He was alone, the firelight burned down to coals. Across the foot of the enormous bed, like a dark shadow, Danilo slept, wrapped in a blanket, his back turned away. Regis stared at the sleeping boy, unable to shake off the horror of the dream, the shock of knowing what he had tried to do.
No. Not tried to do. Wanted to do. Dreamed of doing. There was a difference.
Or was there, for a telepath?
Once, one of the few times Kennard had spoken of his own years in the tower, Kennard had said, very seriously: “I am an Alton; my anger can kill. A murderous thought is, for me, almost a murder. A lustful thought is the psychological equivalent of a rape.”
Regis wondered if he was responsible even for his dreams. Would he ever dare sleep again?
Danilo stirred with a moan. Abruptly he began to gasp and cry out and struggle in his sleep. He muttered aloud, “No—NO, please!” and began to cry. Regis stared in horror. Did his own dream disturb Dani? Dyan had reached him, even in sleep … He could not leave him crying. He leaned forward, saying gently, “Dani, it’s all right, you were asleep.”
Half asleep, Danilo made the safeguarding sign of cristoforoprayers. It must be comforting to have their faith, Regis thought. Danilo’s smothered sobbing tore at Regis like claws. He had no way of knowing that far away in the castle Lew Alton had also started out of nightmare, shaking with the guilt of the most dreadful crime hecould imagine, but Regis did find himself wondering what form Danilo’s nightmare had taken. He dared not ask, dared not risk the intimacy of midnight confidences.
Danilo had his crying under control now. He asked, “It’s not … not threshold sickness again?”
“No. No, only a nightmare. I’m sorry I woke you.”
“This damned place is full of nightmares … ” Danilo muttered. Regis felt him reach out for reassurance, for contact. He held himself aloof from the touch. After a long time he knew Danilo slept again. He lay awake, watching the dying remnants of the fire on the hearth. The fire that had been a raging forest fire from his troubled childhood, that had become the great form of fire. Sharra, of the legends. What, in the name of all the Gods, were they doinghere at Aldaran? Something here was out of control, dangerous.
Fire was the key, he knew, not only because the memory of a forest fire had brought back the memory he’d buried, but it was worse than that. Lew looked as if he’d been doing something dangerous. And all this … this dislocation of memory, these nightmares of cruelty and lust … something terrible was going on here.
And Regis had Danilo to protect. He came here for that, and he vowed again to fulfill it.
Weighed down under the unendurable burden of laran, knowing guilt even for his dreams, shouldering the heavy knowledge of what he had forgotten, Regis dared not sleep again. He thought instead. The mistake was in sending him to Nevarsin, he knew. Anywhere else he could have come to terms with it. He knew, rationally, that what had happened to him, what was happening to him now, was nothing to bring such catastrophic guilt and self-hatred. He had even minded when the cadets thought him Dyan’s minion.
But that was before he knew what Dyan had done …
Dyan’s shadow lay heavy on Regis. And heavier on Danilo. Regis knew he could not bear it if Dani were to think of him as he thought of Dyan … even if Regis thought of him that way …
His mind reeling under it, Regis knew suddenly that he hada choice. Faced by this unendurable self-knowledge, he could do again what he had done when he was twelve years old, and this time there would be no lifting of the barrier. He could forget again. He could cut off the unwelcome, unwanted self-knowledge, cut off, with it, the undesired, unendurable laran.
He could be free of it all, and this time no one would ever be able to break through it again. Be free of it all: heritage, and responsibility. If he had no laran, it would not matter if he left the Comyn, went out into the Empire never to return. He even left an heir to take his place. He had done it once. He could do it again. He could meet Danilo in the morning with no guilty knowledge and no fear, meet him innocently, as a friend. He need never again fear that Danilo could reach his mind and learn what Regis now felt he would rather die than reveal.
He had done it once. Even Lew could not break that barrier.
The temptation was almost unendurable. Dry-mouthed, Regis looked at the sleeping boy lying heavily across his feet. To be free again, he thought, free of it all.
He had accepted Dani’s oath, though, as a Hastur. Had accepted his service, and his love.
He was no longer free. He’d said it to Danilo, and it was true for him, too. They had no choice, it had come to them, and they had only the choice to misuse it or meet it with honor.
Regis did not know if he could meet it with honor, but he knew he’d have to try. Chickens couldn’t go back into eggs.
Either way, there was nothing but hell ahead.
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Chapter TWENTY
(Lew Alton’s narrative)
Shortly after sunrise I let myself fall into a fitful drowse. Some time later I was awakened by a strange outcry, women screaming—no, wailing, a sound I had heard only once before … on my trip into the backwoods, in a house where there was a death.
I threw on some clothes and ran out into the corridor. It was crowded, servants rushing to and fro, no one ready to stop and answer my questions. I met Marjorie at the foot of the little stair from her tower. She was as white as her chamber robe.
“Darling, what is it?”
“I’m not sure. It’s the death-wail!” She put out a hand and forcibly stopped one of the women rushing by. “What is it, what’s that wailing, what’s happened?”
The woman gasped. “It’s the old lord, domna Marguerida, your guardian, he died in the night—”
As soon as I heard the words I knew I had been expecting it. I felt stricken, grieved. Even in such a short time I had come to love my uncle, and beyond my personal grief I was dismayed at what this must mean. Not only for the Domain of Aldaran, but for all Darkover. His reign had been a long one, and a wise one.
“Thyra,” Marjorie whispered, “Evanda pity us, what will she do, how will she live with this?” She clutched my arm.”He’s her father, Lew! Did you know? My father owned to her, but she was none of his, and it was her doing, her mistake, that has killed him!”
“Not hers,” I said gently. “Sharra.” I had begun to believe, now, that we were all helpless before it. Tomorrow—no, today, the sooner the better—it should go back to the forge-folk. Desideria had been right: it had lain safe in their keeping, should never have left them. I quailed, thinking of what Beltran would say. Yet Kadarin had pledged Desideria to abide my judgment.
First I must visit the death chamber, pay a kinsman’s respects. The high wailing of the death-cries went on from inside, fraying my already ragged nerves to shreds. Marjorie clutched desperately at my fingers. As we entered the great chamber I heard Thyra’s voice, bursting out, almost screaming:
“Cease that pagan caterwauling! I’ll have none of it here!” One or two of the women stopped in mid-wail; others, halfhearted, stopped and started again. Beltran’s voice was a harsh shout:
“You who killed him, Thyra, would you deny him proper respect?”
She was standing at the foot of the bed, her head thrown back, defiant. She sounded at the ragged end of endurance. “You superstitious idiot, do you really believe his spirit has stayed here to listen to the yowling over his corpse? Is this your idea of a seemly sound of mourning?”