Текст книги "Hastur Lord"

Автор книги: Marion Zimmer Bradley

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BOOK II: Rinaldo

10

As the customary period of mourning for a man of Danvan Hastur’s rank came to an end, spring settled over Thendara. Rain fell most evenings and occasionally snow, but the air softened a little more each day. Flowers brightened gardens throughout the city. Girls went about with blossoms tucked in their hair, and singers and street performers appeared in every market place. The courtyards of Comyn Castle sprouted arbors of fragrant twining rosalys and sweet-mint.

With the end of winter, the passes through the mountains opened, permitting messengers to travel to and from Nevarsin. Regis received an answer to his inquiry from the Father Master of the monastery. He had to read it several times to fully comprehend its content.

The letter confirmed that one of the brothers of St.-Valentine’s-of-the-Snows was indeed named Rinaldo, the unacknowledged son of Rafael Hastur and Rebekah Lanart, placed there as a young child about forty years ago at the command of Danvan Hastur himself.

As soon as a suitable escort could be arranged, Regis and Danilo set out for Nevarsin. Regis dispensed with the banner bearers, taking only a few Guards, men trained and selected by Gabriel for their discretion.

Danilo frowned as the Castle grooms led out Melisande, the Armida-bred mare that Kennard Alton, Lew’s father, had given to Regis many years ago. White frosted the mare’s muzzle, and her coat, once solid black, was now the color of pewter. She pricked up her ears as she recognized Regis.

“Are you sure it’s wise to take so old a horse into the Hellers?” Danilo said. His own mount, a big-boned gelding, its white hide flecked with irregular brown spots, was old enough to have good trail sense and yet young enough to endure the mountain journey.

“Probably not.” Regis grinned as he checked the girth and blanket, making sure there were no wrinkles to cause saddle sores. Affectionately, he rubbed the mare’s forehead. She lipped his hand, searching for morsels of apple. “It will be the old girl’s last journey, that’s certain. But there’s no need to push our pace. We’ll go slow enough for her.”

The towers and ramparts of Thendara fell behind as they climbed into the Venza Hills. As happy as Regis was to be away from court and Castle, he could not entirely enjoy the journey. What would he find at Nevarsin, what sort of man might his brother be after so many years among the monks? His own time there had been both lonely and rewarding. A few of his teachers had been kind to the shy, awkward boy he had been, but most had been demanding, often harsh.

Danilo had endured the same discipline but to a greater degree. As heir to a great Domain, Regis had been allowed certain privileges, including better food and exemption from religious observances. But Danilo, born into the cristoforofaith, had been subject to every requirement. The monks had hammered a rigid set of moral rules into their charges.

Including the absolute condemnation of homosexuality.Regis had never asked Danilo how he reconciled the doctrines of his faith and their enduring bond. He had never understood why a faith that espoused compassion for all one’s fellows should single out and forbid one particular expression of love.

Regis sensed Danilo’s concern as their first meeting with Rinaldo drew nearer. For most of his life, Regis had lived with the knowledge that he was the last living son of Hastur. Now that situation had changed, although in what way remained to be seen.

How would Rinaldo react to his relationship with Danilo after a lifetime of being taught that sexual or romantic love between men was sinful? In public, Regis and Danilo behaved discreetly, with only that degree of intimacy proper for lord and paxman, but most of Thendaran society knew they were lovers. Sooner or later, Rinaldo would hear rumors, if such had not already reached the monastery.

Regis did not want to antagonize his brother with a premature confrontation. They should get to know one another before facing such a sensitive issue. The topic must be introduced carefully. With time and patience, Rinaldo would surely accept that not everyone followed the same stern code and that all men—even his own brother—had the right to follow their own hearts.

They left the Lowlands, climbing higher into the mountains. Snow-l aced peaks rose on either side. Inns became scarcer and fellow travelers few. There seemed to be no end to the mountains, for as soon as they scaled one pass, another line of cragged heights came into view. The air grew thinner, and the black mare stumbled with fatigue toward the end of each day.

Around midmorning, they reached the village of Nevarsin. Markets offered ice-melons, furs, and small items of carved chervineantler. Vendors did a brisk business in statues of St. Christopher bearing the World Child on his shoulders. Danilo pointed out an old woman selling leaf-cones of roasted nuts, a treat they had relished as students.

The monastery itself lay some distance beyond the village, up a narrow trail. Glacial snow covered the rocks above. Indeed, with its gray stone walls, weathered by centuries, the monastery seemed to spring from the mountain itself.

A cold, hard place for a cold, hard land,Regis thought gloomily. And not much warmer than Zandru’s hells.Yet men had found peace here, as well as useful work in service to their fellows. Who was he to judge them, based on a few tormented years as a student and an aversion to their narrow discipline?

The monk who greeted them at the gates looked overawed at the sight of so many armed men. He could not have been twenty, with a pale, homely face with a wine-colored mark over one side of his forehead.

“Come this way, vai domHastur, DomSyrtis,” he stammered in accented casta. “Father Master, he awaits you. In fact, he warned me this very morning that you soon would be arriving. He instructed me to make you comfortable and to bring word to him. If you will please for to follow me—”

“Gladly, but first I must see to my men and our horses,” Regis pointed out.

The monk ran off to one of the stark gray stone buildings, leaving them standing in the paved courtyard. Regis glanced up at the buildings, remembering that the founders of the monastery prided themselves on placing every single stone by human hands without the use of laran. Such could not be said for any Comyn dwelling.

A few moments later, the young monk returned with several older brothers, who took away the horses and directed the Guardsmen to the kitchen.

Blinking and stammering, the young monk led Regis and Danilo to the Stranger’s Room, luxurious by monastery standards but modest compared to Comyn Castle. Unlike the other rooms in the monastery, it boasted a fireplace and cushioned chairs. Wood had been laid on the andirons, with flint and tinder nearby. The monk set about lighting the fire, then asked if he could be of further service.

Regis sent him off to let the Father Master know of their arrival. Shortly thereafter, Regis and Danilo found themselves in the study of the venerable old monk. Regis was struck by the sensation that time had been suspended since he had last passed the monastery gates. Sun flooded the room, touching the battered surface of the desk and the alcove where a statue of the Bearer of Burdens stood eternal vigil. The figure looked as if it had never been dusted, or perhaps it was so ancient and fragile that it might fall to pieces at the slightest touch.

“Lord Regis—Lord Hastur you are now, I bid you welcome back to St. Valentine’s.” The Father Master remained in his seat and gestured for Regis to take the single cushioned visitor’s chair. Danilo remained by the door.

“It has been a long time,” Regis replied with a practiced smile. “You must also remember Danilo Syrtis, my sworn paxman.”

The Father Master inclined his head in Danilo’s direction. “No doubt, you are eager to meet with Brother Valentine. You will find him in the scriptorium.”

Thanking the old monk for his kindness, the two young Comyn took their leave. They knew the way as intimately as the path to their own chambers. As they threaded their way along the narrow corridors, the stone walls rough and unadorned, they passed a number of monks. Almost all the brothers covered their faces with their cowls; they might have been the very same ones as years ago.

If anything, the scriptorium was brighter than the Father Master’s study, for the windows were situated to take advantage of every moment of daylight. A handful of students bent over their desks. A fat, elderly monk strolled up one aisle and down the next, pausing now and again to inspect a line of text, to reposition a pen in clenched fingers, or to draw a wandering gaze back to its purpose.

Regis remembered the hours that he, too, had labored to produce a legible document. Perhaps the Terrans, with their instruments for perfect duplicates or vocal recordings, had the right idea. Why, in this age of starfaring ships and technological marvels, must young boys strain their eyes at such a task?

The thought came to him that the benefit lay not only in the creation of beautiful letters but in the mastery of discipline and concentration.

At the far end of the chamber, beside the unlit fireplace, a monk sat alone at a copying table. Light streamed from a high window, bathing his tonsured head. For an instant, he looked like a carven figure, silver and palest gilt. Unlike the students, who fidgeted at their desks and cast surreptitious glances at the two lords who had just entered, this monk gave no sign he was aware of the intrusion.

The monk supervising the boys came forward, a smile lighting his wide, generous features .“Good friends,” he said, using the inflection of beloved comradeswith a naturalness that touched Regis deeply, “you are most welcome.”

When Regis introduced himself and Danilo, the brother nodded in obvious delight. With a conspiratorial wink, he turned and clapped his hands three times. The boys scrambled to put aside their work, cap their inkwells, and file out of the room. Regis gathered, from their excited whispers, that their practice session had been cut short and that now they were at leisure for a few brief hours. He remembered how precious such times were.

The fat monk crossed the room to wait silently beside his brother at the fireplace. After a long moment, the other monk lifted his head. Bathed in the overhead light, his skin was as pale as milk, as if he had never walked beneath the sun, only in twilit forest. In those thin, almost delicate features, Regis saw echoes of the ethereal, nonhuman chieri,the ancient Beautiful People who had inhabited Darkover since before the lost colony ship crashed in these hills. They were now all but extinct, yet their blood and their telepathic abilities flowed in Comyn veins.

Rinaldo? Or rather, Brother Valentine?

No, the tall, thin man was no chieri,but that graceful hermaphroditic race had left their mark in other ways . . . in the six fingered hands of many of their descendants . . . and in the occasional emmasca.Was Rinaldo such a one?

Regis could not be sure. General appearance was not proof. Many Comyn were thin and pale, and decades indoors might bleach the color from any man’s face.

The emmascacondition was much rarer now than in former times, but the old attitudes lingered. Such individuals were said to be long– lived but sterile, and therefore in the past they had been barred from holding Domain-right. Regis thought it barbaric to measure the worth of a man by his reproductive performance. As to the requirement of fathering sons, or even being capable of lying with a woman, Regis had already provided Hastur with an heir, Mikhail, without doing either.

Yet the prejudice would explain why Danvan had hidden Rinaldo away, rather than raising him as a member of the family. The old man must have believed him to be emmasca,although male enough in appearance to be acceptable to the monks.

Regis ached for his brother. He determined not to add in any way to Rinaldo’s lifetime of shame and rejection.

Smiling with evident pleasure, the fat monk left them. Regis came forward. The other monk rose, tall and slender in his shapeless robe. His eyes, steely gray, had a slightly distracted expression. As he reached out to touch hands with Regis, he smiled.

“Good brother—” Regis began, then laughed, a little unnerved. “My brother in truth, as I understand.”

“True, indeed,” the monk replied with an air of composure. “Forgive my lack of manners. I know you already, you see, from the time you were a student here.”

Regis blinked in surprise. “Were—could it be—were you one of my teachers?”

“Indeed, I was privileged to instruct the younger boys how to read and write. If memory serves, you never achieved a very good hand, little brother. To compare it to the scratchings of a barnyard fowl would be unkind to the hen.”

Regis flushed, feeling once more the diffident, lonely boy he had once been. But Brother Valentine went on, without taking any notice of his discomfort.

“Your companion—Danilo Syrtis, is it not?—wrote a more acceptable hand.”

“And does so still,” Regis replied, grateful to change the subject from his own shortcomings. “Danilo serves as my paxman and attends to my official correspondence. In fact, it might be said that although the will of a Hastur might be law, without Danilo’s pen to set it down, no one would be able to read it.”

A flicker of emotion passed over the monk’s features. Regis sensed no trace of laran,no mental presence, so he could not tell what his brother might be thinking.

“You have the better of us, Brother Valentine,” Danilo interjected. “You remember the two of us well enough, but I have no memory of you at all.”

The monk turned to Danilo with a good– humored smile. “It would surprise me if you did. When I first came to St. Valentine’s, it was many months before I could tell the brothers one from another. No doubt, we looked as much alike as so many fleas.”

“Hardly fleas,” Danilo muttered.

“When I was here all those years ago,” Regis said, “why did you not make yourself known to me? I would have welcomed a brother’s company.”

“It was for you to speak, if you wished to claim me as kin.”

The first thing Regis thought was that this answer was very much what he himself might have said in like circumstances. Then the world slipped sideways for a heartbeat—

—b ut I didn’t know, and he did, I was a child and he was grown—

–and then resumed its normal course.

In that brief pause, Brother Valentine lifted his head in an attitude of listening. “It is time for prayer.”

Regis caught the deep, throbbing sound of a bell from afar.

“Our reunion must yield to a greater obligation.” Brother Valentine set aside his work materials. “You used to worship with us, little brother. Will you join us now?”

“I think not.” Regis did not add that as a son of Hastur and a member of the Comyn, he had been raised to follow the four traditional gods of Darkover. Aldones, Lord of Light, was reputed to be the ancestor of the first Hastur. But Regis could not say so aloud and risk the implication that his brother might have to choose between his heritage and the demands of his caste on the one hand and his religious vows on the other. How deep that commitment ran, Regis could not tell.

A man ought to be able to follow his own conscience!

Brother Valentine turned to Danilo. “Come, we must hurry.”

“I beg your leave,” Danilo replied with a stiff bow. “My duty is to my lord.”

The monk’s gaze swept from one to the other. Whatever he thought of Danilo’s refusal, he kept it to himself. “Then, with Father Master’s permission, I will come to you in the Stranger’s Room afterward.”

The monk’s sandals made no sound as he strode down the stone-floored corridor. Without discussion, Regis and Danilo headed back to the visitors’ quarters. Regis felt pulled by conflicting feelings. Certainly, he was disappointed and beset by memories of an unhappy childhood. He told himself that his brother was an exemplary monk, dutiful and observant, that these same qualities bespoke an honorable nature.

When they were alone, Regis lowered himself onto one of the cushioned chairs. In their absence, someone had left a tray with jacoand slices of coarse nut-bread.

“Well, Danilo, what do you think of my brother? Or have you formed an opinion from so brief an encounter? Did you truly not remember him from before?”

“ Vai dom,he is not my brother, but yours. Therefore, your opinion is the only one that counts.”

Regis frowned. “Don’t go all vai domon me! It’s clear you don’t like him, but I don’t understand why. He was perfectly polite.”

“He was perfectly glib.”

“What the devil do you mean by that?”

“Regis, you can’t have it both ways. If you ask for my opinion and I offer it against my better judgment, you have only yourself to blame if you dislike what you hear. Or would you have me bow and scrape and agree with every blockheaded thing you say, like a courtier?”

“I expect—” Regis realized he was on the edge of losing his temper. What was wrong with Danilo? Why was he acting this way? Regis drew in a breath and began again. “I expectyou to give my brother a fair chance, taking into consideration his lack of worldly experience. If you won’t do it as a matter of fairness, then do it as a personal favor to me. He’s going to have enough difficulties adjusting to his new life without you censuring him before you even know him!”

With a snort of exasperation, Danilo got up and went to the door leading to the bedroom. From where he sat, Regis could see four narrow beds, straw-tick mattresses on simple wooden frames, a washstand and a couple of chairs. Their baggage had been stacked neatly beside the nearest bed. Without another word, Danilo began unpacking and making up two of the beds with a precision that would have made a Cadet Master proud.

Regis poured himself a mug of jacoand sipped it, staring into the fire. Why could there not be peace between the people he loved? Why did it always come down to a choice?

Regis was still turning over these depressing questions when Brother Valentine arrived. Danilo, having finished preparing for the coming night, joined them in the sitting room.

At the insistence of Regis, Valentine took one of the chairs. He smiled as he settled against the cushions, clearly enjoying the unaccustomed comfort.

“You may not remember me,” the monk said, once they had resumed their conversation, “but I have kept myself informed about you, little brother. Although they call me Valentine, after the holy saint who founded this order, I was named Rinaldo. You may call me that if you would claim me as kin.”

“I am in need of kinsmen, for we are so few,” Regis said with a sigh.

“Tell me, have you thought—would you be willing to come with me to Thendara, to take up your place as a Hastur?”

Rinaldo regarded him with those strange gray eyes. “Until your message arrived, I never expected to enter the world. I understood there is little acceptance for one such as I.”

“I intend to have you formally legitimatized,” Regis said quickly. “Then no one will question your right—”

“No, no, that is not what I meant.” Rinaldo protested. “Our grandfather could have done the same, but he chose not to, for reasons that seemed good to him.”

“Your . . . difference, you mean.”

“You are too courteous to ask,” Rinaldo said, “so I will tell you straight out. I would not have you think I withheld the truth in order to curry your favor. We do not speak of such things here at St. Valentine’s, but I believe I am emmasca. That is, I am shaped as other men, or I could not live among the brothers. Although I admit to being curious, I have never had the opportunity to lie with a woman, but I am not indifferent to the prospect. As to fathering a child, who can say, but from everything I know about my condition, I cannot believe it possible.”

Regis looked away. So his first impression was correct. Yet to be born emmascaand without laranwould be very strange indeed, since the telepathic genes ran so strongly in their chieriancestors.

Rinaldo paused. “Do you wish to withdraw your offer, now that you know what I am?”

“We are not living in the Ages of Chaos, when a man’s value was measured by his pedigree, his laran,his ability to father children, or anything else except the quality of his character,” Regis said with feeling.

Rinaldo gave him a long, measuring look. “Bare is a brotherless back, as they say?”

“As they say. Hastur does not need another stud horse to breed heirs, but Ihave need of a brother.”

“It seems that I am indeed called to be of service in the outer world. To my family . . . to my brother,” Rinaldo inflected the word with a warmth that brought a rush of pleasure to Regis. “In that case, I will petition Father Master for a release from my vows. He has already indicated he would do so if I wished.”

“I welcome you to the family with a joyful heart,” Regis said.

Rinaldo bowed his head in a gracious gesture. “As you know, we monks are not permitted to own property. Even my robe and sandals and the wooden bowl and spoon I eat with do not belong to me. You must provide me with clothing suitable to my rank and a means of transportation.”

Was there a hint of reproach beneath the words delivered with all civility? Although of equal blood, Regis had enjoyed all the privileges and luxuries that the Heir to a Domain might expect, while his brother had languished in obscure poverty.

“It will be my pleasure to furnish you with all that you require,” Regis gently assured his brother. “Danilo, I leave the matter in your capable hands. There must be a stable or horse market where you can obtain a mount for my brother.”

“You can ride, I suppose?” Danilo asked Rinaldo, a little stiffly.

“I have made sure I could, although I learned on a stag– pony, not a proper horse. I will do my best not to disgrace you.”

As they sat at their ease, Regis went on, “I am afraid that any clothing to be found in Nevarsin will fall short of the elegance proper to a son of Hastur. Once we reach Thendara, I will order an appropriate wardrobe for you.”

“That is most generous of you, little brother.”

“It is no more than you deserve,” Regis returned with a smile.

“You have convinced me,” Rinaldo replied. “I believe you are right. I deserve the best, even if I must wait to receive it.”

In the presence of the monastery community, gathered together in the chapel, the Father Master performed the ceremony that formally released Rinaldo from his vows. He would no longer bear the name of Brother Valentine or be bound by the rules of the order. If only, Regis thought, there were such a Comyn ritual for himself.

The monks embraced their former brother for the last time, exchanging blessings and wishes for peace. The ceremony concluded with a speech by the Father Master exhorting Rinaldo and every other man present to faithfully and scrupulously adhere to the principles set forth by the holy saints, to emulate the Holy Bearer of Burdens, to keep themselves pure through the Creed of Chastity, and to redeem their sins by acts of charity and penance.

“Never stray from the path of righteousness!” The Father Master’s thunderous voice filled the chapel. “Accept your burdens . . . no, rejoice in them! Remember always– Righteousness flourishes under the lash of discipline!”

A lifetime of sitting through formal events had given Regis the ability to look interested no matter how bored or irritated he felt. He allowed the lecture to wash over him, paying little heed to its content. He was a guest here, an observer only.

But Danilo, who was an adherent to this faith, what must this tirade be like for him?Regis stole a glance at his companion, sitting a short distance away. Danilo’s cheeks had gone pale.

As they made ready to depart, Danilo was taut and silent. He answered Regis in monosyllables. Regis did not press the issue. Danilo would speak to him in his own time or deal with his feelings in his own way.

Rinaldo was in high spirits, excited by every aspect of the journey. When he was presented with his mount, however, he seemed less than pleased. The horse Danilo had found for him was almost as small and shaggy as the local ponies. The rust-brown gelding had a scrawny neck and a loose, hanging lower lip, but the slope of his shoulders and the sturdy bone beneath the knee promised an easy gait. Regis knew enough of the mountain breeds to have confidence in the animal’s ability to carry a large man over rough terrain and to thrive on poor forage. This horse was a practical choice, if less than beautiful.

Danilo had also obtained warm, serviceable clothing, trousers, jacket, and riding cloak of mixed sheep and chervinewool for extra water repellence. Neither the garments nor the boots were new; the pants were stained, and the leather was worn to softness that would minimize blisters.

Regis caught a flash of quickly masked disappointment in his brother’s face. It was gone in an instant, as if it had never been, a faint tightening of eyes and mouth, a glace at Danilo. Regis opened his mouth to explain that such clothing and such a horse were the best that could be had and would be far more comfortable than anything new or flashy. He stopped himself. What was he doing, making excuses for Danilo? Surely, Rinaldo could see the true quality of these things, and when they were settled in Thendara, more elaborate garb, suitable for a Hastur Lord, could readily be ordered.