Far too long. The pony had eaten every scrap of the ample fodder and nosed the floor clear of chaff as far as he could reach.
Regis went to the door and swung it open. It had stopped snowing long since. The sun was out, and melted snow dripped in runnels from the roof. Regis was aware of a raging thirst, but like all lifelong horsemen he thought first of his pony. He led the horse to the door and released him; after a moment the pony made off, deliberately, around the corner to the rear of the building, Regis followed, finding an old well there, covered against the snow, with a workable though creaky and leaking bucket assembly. He watered the pony and drank deeply, then, shivering, stripped off his clothes. He was grateful for the austere discipline of Nevarsin, which made it possible for him to wash in the icy water of the well. His clothes smelled of sweat and sickness; he got fresh ones from his pack. Shivering, but feeling immensely better, he sat down on the well-side and chewed dried fruit. Cold as he was, the ulterior of the building seemed to reek of his nightmares and echo with the voices he had heard in his delirium, if it had all been delirium. What else could it have been?
Moving slowly until he knew he could rely on his body to do what he told it, he saddled the pony again and collected his belongings. He must be nearing the Aldaran lands now and there was no time to lose.
The snow had drenched the smell of forest fire and he was glad. He had not ridden more than an hour or two when he heard the sound of approaching horses and drew aside to let them pass. Instead they confronted him, blocking the road, demanding his name and business.
He said, “I am Regis-Rafael Hastur, and I am on my way to Castle Aldaran.”
“And I,” the leader, a big swarthy mountain man, said in a mincing voice that mocked Regis’ careful casta accent, “am the Terran Legate from Port Chicago. Well, whoever you are, you’ll go to Aldaran, and damn quick, too.”
It had evidently been nearer than Regis believed; as they reached the top of the next hill he saw the castle, and beyond it the city of Gear Donn and the white Terran buildings.
Now that he was actually within sight of Aldaran his old fears returned. No man knew—or if they did it was the best kept secret on Darkover—why Aldaran had been exiled from the Seven Domains.
They couldn’t be that bad, Regis thought. Kennard had married into their kin. And if they were once of the Seven Domains, they too must be of the sacred lineage of Hastur and Cassilda. And why should a Hastur fear his kindred? He asked himself this as he rode through the great gates. Yet he was afraid.
Mountain men dressed in curiously cut leather cloaks took their horses. One of the guards led Regis into a hall, where he talked at length with another guard, then finally said, “We’ll take you to Lord Aldaran, but if you’re not who you claim you are, you’d better plan on spending the rest of the day in the brig. The old lord is ill, and none of us takes kindly to the notion of bothering him with an impostor!”
They conducted him through long stone corridors and along flights of stairs, pausing at last outside a great door. From inside they could hear voices, one low and undistinguishable, the other a harsh old man’s voice, protesting angrily:
“Zandru’s hells! Kirian, at my age! As if I were a schoolboy—oh, very well, very well! But what you are doing is dangerous if it can have side effects like this, and I want to know more—a great deal more—before I let it go on!”
The guards exchanged glances over Regis’ head; one of them knocked lightly and someone told them to come in.
It was a large, high-arched stone chamber, gray with the outdoor light At the far end, a thin old man lay in a raised bed, propped on many pillows. He glared at them in angry question. “What’s this now? What’s this?”