“Child of Grace . . .” Without conscious intent, Regis formed the traditional greeting. He wanted to rush forward, to fall on his knees before this being of a race that had traveled the far reaches of space before his own kind had learned to walk upright.

Keral had been a child, lost and overwhelmed in the land of men. This chieriwas old, experienced, and in his own territory.

But Regis was Comyn, and Hastur. Whether his own lineage descended from the first Hastur, son of Aldones who was Lord of Light, or whether from the interbreeding of lost Terran colonists with this ancient race, his heritage was still a proud and honorable one. Respect he would offer, for respect was certainly due, but not groveling.

He came forward and bowed. “ S’dei shaya,Noble One.” You lend us grace.

“What seek ye here?” The voice was light and clear, the words an ancient form of casta.

“I am Regis Hastur, friend to the one of you known as Keral, and I seek protection for my child.”

For a long moment, the chieristared at Regis. Meeting that gaze was like looking into the heart of a living starstone.

“Keral has told us of your people, who kill their own young.”

Regis held himself erect, although he wanted to cover his face in shame that humans could threaten children, even babes in their cradles. His throat closed around the cry —“No, not all of us!”—but it was true. Whether by direct assault, by abuse or neglect, his kind did not always cherish their children or protect them from those who meant harm. He had lost enough of his own nedestrooffspring, had seen the horrendous damage done to those who survived, even Lew’s daughter Marja, even Lew himself . . . even he, Regis . . .

The truth, then.

Regis opened his mind to the slender, gray-eyed creature before him. Chieriwere telepathic. Let this one look into his heart and see the good and the ill, the honor kept and betrayed, the hopes cherished, all his failures revealed. Under that uncompromising regard, he had little confidence in his own worthiness, but he had every faith in Kierestelli’s.

Not for my sake, but for hers, I ask this.

He offered the image of his own brother, learning the ways of power from the likes of Valdir Ridenow . . . allowedthat power by Regis himself.

The time for making excuses for Rinaldo, for rationalizing and temporizing, had passed. No matter how much Regis wanted to think well of his brother—and there wasgoodness in Rinaldo, albeit colored by fanaticism—Regis could no longer stand by, tacitly cooperating with the abuse of power.

If you will keep my child safe so that I may act without fear of retaliation upon an innocent, then I will stop him.

Silence, waiting. Then: How?

In that question, Regis sensed the chieri’sabhorrence of violence. Chieridid not kill, Keral had insisted; they did not even eat meat.

Truth,came from the chieri’smind. Truth, not fine words.

“I do not know,” Regis said aloud, “I will find a way.”

The chierishifted his gaze from Regis to Kierestelli. A gust of air, warm with the scent of flowers, ruffled the silver-gilt hair. Kierestelli took a step and then another, and then she burst into a run. The chieriscooped her up in his arms. With a smile of heartbreaking radiance, he glanced once at Regis, then faded into the forest.

“Wait!”Regis had anticipated time to say his farewells, to reassure Kierestelli that he would come for her once the danger was passed.

To tell her that he loved her.

The chierihad disappeared, leaving a rustle of dead leaves and a sudden chill in the air. With a shiver, Regis wondered if he would be able to find this place and its inhabitants again. He envisioned himself riding through these hills, straining to catch a hint of gold in the trees, each time returning with a heart filled with ashes. He saw Kierestelli grow more and more apart from the human world, cherished but always an outsider. He felt the bitterness festering within her spirit as if it were his own.

He said he would come for me, but he never did.Is that how she would become a woman, how she would think of her father?

Memory nudged him, offering comfort: What had the ferryman said?

“They will findyou.”

29

Through the return journey, slower because of the weariness of the horse, Regis tried not to anticipate what he would find. On those occasions when he allowed his thoughts to leap ahead to Thendara and what might have unfolded in his absence, ill-omened images assailed him.

His absence had gone unnoticed . . . he had been declared a traitor . . . Linnea and the baby were safe, and Ariel back with her family, all forgiven . . . Linnea was imprisoned, Danilo executed—no, the thought was too devastating to contemplate —J avanne and Gabriel were outlawed . . . the Federation had intervened and Rinaldo was now a prisoner . . . there was open fighting in the streets, the Terran Zone blockaded . . . Rinaldo was beside himself with worry, eager for a reconciliation . . .

It was enough to drive a man mad.

Regis stopped at an inn along the Venza Road. The dun had been flagging since noon, and he himself was in need of a bath and shave. Regardless of the disguise in which he had left Thendara, Lord Regis Hastur could not come riding into the city looking like the roughest of mountain men. With luck, he would be able to slip past the gates with as little notice as he had left. If not, he must maintain at least the semblance of a proper Comyn lord.

The inn looked snug and well-kept. Regis kept his hood raised as he negotiated with the innkeeper for a room, a bath, and stabling for the horse. The man, whose stocky frame, rounded cheeks, and watchful eyes attested to the success of his enterprise, asked no questions beyond the desires of his guest, but he demanded payment in advance. Regis added a generous tip from his dwindling supply of coins. The innkeeper grinned and called for the stable boy.

“See to see to the horse, lad, and give it an extra ration of grain. I’ll warrant it’s seen hard travel this past tenday. Clean its feet well, mind you, and check the leg tendons for heat. As for you, m’lord,” he handed Regis a key, “upstairs and second on the left. Our very best room. Will you be wantin’ dinner in your room or down here, beside the fire? And hot water for the bath now, or after you’ve eaten?”

Regis glanced around the common room. It was almost empty except for a serving maid, most likely the innkeeper’s wife, and a pair of men in farmer’s thick-spun smocks, bent over their drinks. The fire’s warmth spread through the room. Chips of cedar had been added to the logs to freshen the air, mixing with the smells of fresh bread, roasted meat, and ale.

The two farmers had taken no overt notice of Regis, and he did not relish hiding in his room until morning. He took a seat in the darkest corner, his back to the wall. The innkeeper brought him a trencher of steaming slices of meat and boiled redroots, two thick, butter-smeared slabs of bread, and a crockery tankard brimming with ale. Regis blew away the froth and sipped, savoring the darkly rich brew. Warmth and contentment spread through his belly. The meat was a bit tough, but the roots were succulent and well-seasoned. A few more customers came in, locals by their greetings.

Regis waved the serving maid away when she would have refilled his tankard. The voices of the other men drifted over him. He should retreat upstairs before too many more came in. Just as he gathered himself to make an exit, bits of the conversation startled him into immobility.

“Ye’re daft to believe it, I tell yer,” one of the farmers pronounced. “Why, there’s not been a Comyn king since before me grampa’s time.”