About half the party, including Javanne and the other women, stopped at an inn in one of the villages. Regis and Danilo, along with the Ridenow party, pushed on.

As Danilo dropped back to rearguard position, Valdir Ridenow reined his horse beside Regis. The overcast sky and icy rain made his skin even paler than usual. His hooded cloak and the saddle blanket of his horse were of fine orange and green wool. In the shadow of his hood, his hair gleamed like pale gold, as fair as that of a Dry Towns lord. The reins hung loose in his hands, and from the way he sat his horse, a rangy blood-bay without a speck of white, he clearly possessed the Ridenow empathy with beasts. Regis thought him maybe ten years older than himself, a well-favored man who had been strong and active all his life, but he could not recall ever seeing Valdir in any meeting of the defunct Comyn Council.

Politely, Regis nodded. As the new Lord of Hastur, he held higher rank, and it was his prerogative to initiate a conversation. Feeling emotionally exhausted, wrung out like a rag, he would have preferred to ride back in solitude. Yet curiosity stirred as Valdir returned the greeting.

“I did not have a proper chance to greet you on your arrival in Thendara,” Regis said. “You must have had a hard ride from Serrais.”

“This early in the season, yes. I thank you for your concern, vai dom,” Valdir replied, somewhat formally. “Faced with the two gravest situations in the last decade, I could do no less.”

He meant the coincidence of the death of Danvan Hastur and the Terran Federation question. “I have no wish to be rude,” Regis said wearily, “but my grandfather is not yet cold in his grave, and we are both chilled and drenched. I have not the slightest intention of discussing the future of Darkover under these circumstances.”

Valdir’s horse threw up his head, as if reflecting his rider’s reaction. But the Ridenow lord said, “My deepest apologies if I gave that impression. Surely, such matters as the future of Darkovermerit serious attention and thoughtful debate.”

A debate you intend to be part of?Regis smothered a sigh. “We will speak at the proper time, in the proper setting.”

With an enigmatic smile, Valdir returned to his own kinsmen.

Mikhail, who had been riding close enough to overhear the conversation, guided his horse forward. “Was that something I should know about? I can’t tell if DomValdir meant he was your ally or your enemy.”

“If he is anything like his cousins, we will find ourselves on opposite sides of the Federation membership debate,” Regis said, frowning. “However, men have been known to change their minds. We must wait until we hear what he has to say before placing him in either camp.”

Mikhail glanced back, peering through the rain at the green and gold cloaks of the Ridenow party. “Francisco Ridenow seems to be a pleasant enough sort. I think I might have a word or two with him, if you don’t mind.”

“By all means, get to know him. Unless DomValdir produces a son, young Francisco stands in the line of succession, so if you are already on friendly terms, you may be of support to one another.”

Regis arrived back at his townhouse to find a hot bath waiting. He waved away the help of his servant and stripped off his sodden clothing himself. Danilo helped with his boots.

Fresh-smelling herbs had been added to the steaming water. He eased himself in, wishing it were large enough for two.

“I’ll get mine later, once the horses are properly seen to,” Danilo said with a hint of a grin. “Don’t fall asleep.”

Regis closed his eyes, feeling the heat seep into his aching muscles. The day’s ride had been long, but not beyond his strength. Emotional intensity, not physical exertion, had drained him. Around him, he sensed the house with all its familiar and alien aspects. Like so many other things in modern Darkover, it represented an uneasy compromise between the past and the interstellar present. Reluctantly, Regis admitted he would miss the place, but he could not maintain a residence separate from Comyn Castle. Shuddering, he slid deeper into the water. Even the most cheerful Castle rooms had the power to oppress him. As a child, he had fancied the ancient stone walls rising like mountains on all sides, crushing life and breath and hope.

At least, Regis thought wearily, he had resisted Grandfather’s schemes to make him king.

He was almost asleep when Danilo glided into the bathroom with a mug of honey-sweetened chamomile tisane.

Spring lurched to a standstill as cold, damp weather settled over Thendara. It seemed to Regis that Darkover itself mourned the passing of his grandfather. The few social gatherings were subdued. Regis attended only a few, those he could not in all civility decline. With Javanne’s help, he moved his household into the Hastur quarters of Comyn Castle.

Regis stood in the middle of his grandfather’s study, alone yet hemmed in on every side by memories. The chamber was pleasant enough, designed and furnished for intimate meetings and research. Between the heavy glass windows and the perfectly situated fireplace, the room was warm even in the depths of winter. He would not change the massive desk or the bookcases that looked at least as old as his grandfather had been. The huge bed, on the other hand, he had already ordered moved to another part of the Hastur suite and his own brought from the townhouse.

Papers and bound ledgers, along with writing supplies and reference books, covered most of the desk. Regis had avoided going through them, as if he would be invading his grandfather’s privacy, snooping where he had no right. A part of him could not comprehend that this room, this library, this archival midden spanning three generations of Comyn history, was now his. He had dreaded this day and dreamed of escaping it. Yet now that it was here, he found himself resigned. He would not have chosen it for himself—indeed, he would have chosen almost anything else—but over the last years, he had become reconciled. He was Hastur, and there was no one else.

A tap on the door brought him alert. Mikhail stepped in, backlit so that he appeared to be enveloped in his own golden aura. Regis smiled and gestured for him to come in.

Mikhail surveyed the room with an expression bordering on awe. “So this is where Darkover’s destiny was plotted. And it’s yours now.”

“No,” Regis said, shaking his head, “it’s ours.I have no intention of sitting here alone, spinning out schemes like a spider in the center of a planet-spanning web. The reason I formed the Telepath Council in the first place was to ensure that many voices be heard. Together, we will plan our future.” With a light touch, he guided Mikhail into the chair behind the desk.

“Uncle Regis, I can’t sit here! This is your place now!”

“Someday, my lad, it will be yours. I want you to have the best training I can give you.”

“I’m not ready!”

“Not now, but you will be,” Regis said, reflecting that no honest man ever felt truly prepared for such a position. He himself certainly did not. Changing the subject, he pointed to a sheaf of papers covered with Danvan Hastur’s circular scrawl.

Mikhail could read and write the two primary Darkovan languages, castaand informal cahuenga,as well as Terran Standard. “I think I could make out this handwriting with a little practice. It’s Lord Hastur’s, isn’t it?”

“Unfortunately, yes. He also employed a secretary, sometimes two or three, most of them trained at the Nevarsin monastery, so their script is quite clear.” Regis himself wrote a barely legible scrawl, but Danilo, who had also studied at St. Valentine’s, still had the clearest writing of any of them.