Текст книги "Heritage Of Hastur"

Автор книги: Marion Zimmer Bradley

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“True,” he said. “But can I trust a man who begins by kidnapping me and frightening my father to death? If he had come to me, explained what he wanted to do, and that you and he together thought my gift could be useful, then asked my father to give me leave to visit him … ”

The hell of it was, Dani was entirely right. What had possessed Beltran to do such a thing? “If he had consulted me, that is exactly how I would have suggested he should do it.”

“Yes, I know,” Dani said. “You’re you. But if Beltran isn’t the kind of man to do it that way, how can you trust him?”

“He’s my kinsman,” I said helplessly. “What do you expect me to say? I expect his eagerness got the better of him. He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

Dani raged. “You’re talking just the way you said your father did about Lord Dyan!”

It wasn’t the same, I knew that, but I couldn’t expect Danilo to see it. Finally I said, “Can’t you look beyond personalities in this, Dani? Beltran was wrong, but what we’re trying to do is so enormous that maybe it blinds people to smaller aims and ends. Keep your eyes on what he’s doing, and forgive him. Or are you waiting,” and I spoke deliberately, with malice, to make him see how cynical it sounded, “for the Comyn to make a better offer?”

He flushed, stung to the depths. I hadn’t overestimated either his intelligence or his sensitivity. He was a boy still, but the man would be well worth knowing, with strong integrity and honor. I hoped with all my heart he would be our ally.

“Danilo,” I said, “we need you. The Comyn cast you out in disgrace, undeserved. What loyalty do you owe them?”

“The Comyn, nothing,” he said quietly. “Yet I am pledged and my service given. Even if I wanted to do what you ask, Lew, and I’m not sure, I am not free.”

“What do you mean?”

Danilo’s face was impassive, but I could sense the emotion behind his words. “Regis Hastur sought me out at Syrtis,” he said. “He did not know how or why, but he knew I had been wronged. He pledged himself to set it right.”

“We’re trying to set many wrongs right, Dani. Not just yours.”

“Maybe,” he said. “But we swore an oath together and I pledged him my sword and my service. I am his paxman, Lew, so if you want me to help you, you must ask hisconsent. If my lord gives me leave, then I am at your service. Otherwise I am his man: I have sworn.”

I looked at the solemn young face and knew there was nothing I could say to that. I felt a quite irrational anger at Regis because he had forestalled me here. For a moment I wrestled with strong temptation. I could make him see it my way …

I recoiled in horror and shame at my own thoughts. The first pledge I had sworn at Arilinn was this: never, never force the will or conscience of another, even for his own good. I could persuade. I could plead. I could use reason, emotion, logic, rhetoric. I could even seek out Regis and beg him for his consent; he too had reason to be disaffected, to rebel against the corruption in the Comyn. But further than this I could not go. I could not. That I had even thought of it made me feel a little sick.

“I may indeed ask Regis for your aid, Dani,” I said quietly. “He too is my friend. But I will never force you. I am not Dyan Ardais!”

That made him smile a little. “I never thought you were, Lew. And if my lord gives me leave, then I will trust him, and you. But until that time shall come, DomLewis”—he gave me my title very formally, though we had been using the familiar mode before this—“have I your permission to depart and return to my father?”

I gestured at the snow, a white torrent whipping the windows, sending little spits of sleet down the chimney. “In this, lad? Let me at least offer you the hospitality of my kinsman’s roof until the weather suits! Then you shall be given proper escort and company out of these mountains. You cannot expect me to set you adrift in these mountains, at night and in winter, with a storm blowing up?” I summoned a servant again, and requested that he provide proper lodging for a guest, near my own quarters. Before Danilo went away to his bed, I gave him a kinsman’s embrace, which he returned with a childlike friendliness that made me feel better.

But I was still deeply troubled. Damn it, I’d have a word with Beltran before I slept!

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Chapter SEVENTEEN

Regis rode slowly, head down against the biting wind. He told himself that if he ever got out of these mountains, no place on Darkover would ever seem cold to him again.

A few days ago he had stopped in a mountain village and traded his horse for one of the sturdy little mountain ponies. He felt a sort of despairing grief at the necessity—the black mare was Kennard’s gift and he loved her—but this one attracted less attention and was surer-footed along the terrible trails. Poor Melisande would surely have died of the cold or broken a leg on these steep paths.

The trip had been a long nightmare: steep unfamiliar trails, intense cold, sheltering at night in abandoned barns or shepherd’s huts or wrapped in cloak and blanket against a rock wall, close curled against the horse’s body. He tried in general to avoid being seen, but every few days he had gone into a village to bargain for food and fodder for his pony. He aroused little curiosity; he thought life must be so hard in these mountains that the people had no time for curiosity about travelers.

Now and again, when he feared losing his way, he had drawn out the matrix, trying by furious concentration to fix his attention on Danilo. The matrix acted like one of those Terran instruments Kennard had once told him about, guiding him, with an insistent subliminal pull, toward Aldaran and Danilo.

By now he was numbed to fear, and only determination kept him going, that, and the memory of his pledge to Dani’s father. But there were times when he rode in a dark dream, losing awareness of Danilo and the roads where he was. Images would spin in his mind, which seemed to drink up pictures and thoughts from the villages he passed. The thought of looking again into the matrix filled him with such a crawling sickness that he could not force himself to draw it out. Threshold sickness again. Javanne had warned him. At the last few villages he had simply inquired the road to Aldaran.

All the morning he had been riding up a long slope where forest fires had raged a few seasons ago. He could see miles of scorched and blackened hillside, ragged stumps sticking up gaunt and leafless through the gullied wasteland. In his hyper-suggestible state the stink of burned woods, ashes and soot swirling up every time his pony put a hoof down, brought him back to that last summer at Armida and his first turn on the fire-lines, the night the fire came so close to Armida that the outbuildings burned.

That evening he and Lew had eaten out of the same bowl because supplies were running short. When they had laid down the stink of ashes and burned wood was all around them. Regis had smelled it even in his sleep, the way he was smelling it now. Toward midnight something woke him, and he had seen Lew sitting bolt upright, staring at the red glow where the fire was.

And Regis had known Lew was afraid. He’d touched Lew’s mind, and feltit: his fear, the pain of his burns, everything. He could feel it as if it had been in his own mind. And Lew’s fear hurt so much that Regis couldn’t stand it. He would have done anything to comfort Lew, to take his mind off the pain and the fear. It had been too much. Regis couldn’t shut it out, couldn’t stand it.

But he had forgotten. Had made himself forget, till now. He had blocked away the memory until, later that year, when he was tested for laranat Nevarsin, he had not even remembered anything but the fire.

And that, he realized, was why Lew was surprised when Regis told him he did not have laran…

The mountain pony stumbled and went down. Regis scrambled to his feet, shaken but unhurt, taking the beast by the bridle and gently urging him to his feet. He ran his hand up and down the animal’s legs. No bones were broken, but the pony flinched when Regis touched his rear right hock. He was limping, and Regis knew the pony could not bear his weight for a while. He led him along the trail as they crested the pass. The downward trail was even steeper, black and mucky underfoot where recent rains had soaked the remnants of the fire. The stench in his nostrils was worse than ever, restimulating again the memories of the earlier fire and the shared fear. He kept asking himself why he forgot, why he made himself forget.

The sun was hidden behind thick clouds. A few drifting snowflakes, not many but relentless, began to fall as he went down toward the valley. He guessed it was about midday. He felt a little hungry, but not enough to stop and dig into his pack and get out something to eat.

He hadn’t been eating much lately. The villagers had been kind to him, often refusing to take payment for food, which was tasty, though unfamiliar. He was usually on the edge of nausea, though, unwilling to start up that reflex again by actually chewing and swallowing something. Hunger was less painful.

After a time he did dig some grain out of his pack for the horse. The trail was well-traveled now; there must be another village not far away. But the silence was disturbing. Not a dog barked, no wild bird or beast cried. There was no sound but his own footsteps and the halting rhythm of the lame pony’s steps. And, far above, the unending wind moaning in the gaunt snags of the dead forest.

It was too much solitude. Even the presence of a bodyguard would have been welcome now, or two, chatting about the small chances of the trail. He remembered riding in the hills around Armida with Lew, hunting or checking the herdsmen who cared for the horses out in the open uplands. Suddenly, as if the thought of Lew had brought him to mind again, Lew’s face was before him, lighted with a glow—not forest fire now! It was aglow, blazing in a great blue glare, space-twisting, gut-wrenching, the glare of the matrix! The ground was reeling and dipping under his feet, but for a moment, even as Regis dropped the pony’s reins and clapped his hands over his tormented eyes, he saw a great form sketch itself on the inside of his eyelids, inside his very brain,

… a woman, a golden goddess, flame-clothed, flame-crowned, golden-chained, burning, glowing, blazing, consuming…

Then he lost consciousness. Over his head the mountain pony edged carefully around, uneasily nuzzling at the unconscious lad.

It was the pony’s nuzzling that woke him, some time later. The sky was darkening, and it was snowing so hard that when he got stiffly to his feet, a little cascade of snow showered off him. A faint sickening smell told him that he had vomited as he lay senseless. What in Zandru’s hells happened to me?

He dug his water bottle from his saddlebag, rinsed his mouth and drank a little, but was still too queasy to swallow much.

It was snowing so hard that he knew he must find shelter at once. He had been trained at Nevarsin to find shelter in unlikely places, even a heap of underbrush would do, but on a road as well-traveled as this there were sure to be huts, barns, shelters. He was not mistaken. A few hundred feet further on, the outline of a great stone barn made a dark square against the swirling whiteness. The stones were blackened with the fire that had swept over it and a few of the roof slates had fallen in, but someone had replaced the door with rough-hewn planking. Drifted ice and snow from the last storm was banked against the door, but he knew that in mountain country doors were usually left unfastened against just such emergencies. After much struggling and heaving Regis managed to shove the rough door partway open and wedge himself and the pony through into a gloomy and musty darkness. It had once been a fodder-storage barn; there were still a few rodent-nibbled bales lying forgotten against the walls. It was bitterly cold, but at least it was out of the wind. Regis unsaddled his pony, fed him and hobbled him loosely at one end of the barn. Then he raked some more of the moldy fodder together, laid his blankets out on it, crawled into them and let sleep, or unconsciousness, take him again.

This long sleep was more like shock, or suspended animation, than any normal sleep. Regis could not know it was the mental and physical reaction of a telepath in crisis. Now it only seemed that he wandered for eternities—certainly for days—in restless nightmares. At times he seemed to leave his aching body behind and wander in gray formless space, shouting helplessly and knowing he had no voice. Once or twice, coming up to dim semiconsciousness, he found his face wet and knew he had been crying in his sleep. Time disappeared. He wandered in what he only dimly knew was the past or the future: now in the dormitories of Nevarsin where the memory of cold, loneliness and an aching frustration held him aloof, frightened, friendless; now by the fireside at Armida, then bending with Lew and an unknown fair-haired girl over the bedside of an apparently dying child, again wandering through thick forests while strange aliens, red-eyed, peered at them through the trees.

Again he was fighting with knives along a narrow ledge, the ragged red-eyed aliens thrusting at him, trying to kick him off. He sat in the Council chamber and heard Terrans arguing; in the Guard hall of Comyn Castle he saw Danilo’s sword breaking with that terrible sound of shattering glass. He was looking down with a sense of aching tragedy at two small children, pale and lifeless, lying side by side in their coffins, dead by treachery, so young, so young, and knew they were his own. Again he stood in the armory, numb and shamed into immobility while Dyan’s hands ran along his bare bruised body, and then he and Danilo were standing by a fountain in the plaza at Thendara, only Danilo was taller and bearded, drinking from wooden tankards and laughing while girls threw festival garlands down from windows above them.

After a time he began to filter these random awarenesses more critically. He saw Lew and Danilo standing by a fireplace in a room with a mosaic pattern of white birds on the floor, talking earnestly, and he felt insanely jealous. Then it seemed as if Kennard was calling his name in the gray dim spaces, and he could see Kennard drifting far off in the dimness. Only Kennard was not lame now, but young and straight-backed and smiling as Regis could hardly remember him. He was calling, with a mounting sense of urgency, Regis, Regis, where are you? Don’t hide from me! We have to find you!All Regis could make of this was that he had left the Guards without leave and the Commander wanted to have him brought back and punished. He knew he could make himself invisible here in these gray spaces, so he did, running from the voice full speed over a gray and featureless plain, though by this time he was perfectly well aware that he was lying half-conscious in the abandoned fodder-barn. And then he saw Dyan in the gray spaces, only Dyan as a boy his own age. Somehow he dimly realized that, in this gray world where bodies did not come but only minds, every man appeared as he saw himself in his own mind, so of course Kennard looked well and young. Dyan was saying, I can’t find him, Kennard, he is nowhere in the overworld, and Regis felt himself laughing inside and saying, I’m here but I don’t have to let you see me here.Then Kennard and Dyan were standing close together, their hands joined, and he knew that together they were seeking him out. Their faces and figures disappeared, they were only eyes in the grayness, seeking, seeking. He knew he must leave the gray world or they would find him now. Where could he go? He didn’t want to go back! He could see Danilo in the distance, then they were both back in the dark barracks room—that night!—and he was bending over his friend, touching him with aching solicitude. And then that terrible, strained whisper, the shock more mental than physical as he thrust him away: Come near me again, you filthyombredin, and I’ll break your neck…

But I was only trying to reach him, help him. Wasn’t I? Wasn’t I? And with a shuddering gasp Regis sat up, fully awake at last, staring into the dim light that filtered through a broken roof-slate above him. He was shaking from head to foot and his body ached as if he had been battered and beaten. He was completely conscious, though, and his mind was clear. At the far end of the barn the pony was stamping restlessly. Slowly, Regis got to his feet, wondering how long he had been there.

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 castaaccent, “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 Caer 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?”

“An intruder on the borders, Lord Aldaran, maybe a spy from the Domains.”

“Why, he’s just a boy,” the old man said. “Come here, child.” The guards thrust Regis forward, and the old eyes focused, hawk-keen, on him. Then he smiled, an odd amused smile.

“Humph! No need to ask yourname! If ever a man wore his lineage on his face! You might be Rafael’s son. I thought his heir was still in the schoolroom, though. Which one are you, then, some nedestroor old Danvan’s bastard, maybe?”

Regis lifted his chin. “I am Regis-Rafael Hastur of Hastur!”

“Then in hell’s name,” said the old man testily, “what were you doing sneaking around the borders alone? Where is your escort? The heir of Hastur should have ridden up to the front gates, properly escorted, and asked to see me. I’ve never refused a welcome to anyone who comes here in peace! Do you think this is still a bandit fortress?”

Regis felt stung, all the more because he knew the old man was right. “My Lord, I felt there might be warfare of which I had been told nothing. If there is peace between us, what have you done with my sworn man?”

“ I, young Hastur? I know of no man of yours. Who?”

“My paxman and my friend, Danilo Syrtis. He was taken by armed men, in the hills near his home, men bearing your ensign, my lord.”

Aldaran’s face narrowed in a frown. He glanced at the tall thin man in Terran clothing who stood near the head of the bed. He said, “Bob, do you know anything at all about this matter? You usually know what Beltran’s up to. What’s be been doing while I’ve been lying here sick?”

The man raised his head and looked at Regis. He said, “Danilo Syrtis is here and unharmed, young Hastur. Beltran’s men only exceeded their orders; they were told to invite him here with all courtesy. And we were told he had no reason to love the Comyn; how should we know he was your sworn man?” Regis felt unspoken contempt, And why should we give a damn?But Kadarin’s words were rigidly polite. “He is unharmed, an honored guest.”

“I’ll have a word with Beltran,” Kermiac of Aldaran said. “This isn’t the first time his enthusiasm has carried him away. I’m sorry, young Hastur, I didn’t know we had anyone of yours here. Kadarin, take him to his friend.”

So it was as simple as that? Regis felt vague disquiet. Kadarin said, “There’s no need for such haste. Lew Alton talked to the Syrtis boy for hours last night, I’m sure he knows now that he’s not a prisoner. Lord Regis, would you like to speak with your kinsman?”

“Is Lew still here? Yes, I would like to see him.”

Kermiac looked at Regis’ travel-stained garments. He said, “But this is a long journey alone for a boy. You are exhausted. Let us take you to a guest chamber, offer you some refreshment—a meal, a bath—”

Both of them sounded almost unendurably attractive, but Regis shook his head. “Truly, I need nothing now. I am deeply concerned about my friend.”

“As you wish, then, lad.” He held out a withered old hand, seeming to have trouble moving as he wished. “Damned if I’m going to call a boy your age lord anything! That’s half what’s wrong with our world!”

Regis bent over it as he would have done over his grandfather’s. “If I have misjudged you, Lord Aldaran, I implore your pardon. Let anxiety for my paxman be my excuse.”

“Humph,” Aldaran said again, “it seems to me that we of Aldaran owe you some apology as well, my boy. Bob, send Beltran to me—at once!”

“Uncle, he is very much occupied with—”

“I don’t give a damn what he’s occupied with, bring him! And fast!” He released Regis’ hand, saying, “I’ll see you again soon, lad. You are my guest, remain here in peace, be welcome.”

Dismissed and ushered out of Aldaran’s presence, Kadarin striding through the halls at his side, Regis felt more confused than ever. What was going on here? What had Lew Alton to do with this? It was warm in the hallway and he wished he had taken off his riding-cloak; he felt suddenly very tired and hungry. He had not had a hot meal, or slept in a bed, for more days than he could reckon, and during his sickness he had completely lost count.

Kadarin turned into a small room, saying, “I think Lew is here with Beltran.” Regis blinked in astonishment, seeing, in the first moment, only the blazing fire, the floor inlaid with the mosaic of white birds! Fantasies spun in his mind. Danilo was not here, as in his dream, but Lew was standing near the fire, his back to Regis. He was looking down at a woman who had a small harp across her knees. She was playing and singing. Regis had heard the song at Nevarsin; it was immeasurably old, and had a dozen names and a dozen tunes:

How came this blood, on your right hand,

Brother, tell me, tell me.

It is the blood of an old gray wolf

Who lurked behind a tree.

The song broke off in mid-chord; Lew turned, and looked at Regis in amazement.

“Regis!” he said, coming quickly toward the door. “What are you doing here?” He held out his arms to embrace him, then, seeing him clearly, took him by the shoulders, almost holding his upright. He said savagely, “If this is any more of Beltran’s—”

Regis drew himself upright. He wanted to let himself collapse into Lew’s arms, lean on him, break down with fatigue and long drawn out fear—but not before these strangers. “I came here in search of Danilo; Javanne saw in her crystal that he had been taken by men of Aldaran. Had you any hand in this?”

“God forbid,” said Lew. “What do you think I am? It was a mistake, I assure you, only a mistake. Come and sit down, Regis. You look tired and ill. Bob, if he’s been mishandled, I’ll have someone’s head for it!”

“No, no,” said Kadarin. “Lord Kermiac welcomed him as his own guest, and sent him to you right away.”

Regis let Lew lead him to the bench by the fire. The woman touched the harp again, in soft chords. Another woman, this one very young, with long straight red hair and a pretty, remote face, came and took his cloak, looking at him with bold eyes, straight at him. No girl in the Domains would look at him like that! He had an uncomfortable feeling that she knew what he was thinking and was greatly amused by it. Lew said the women’s names but Regis was in no condition to pay attention. He was introduced to Beltran of Aldaran, too, who almost immediately left the room. Regis wished they would all go away. Lew sat beside him, saying, “How came you to ride this long road alone, Regis? Only for Danilo’s sake?”

“I am sworn to him, we are bredin,” Regis said faintly, “He is truly unharmed, not a prisoner?”

“He is housed in luxury, an honored guest. You shall see him as soon as you like.”

“But I do not understand all this, Lew. You came on a mission from Comyn, yet I find you here entangled in their affairs. What is this all about?” As soon as their hands touched they had fallen into rapport, and Regis found himself wondering, Has Lew turned traitor to Comyn?In answer Lew said quietly, “I am no traitor. But I have come to believe that perhaps service to Comyn and service to Darkover are not quite the same thing.”

The woman had begun the song again, softly.

No wolf would prowl at this hour of the day,

Brother, tell me, tell me!

It is the blood of my own brothers twain

Who sat at the drink with me.

How came ye fight with your own blood kin,

Brother, tell me, tell me,

Your father’s sons and your mother’s sons

Who dwelled in peace with thee.

Lew was still talking, through the sound. “The Comyn has been too often unjust. They threw Danilo aside like a piece of rubbish, for no better reason than that he had offended a wicked and corrupt man who should never have been in power. Danilo is a catalyst telepath. I suggested they bring him here—I had no idea they would take him by force—and his services be enlisted to a larger loyalty. I had it in mind he could serve all our world, not a sick, power-mad clique of aristocrats bent on keeping themselves in power at whatever cost … ”

The mournful harp-chords were very soft, the woman’s voice very sweet.

We sat at feast, we fought in jest,

Sister, I vow to thee;

A berserker’s rage came in my hand,

And I slew them shamefully.

Lew said, “Enough of this, you are tired and anxious about Dani, and you must have some rest. When you are well recovered, I want you to know all about what we are doing. Then you will know why those who are really loyal to Darkover may serve us all best by putting some check on the Comyn powers.”

Regis could feel Lew’s sincerity through the touch on his hand, yet there was some hesitation too. He slid his hand up Lew’s arm to touch the tattooed mark there. He said, “You’re not completely sure of this either, Lew. You are sworn, sealed to Comyn.”

Lew took his hand away, saying bitterly, “Sworn? No. Vows in which I had no part were sworn for me when I was five years old. But come, we’ll talk of this another time. If you’ve been imagining Danilo a prisoner it will reassure you to find him in the best guest suite, the only one, I suppose, fit to entertain a Hastur. If he’s your sworn man he should be lodged with you.”

He turned, briefly making his excuses to the women. In his sensitized state Regis could feel their emotions, too: sharp resentment from the older, the singer. The younger one seemed aware of nothing but Lew. Regis didn’t want to be part of these complexities! He was glad when they were alone in the corridor.

“Regis, what’s really wrong with you? You’re ill!”

Regis tried—he knew he didn’t succeed too well—to cut off the rapport entirely. He knew that if he told Lew he had threshold sickness on the road, Lew would be immensely concerned. Even Javanne had treated it as a serious matter. For some reason he was anxious to avoid this. He said, “Nothing much; I’m very tired. I’m not used to mountain riding and I may have a chill.” Actively he resisted Lew’s solicitude. He could feel his kinsman’s anxiety about him, and it made him irritible for some unknown reason. He wasn’t a child nowl And he could sense the bafflement with which Lew gently but definitely withdrew.