Regis struggled, whispered, “Grandfather, Lord Hastur … I swear, I will swear …”
His grandfather’s arms enfolded him gently. “Regis, Regis, I know. But I cannot accept any pledge from you now. Not in your present state. The Gods know I want to, but I cannot. You must leave this to us. You must, child. We will deal with Dyan. You have done all you need to do. Just now your task is to go, as Kennard says, to Neskaya, to teach yourself to control your gift.”
He tried again to fight his way upright… kneeling on cold stones, crystal lights around him. Words came slowly, painfully, yet he could not escape them: I pledge my life and honor . . . to Hastur, forever . . . and terrible pain, knowing he spoke into a closing door, he gave away his life and his freedom. He could not get a word out, not a syllable, and he felt his body and brain would explode with the words bursting in him. He whispered and knew no one could hear him, as his senses slipped away, “… swear … honor …”
His grandfather’s eyes met his briefly, a momentary anchor over a swaying darkness where he hung. He heard his grandfather’s voice, deep and compassionate, saying firmly, “The honor of the Comyn has been safe in my hands for ninety years, Regis. You can leave it to me now.”
Regis let them lay him, nearly senseless, on the stone bench.
He let himself slip away into unconsciousness like a little death.
Chapter FOURTEEN
(Lew Alton’s narrative)
For three days a blizzard had raged in the Hellers. On the fourth day I woke to sunshine and the peaks behind Castle Aldaran gleaming under their burden of snow. I dressed and went down into the gardens behind the castle, standing atop the terraces and looking down on the spaceport below where great machines were already moving about, as tiny at this distance as creeping bugs, to shift the heavy layers of snow. No wonder the Terrans didn’t want to move their main port here!
Yet, unlike Thendara, here spaceport and castle seemed part of a single conjoined whole, not warring giants, striding toward battle.
“You’re out early, cousin,” said a light voice behind me. I turned to see Marjorie Scott, warmly wrapped in a hooded cloak with fur framing her face. I made her a formal bow.
“Damisela.”
She smiled and stretched her hand to me. “I like to be out early when the sun’s shining. It was so dark during the storm!”
As we walked down the terraces she grasped my cold hand and drew it under her cloak. I had to tell myself that this freedom did not imply what it would mean in the lowlands, but was innocent and unaware. It was hard to remember that with my hand lying between her warm breasts. But damn it, the girl was a telepath, she had to know.
As we went along the path, she pointed out the hardy winter flowers, already thrusting their stalks up through the snow, seeking the sun, and the sheltered fruits casting their snow-pods. We came to a marble-railed space where a waterfall tumbled, storm-swollen, away into the valley.
“This stream carries water from the highest peaks down into Caer Donn, for their drinking water. The dam above here, which makes the waterfall, serves to generate power for the lights, here and down in the spaceport, too.”
“Indeed, damisela? We have nothing like this in Thendara.” I found it hard to keep my attention on the stream. Suddenly she turned to face me, swift as a cat, her eyes flashing gold. Her cheeks were flushed and she snatched her hand away from mine. She said, with a stiffness that concealed anger, “Forgive me, Dom Lewis. I presumed on our kinship,” and turned to go. My hand, in the cold again, felt as chilled and icy as my heart at her sudden wrath.
Without thinking, I reached out and clasped her wrist.
“Lady, how have I offended you? Please don’t go!”
She stood quite still with my hand clasping her wrist She said in a small voice, “Are all you valley men so queer and formal? I am not used to being called damisela, except by servants. Do you … dislike me … Lew?”