“Mmmm. There are more than I expected. The Ridenow are still here?” Regis wished they had stayed in Serrais.

“We can’t very well exclude them.”

“No, I suppose not.” Regis handed the written plans to Danilo. “When you have a moment in the next few days, send a letter to Armida. I’d like Rinaldo to have one of the blacks as a gift. I know they are bespoken for years in advance, often before they are foaled, so it’s best to put in my order as soon as possible. In the meanwhile, Rinaldo is to have the free use of any of my horses in the Castle stables.”

“My lord, surely this is excessive—” Danilo began.

Regis cut him off. “What would you have me do, Danilo, leave him with the nag you got for him in Nevarsin? He is my brother, a Hastur! I cannot allow him to ride through the streets of Thendara as ill-mounted as a farmer!”

“Are you saying that I slighted him? That I deliberately chose a horse unworthyof a Comyn lord?”

“By no means. For mountain travel, a horse like the one you found, strong and trail-seasoned, is far preferable to a prancing, ninny-brained beauty. But this is Thendara, and appearances must be maintained. Rinaldo may have been hidden away and forgotten, but I will not allow him to be treated that way any longer. By anyone.”

Danilo recoiled. “I did not mean to imply . . . I am altogether conscious of the honor of Hastur, but—”

“I suppose now you will tell me,” Regis said, his voice laced with sarcasm, “that if I make him such gifts he will succumb at once to greed and ambition. His only thought, of course, is to take my place as Head of Hastur—a place I never wanted in any case!” He began pacing with such energy that the wind of his passing sent a pile of papers slithering to the floor.

Danilo made no attempt to pick up the fallen documents, although normally he would have done so without thought. “Such things have been known to happen.”

“Gods, Danilo!” Regis forced a laugh. “Until a tenday ago, the man was a cloistered monk! What kind of monstrous ambitions do you think they foster within the hallowed halls of Nevarsin?”

“You should know as well as I,” was Danilo’s sullen answer.

Regis quieted, pensive. He thought of his own life, one of luxury and privilege but also beset by unrelenting responsibility. If Rinaldo’s childhood had been one of prayer and discipline, his own had been even more bleak.

“Actually,” Regis said, “I wish Rinaldo were capable—could be induced—that he might be permitted to take Grandfather’s place instead of me. I have lost all heart for scheming. Even if he were willing, how could I wish such a life on him?”

What must life have been like for the unacknowledged bastard son of a Comyn lord? Rinaldo had been too young to understand why he was hidden away like a shameful secret. Had he waited for a token of recognition from his father, a message that never came? How had he felt all those years, watching from obscurity while Regis occupied the place of the eldest son and Heir—forced to keep silent, even when set to teaching young Regis his letters?

Holy Bearer of Burdens,Danilo’s thought shimmered through the light rapport, what resentments, what secret desires must have festered in such a wounded heart? And how dangerous might such a man become?

When Regis turned to meet Danilo’s gaze, the dark eyes were shuttered, the moment of compassion fled. Danilo’s mind was as tightly barriered as a fortress.

“Danilo—” Tentatively, Regis lifted one hand in his direction but dropped it when there was no response. Regis hardened his voice. “Of what, exactly, do you suspect my brother?

“Greed, ambition, envy, I don’t know! I don’t trust him. Can’t you see how he says one thing and does another? He utters the pious words of a monk and then complains about the quality of his garments. I know he’s had a difficult life, but he seems to have learned more about self-interest than brotherly love.”

Danilo swept up the fallen papers. “When are you going to tell him about us? Don’t fool yourself into believing he won’t figure it out. How do you think he’ll respond? Will he rejoice that his brother is a lover of men?”

“He needs time to accept the larger world. I’ve been cautiously introducing the topic—”

“And every time, he turns the conversation into a sermon on righteousness and salvation!” Danilo stormed. “Underneath those oily words, he’s no different from Father Master!”

“Are you quite finished?” Regis asked in a clipped, taut voice. Danilo nodded. “Then I must make one thing clear. This is the last discussion of this kind that you and I will ever have. Whatever your opinions about my brother, I require,” placing an unmistakable emphasis on the word, “that you keep them to yourself. You are not to criticize him in word or action. I never want to hear of this again.”

For a long moment, Danilo stood immobile. If he wrestled with his own thoughts, he gave no outward sign. “As you wish, vai dom.”

Some demon prodded Regis to say, “I am not asking you, Danilo. I am telling you.” He tore his eyes from Danilo’s face and threw himself into the desk chair. “Now, go about your work. I expect that the next time you present yourself to me, everything I have assigned to you will be accomplished.”

Without a word, Danilo bowed and strode to the door. Hand on the latch, shoulders rigid, he paused.

In a spasm of guilt for having provoked yet another quarrel, Regis cried out telepathically. Bredhyu . . .

To his relief, Danilo did not shut him out. Danilo had been waiting—hoping—for Regis to make the overture that he himself could not.

Danilo’s posture softened. He turned back, tenderness warming his eyes. His laranshields dissolved in an outpouring of solace. The air shimmered with their psychic bond. Then Danilo bowed again and withdrew.

Regis stared at the age-darkened wood of the desk, the piles of documents, the papers Danilo had neatly replaced. Despite the season, an insidious chill seeped into his bones. He wondered if he would ever be warm in this place.

That evening, dusk fell quickly. The sudden deepening of the shadows, for which Darkover had been named, shrouded the castle halls. Regis tried to shrug off the sense of foreboding that had dogged him since his fight with Danilo. Stubbornly, it grew stronger with every passing hour. With relief, he set aside the day’s work and returned to his own quarters.

Javanne— May Evanda and Avarra bless her!—had prepared a family dinner, so he need not change into formal courtly wear. He would have a chance to relax, to set aside the myriad administrative details of the day.

His mood lightened as he strode down the corridor toward the apartments taken by his sister’s family. The carpet runner was new, green with an ivy pattern down the center. The corridor led into another, twisting as one architectural style gave way to the next. What a warren the old castle was! Regis hoped Rinaldo would be able to find his way. To his surprise, Gabriel met him at the corner just before the entrance.

Gabriel had changed little since Regis had last seen him, a sturdy, russet-haired man with a hint of squareness in his jaw and the strongly muscled shoulders of a man who had spent his life in military office. He was reputed to at one time have been the best wrestler in the City Guards.

“Lord Hastur, may I have a private word with you before we go in?”

“There is no need for formality between kinsmen,” Regis answered. The knot of foreboding in his gut tightened.

“I would speak to you on affairs of the Comyn, and I would rather not do so in front of Javanne and . . . others.”

“Gabriel,” Regis said, deliberately using his personal name, “you may discuss any matter you wish.”