feet, bowed again, this time in an abbreviated, less formal manner, and left Regis and Danilo in privacy.
“What’s this about?” Danilo asked, coming around to view the screen as Regis took Lawton’s seat.
“I assume it’s from Lew Alton. I can’t imagine who else would want to contact me in such a manner.”
Regis pressed the panel Lawton had indicated. The screen’s background pattern dissolved into bits of iridescent gray. An instant later, the familiar scarred features of Lewis-Kennard Alton, one of Regis’s oldest friends and now the Darkovan Senator to the Terran Empire, came into focus.
Since his ordeal fighting the immensely powerful, illegal matrix known as Sharra nearly twenty years ago, Lew had never looked well. The battle had left him battered, a widower aged beyond his years, and in despair. Time and a happy second marriage had softened his expression, but his gray eyes still looked bleak.
