Regis had sensed the power of the boy’s laranbut had not realized it was so strong. “Indeed? He has the makings of a matrix mechanic or technician?”

“She says . . .” Dan paused, wet his lips, “he could make a Keeper.”

Danilo and Regis exchanged startled glances, for both had been taught that only women could hold the demanding centripolar position in a matrix circle. Male Keepers were very rare. Regis had met only one, Jeff Kerwin, now Keeper at Arilinn Tower.

“Do you think it is possible,” Dan went on, “that he may have the Ardais Gift?” His Comyn heritage came through that Domain, through his Darkovan mother.

Regis turned thoughtful. “I don’t think so, but he could well have another talent. If he does, it must be trained and preserved. There are so few of us, and the old Gifts no longer breed true. I am, to my knowledge, the only living bearer of the Hastur Gift.” Again, his eyes sought Danilo’s.

And you are the only living catalyst telepath and have no child who might inherit the talent.

Don’t rub it in.Danilo looked away, once more the faithful paxman, his features a mask of disciplined vigilance.

Comprehension swept through Regis. He had been a fool not to realize that every time his grandfather pressured him to marry, to father heirs and provide for the succession of the Domain, Danvan also meant the necessity to continue the unique talent of the clan. From there, it was only a small step of logic to the requirement for Danilo to do the same. Catalyst telepathy was the rarest of all the known Gifts. Danilo had the ability to awaken even the most deeply buried latent laranin another individual.

Unlike Regis, Danilo had never been able to couple with women for the sole purpose of procreation. He was one of those telepaths for whom a deep mental and emotional closeness was essential to physical intimacy. His heart was focused on Regis, and they were bound not only by love but by the vows of bredhinand those of lord and paxman.

“If that is true,” Regis turned back to Dan, “then a Tower is the only place Felix can receive the training to properly use his Gift. An untrained telepath is a danger to himself and everyone around him. But someone with the potential to be a Keeper . . . I cannot imagine what that person might suffer if his talent is ignored or suppressed.”

“We have already seen the dangers of uncontrolled laran,” Dan agreed with a touch of grimness. His worried expression returned, tightening the muscles around his eyes. “His mother is opposed to the idea, of course. She has finally come around to see that help from Darkovan telepaths is necessary, but she doesn’t like it. She’s not . . . she’s not a bad person.”

“You need not make excuses for your wife’s behavior,” Regis interrupted, affected by his friend’s obvious chagrin. “She acted out of love for her son, as any mother might. I am sorry that our ways are strange and frightening to her.”

“Yes,” Dan said, “I had hoped that after this long she would have adapted to Darkovan culture. It’s my fault for not helping her. I’ve been so busy with my work, I haven’t had the time to help her make Darkovan friends. She’s a very strong-willed woman, passionate in her opinions.”

“You would not have her any other way, my friend.”

Dan’s description of his wife reminded Regis of Linnea. For all the years they had been apart, she had never been very far from his thoughts. In a rush, he realized that there was a way to placate his grandfather, temporarily escape the Federation membership debate, and obtain skilled help for Felix.

“There is one thing you could do for me, if your offer extends this far,” he said. “Lend me a Terran aircraft.”

Dan Lawton had said the Terran pilot was the best, and the man deserved his reputation. He held the small craft on a steady course past the point where most would have turned back. The powerful, unpredictable wind currents of the Hellers made air travel chancy at best.

The land rose as the bones of the earth thrust skyward into uneven, snow-draped peaks. Winds buffeted the little craft, but the cabin was warm. Regis and Danilo had dressed in clothing suitable for mountain travel: knee-length jackets of thick wool, fur-lined hooded cloaks, and stout boots.

Around Regis, the metal device bucked like a badly broken horse. He dug his fingers into the cushioned armrests and felt the safety harness tighten around his chest. His stomach lurched, and he broke out into a cold sweat. Out of the corner of his vision, he glimpsed Danilo’s white, set face. Then the aircar leveled out.

Finally, the pilot set down on a frost-whitened field no bigger than the practice yard at the City Guards. Beyond the field stood a village.

Regis clambered out of the aircraft, glad beyond words to be standing once more on firm soil. Wind had scoured away the worst of the snow, leaving the ground almost bare. He turned toward the village, the earth crunching beneath his feet. In the distance, the castle of High Windward perched on a massive outcropping of rock. Regis estimated that it would take a good day’s ride to reach it.

A deputation of mountain folk, including one stout graybeard who must be the village headman, hurried out to greet them. From their exclamations, they found the Terran flying machine strange and perplexing. Few of them had seen such a thing, this deep into the Hellers. Their excitement turned to awe when they learned who Regis was. “The Hastur Lord . . .”

The pilot, who had thought of Regis only as a native friend of the Legate’s, regarded him with new respect.

The headman took them inside his own house, a snug cottage with three separate rooms, its stone walls daubed with mortar to keep out the wind. Like many mountain dwellings, it was situated to make use of the light and to present a solid face to the prevailing wind. After accepting offerings of food, hot drink, and the best place by the fire, Regis asked that riding animals and a guide for the journey to High Windward be provided, and also accommodations in the village for the pilot.

They passed an uneventful night. The headman insisted that the Hastur Lord must sleep in his best bed and would not be persuaded otherwise. As a youth, Regis had slept on the ground while working the fire-lines, and the bunks in the cadet barracks had not been much softer. He would have been just as happy curled up in a blanket before the hearth.

The next morning, as daybreak seeped across the cragged eastern horizon and shadows lay thick across the frozen fields, Regis and Danilo took their leave. The headman’s grown son brought out two mountain ponies, clearly the best that could be had, one antlered chervineladen with supplies and blankets, and another saddled for riding. The villagers clustered around them, women bundled in layers of woolen shawls, children like round-bellied puppies in their thick jackets, and men with windburned faces and bright eyes.

Regis swung up on his pony. At his height, his feet dangled, and he was already anticipating sore muscles. The beast was unprepossessing in appearance, its rust-black coat so thick and ragged that it looked like a badly shorn sheep. Its long tail brushed the ground, and little could be seen of its eyes through the tangle of its forelock. Danilo’s mount could have been its twin, except for a crescent of white on its off-side rump.

They set off, the headman’s son in the lead. The bridle rings and the bells on the harnesses of the chervineschimed brightly. Regis reined his pony beside Danilo’s. To his surprise, the animal had easy gaits and a pleasant, willing manner. Truly, it was the best the village had to offer.

Late in the day, they reached the steep trail leading to the gates of High Windward. Set among chasms and crags, the castle had been originally constructed as a fortress. It was said to date back to the Ages of Chaos, and legend had it that the walls had been raised by laranin a single day. Centuries had weathered the stone, leaving the castle like an old toothless dragon, melting back into the rock from which it had sprung. Only the great Sunrise Tower, a soaring structure of translucent stone, seemed untouched by time.