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 castaterm 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.