He let the thickening storm batter him, uncaring. He welcomed the icy wind, the sleet freezing in layers on his heavy riding-cloak, on his eyelashes and hair. It kept him from sliding back into that strange, hypersensitive, hallucinatory awareness.
What shall I say to Grandfather?
How did you face the Regent of Comyn and tell him his most trusted counselor was corrupt, a sadistic pervert using his telepathic powers to meddle with a mind placed in his charge?
How do you tell the Commander of the Guard, your own commanding officer, that his most trusted friend, holding the most trusted and responsible of posts, has ill-treated and shamefully misused a boy in his care. How do you accuse your own uncle, the strongest telepath in Comyn, of standing by, indifferent, watching the rarest and most sensitive of telepaths being falsely accused, his mind battered and bruised and dishonored, while he, a tower-trained psi technician, did nothing?
The stone walls of the Castle closed about them, cutting off the biting wind. Regis heard his escort swearing as they led their horses away. He knew he should apologize to them for subjecting them to this cold, wearying ride in such weather. It was a totally irresponsible thing to do to loyal men and the fact that they would never question his motives made it worse. He gave them brief formal thanks and admonished them to go quickly for supper and rest, knowing that if he offered them any reward they would be offended beyond measuring.
The long steps to the Hastur apartments seemed to loom over him, shrinking and expanding. His grandfather’s aged valet rushed at him, blurred and out of focus, clucking and shaking his head with the privilege of long service, “Lord Regis, you’re soaked through, you’ll be ill, let me fetch you some wine, dry clothes—”
“Nothing, thank you.” Regis blinked away the drops of ice melting on his eyelashes. “Ask the Lord Regent if he”—he tensed to keep his teeth from chattering—”if he can receive me.”
“He’s at supper, Lord Regis. Go in and join him.”
A small table had been laid before the fire in his grandfather’s private sitting room, and Danvan Hastur looked up, dismayed, almost comically echoing the elderly servant’s dismay.
“My boy! At this hour, so wet and dripping? Marton, take his cloak, dry it at the fire! Child, you were to be with Javanne some days, what has happened?”
“Necessary—” Regis discovered his teeth were chattering so hard he could not speak; he clenched them to get control. “To return at once—”
The Regent shook his head skeptically. “Through a blizzard? Sit down there by the fire.” He picked up the jug on his table, tilted a thick stream of steaming soup into a stoneware mug and held it out to Regis. “Here. Drink this and warm yourself before you say anything.”
Regis started to say he did not want it, but he had to take it to keep it from falling from the old man’s hand. The hot fragrant steam was so enticing that he began to sip it, slowly. He felt enraged at his own weakness and angrier at his grandfather for seeing it His barriers were down and he had a flash of Hastur as a young man, a commander in the field, knowing his men, judging each one’s strengths and weaknesses, knowing what each one needed and precisely how and when to get it to him. As the hot soup began to spread warmth through his shivering body he relaxed and began to breathe freely. The heat of the stoneware mug comforted his fingers, which were blue with cold, and even when he had finished the soup he held it between his hands, enjoying the warmth.
“Grandfather, I must talk to you.”
“Well, I’m listening, child. Not even Council would call me out in such weather.”
Regis glanced at the servants moving around the room. “Alone, sir. This concerns the honor of the Hasturs.”
A startled look crossed the old man’s face and he waved them from the room. “You’re not going to tell me Javanne has managed to disgrace herself!”
Even the thought of his staid and fastidious sister playing the wanton would have made Regis laugh, if he could have laughed. “Indeed not, sir, all at Edelweiss is well and the babies thriving.” He was not cold now, but felt an inner trembling he did not even recognize as fear. He put down the empty mug which had grown chill in his hands, shook his head at the offer of a refill. “Grandfather. Do you remember Danilo Syrtis?” “Syrtis. The Syrtis people are old Hastur folk, your father’s paxman and bodyguard bore that name, old Dom Felix was my hawk-master. Wait, was there not some shameful thing in the Guards this year, a disgraced cadet, a sword-breaking? What has this to do with the honor of Hastur, Regis?”