MacNarron rose, gathering up his outer garments. “I sincerely hope we will have further opportunities to converse, if not on this subject then on another. You have a very interesting mind, Regis Hastur, and I look forward to seeing what you will make of this challenging situation.”

About a tenday after the meeting with Rinaldo, Regis stood beside Javanne and Gabriel, welcoming guests to the main ballroom of Comyn Castle. The party was Javanne’s idea, and Regis hoped she would have the chance to enjoy herself. She clearly derived satisfaction from her work, although the stress left her preoccupied and irritable. She had not even wished Mikhail farewell when he and Kennard-Dyan had departed for Ardais. Now she had organized a resplendent evening, the hall as brilliant and lavishly decorated as it would be for a Midsummer festival, the music lively, the food and drink all the best.

Dan Lawton and his wife arrived along with several other Terran dignitaries and joined the queue to greet their hosts. Tiphani, having murmured brief thanks, headed for Rinaldo.

The Legate watched them, his mouth frozen in perfect diplomatic cordiality, then turned back. “Lord Regis, it’s good to see you again.” He held out his right hand, Terran style.

Regis hesitated. Dan had been on Darkover long enough to know how disturbing casual physical touch was for telepaths. The gesture had been deliberate. Regis slipped his hand into Dan’s and felt the rush of thoughts and emotions, catalyzed by the direct skin contact.

Regis, I’ve heard . . . rumors . . . hostages, this change of power—a re you all right?—D anilo—

Regis cut off the mental contact. He could bear many things, but to reveal his personal torment was not one of them. Quickly he composed himself, aware that the Ridenow guards were close enough to overhear the conversation.

“I’m well, as you see,” Regis said smoothly. “How is MestraLawton? And your son?”

From the flicker in Dan’s eyes and the residue of psychic contact, Regis sensed his friend’s concern. Not for Felix—the mental image had been encouraging, if complex.

Tiphani—

Regis glanced in her direction. She was still talking with Rinaldo, their heads bent together. Her face was flushed, her eyes a little too bright, her gestures a little too wild. He could not read her emotions in the swirl of partygoers.

The next guests in the reception line inched forward. In a moment, Regis would be obliged by politeness to greet them.

“Has there been any news from our mutual friend?” Regis asked.

Does Lew know what happened? Has Valdir attempted to change Darkover’s status?

“Nothing but routine business.” By his tone, Dan implied the matter was of no importance. “All is quiet for the moment.”

You must delay—fi nd any excuse—

“Your Excellency.” Valdir Ridenow appeared at Dan’s shoulder, dressed in Ridenow orange and green. A chain of heavy copper links set with enamel medallions in the same colors, of the finest Carthon artisanship and worth a small fortune, hung around his neck. His smile did not touch his eyes.

“ DomValdir, it’s a pleasure,” Dan replied, returning the Ridenow lord’s bow with the correct degree of formality.

“I’ve been hoping for a word with you,” Valdir said, holding out one arm to invite the Legate to step aside.

“Oh, surely there can be no occasion for serious talk on an evening like this.” Without a backward glance, Dan guided Valdir toward the table where lavish refreshments had been laid out. “I’ve come prepared to relax and enjoy myself. Is it true that whenever three Darkovans get together, they hold a dance?”

Regis turned to the next guests. Properly cordial greetings flowed from his mouth without him having to think of what to say.

As usual, a dozen or so young ladies of good birth and fortune competed for Regis as a dance partner. They did it with varying degrees of flirtation. In any other circumstances, he might have enjoyed their attentions. Now he could not help wondering, with each sidelong glance, each heave of youthful breasts, whether they knew of his urgent need to find a wife.

Nauseated at the entire business, he forced himself to respond graciously even as he avoided any appearance of preference. He never danced with the same woman twice and only danced those sets that involved changing partners.

In one of these, he found himself unexpectedly paired with Linnea. Her gown of pale green silk, cut full around the waist, could not disguise her pregnancy. The color ought to have turned her skin the color of cream against the glory of her hair, but she looked ashen, her eyes huge and dark, almost bruised. Despite this, or perhaps because of it, his heart opened to her. He thought she had never looked so beautiful or so brave.

They moved through the figures of the dance, passing shoulders, never touching. Her skirts swung gracefully, giving her the aspect of a woodland creature. At the end of a slow spin, she stumbled. He reached out to steady her. His fingers closed around hers, and in that instant, her powerful trained laranrushed into his mind.

Regis, I must speak with you.

He sent a pulse of unconditional assent. When? Where?

Tonight. An hour past the rise of Kyrrdis. Your townhouse.

Before he could reply, the movement of the dance swirled them away from one another and on to new partners.

Later, Regis noticed Rinaldo crossing the floor with Javanne on his arm. From what he glimpsed between the patterns of the dancers, Javanne was performing introductions between Rinaldo and Linnea. Linnea inclined her head, the abbreviated acknowledgment of a Keeper who bows to no man, and glided from the room.

At the appointed time, when the blue-green moon of Kyrrdis swung above the rooftops of Thendara, Regis waited in his parlor, too wrought up to rest and unwilling to dull his wits with wine. Linnea would not have asked for a meeting for any trivial reason. The urgency of her mental communication had made it clear that something was terribly wrong.

A tap roused him. The coridomswung the door open and stood back for Linnea to enter, then closed it behind her.

Linnea wore a traveling cloak over her green gown. Droplets beaded the thick wool. She smelled of rain and fresh air and lilias blossoms. The hood, which had been drawn forward to hide her features, tumbled back. In the firelight, her hair glowed like spun copper.

“Regis! I’m so sorry to impose on you like this—”

Her words, almost breathless, shook him more than her unexpected plea. With a rush of tenderness, he stepped behind her, unfastened her cloak and laid it aside, took her hands and brought her to the chair nearest the fire. Her fingers were cold. He wanted to warm them between his own, but she pulled away, sitting tall and remote.

He pulled a second chair next to hers. “Can I get you anything? Hot wine? A blanket?”

Linnea shook her head. “Thank you, I would rather skip the preliminaries. If I wanted physical comfort, I would have stayed in my own rooms.”

Regis sat back, praying he would not say anything stupid. He was acutely aware of the trust implicit in her presence. “If you are in distress, I will do whatever I can to help. You will always have a claim on me.”

“I do not want a claimon you!” With a visible effort, she calmed herself. “Regis, matters between us have been awkward, to say the least. Matters regarding our . . . relationship. I believe we have each spoken in haste.”

In the fractional pause that followed, a breath only, he said, “And regretted it.”