The murmurs shifted now, like the soft growl of a cloud leopard scenting danger. Regis held out his hands, and it felt as if his heart opened as well. Eyes shining, Danilo looked up at him. Emotion flushed Javanne’s cheeks. Gabriel was nodding, and even stolid Ruyven Di Asturien looked moved.

He had them . . . almost.

“My friend has offered a vision of greatness and equality, of riches and opportunity. Who would not want that? But in a Federation spanning a thousand worlds, Darkover will become one more poor, backward world. We will be reduced to accepting handouts from those who care nothing for our dreams.

“I am not saying that we can never have progress and prosperity, a better future for our children. We can do all this, but in our own way and in our own time.

“Once I asked you to join together, Comyn and commoner, peasant and lord, Renunciate and mountain folk. I promised you that we would not become another lockstep world of the Empire. I swore that I would never allow the Terrananto remake us in their image. Together, we agreed to restore our world.”

Around the room, heads nodded in memory of that intoxicating time. Anything had seemed possible, and they had accomplished more than anyone believed possible. For a brief golden age, the telepaths of Darkover had acted as one, rejoiced as one, and defended their world as one.

Regis had no idea if he could summon that same commitment again. In asking them to stand beside him, he risked fracturing what remained of that unity. He sensed the currents of discord, of dissension. For too many of them, the Empire—and now the Federation—represented an end to the rule of the aristocratic Comyn and the old feudal system.

For what seemed like an eternity, Regis spoke. He felt the shift in the audience, yielding to the ingrained reverence for the Hastur Lord. Under ordinary conditions, the patchwork assent would have been enough. Now he could not afford even the appearance of disunity. If what Lew said was true, the Expansionist party of the Federation would seize upon the flimsiest excuse to impose their will.

Darkover must speak with one voice, even if that one voice was his.

He could command it. As Regent. As Hastur. As King. Was this why his grandfather had urged him to claim the throne, so that no one could contest his decisions?

Echoes of that first gathering resonated through his voice. They lifted him, carried him. Throughout the chamber, he felt a storm gathering. But would it bear them all to a safe haven or shatter them upon the rocks?

“I ask you to join together again, to answer any outside power that we shall always belong to ourselves first. Darkover must and shall forge its own destiny.”

For a long moment, no one spoke. A word, a gesture, could tip the balance and fracture the tenuous momentum.

Gabriel moved to stand before the platform. He looked imposing in his Guards Commander uniform, and his features were set in an expression of determination. “The Lord of Hastur has asked for our support. I say we owe him our loyalty, as has been the custom from the time of our fathers. Who stands with me?”

“I do.” Ruyven Di Asturien came forward. The crowd melted back and swirled to close up behind him. He carried himself with quiet authority.

“And I!”

“I!”

“I!” cried Javanne, then one of the Castamirs joined in, then Kyril Eldrin and a chorus of men and women in ordinary commoner clothing.

Valdir Ridenow was one of the last Comyn to speak up. “If it is the will of this Council, I will not stand in the way.” He paused. “For the time being.”

“So be it, then,” Regis said. “With your support, I hereby direct the Terran Federation Legate to inform the Senate of our decision to retain our status as a Class D Closed World.”

Cheering broke out throughout the chamber. Dan Lawton applauded, grinning. Regis stepped off the platform to accept congratulations and thanks. He sensed as well as saw the flickers of dissatisfaction, of grudging acceptance. Some of those opinions might change with time as Darkover continued to evolve into a new society and the planetary ecology attained a new balance.

But nothing gave Regis a deeper sense of unease than the smoothly bland expression on the Ridenow lord’s features.

It took a long time for the chamber to empty. Regis felt obliged to remain as long as anyone wanted to speak with him. The experience was exhausting, for he had never enjoyed the attention of crowds. He knew that his ability to persuade rather than to coerce depended on personal contact. It was part of the cost of victory.

Javanne hugged Regis, a brief, distracted embrace before she departed with Gabriel. Mikhail stayed to watch and listen. Valdir Ridenow gave a brief salute through the thinning crowd and then strode off. The Cortes judge bowed deeply to Regis and said that, although he was not entirely convinced, he had the greatest respect for the arguments Regis had put forth. Time would tell, the man concluded.

Time is what I have asked for, Regis replied, time to find our own way.

Through it all, Danilo never left his side. From time to time, someone would try to draw Danilo into conversation, but Danilo gracefully deflected their overtures.

Finally, when only a few pockets of conversation lingered and the servants were clearly impatient to begin cleaning the chamber, Danilo guided Regis to the back entrance. Regis was so tired that only habit and momentum kept him on his feet. He ached, not only in body but in spirit.

The corridor was narrow and poorly lit but blessedly quiet. A threadbare carpet, too poor for public use, cushioned their footfalls.

“Gods, Danilo, I need a drink!” Regis said. “My head’s about to explode!”

“As long as it doesn’t turn you into a blockhead,” Danilo quipped, referring to an old joke between them, from their earliest days as cadets.

Laughter bubbled up from a half-forgotten place within Regis. How long had it been since he had heard anything silly?

“I’m glad you haven’t lost your sense of perspective,” Danilo said, more seriously. “There’s one more item to be dealt with.”

Regis groaned. “Haven’t I done enough already? Surely, whatever it is can wait until tomorrow.”

Now that they were moving, Regis felt a renewal of physical vigor. Side by side, they swept up the back stairs, wending their way through the labyrinth of the Castle to the Hastur quarters.

Danilo paused at the door leading to the suite of rooms that had been Danvan’s and now belonged to Regis. “You’ll want to hear this.”

“If you say so.”

Danilo led the way into the most intimate of the sitting rooms, more a parlor than the formal presence- chamber Danvan had favored. A fire and a bank of beeswax candles filled the room with comforting light. A meal had been laid out on a table before the hearth. Candlelight gleamed on silver utensils, the curve of a glazed pottery bowl, the glass vase holding a cluster of dawn lilies.

A man perched on the end of the armchair as if he expected to be hauled off and punished for sitting there. A stout cane lay on the carpet beside him. Backlit by the fire, Regis saw him in silhouette, the thin, hunched shoulders, the wisps of downy hair.

“Vai dom!”The man struggled to push himself to his feet.

“Good uncle, do not rise,” Regis said, going to him. “Please, be at your ease. I am sorry, but although your face is familiar to me, I cannot recall when we have met.”

“My lord Regis,” Danilo said, “allow me to present Caradoc from Castle Hastur. You would have known him when you were a lad.”

“You served my grandfather, then,” Regis said, taking the nearest chair.

“That I did, young master, for many a long year.”