"Father." Dani's voice broke over the word. "It's me, Dani."

The silence in the room was disturbed only by the ragged sound of Dani's breathing, and the sobs of Lady Linnea now beside him. Mikhail watched the tableau and sensed a slight change in the man in the bed. For a moment his heart clenched with the hope that Regis was going to rouse, to wake and speak to his son. But instead he saw a faint shudder ripple along the form beneath the covers, and knew that his desperate hope was in vain. Regis-Rafael Felix Alar Hastur y Elhalyn was no more.

A strange sensation gripped him then, a brush of warmth on his face, and a tingling in his right hand. Mikhail looked down at the gleaming matrix on his finger, and watched in wonder as it flashed brightly, coruscating in the dim light of the bedchamber. He had never seen the stone do that before, and the intensity of it was painful.

Mikhail turned his eyes away, unable to look any longer. He glanced back toward the bed, his eyes aching. In the hangings behind the headboard something flickered, a play of light and shadow. For a moment he thought he saw two women, one fair, one dark, in the folds of the textile. They seemed to be transparent, and he might have thought it was some trick of the light. But the fair face was one he had seen before, long ago, in another place and time. He drew a sharp breath of startlement and the vision vanished. His heart pounded and blood rushed through his veins, making him dizzy. Evanda, Goddess of Spring, was the fair one, and the other must be Avarra, the Dark Goddess. Even as grief began to seize him, Mikhail felt another emotion, one of otherworldly calm, arise within him.

Beside him, Marguerida wept silently, the tears coursing down her pale cheeks. Mikhail put his arm around her shoulders and drew her against his chest gently, allowing himself to feel everything all at once, only for an instant. He could not really believe it was over. Somehow, in the deepest recesses of his heart, he had expected some miracle would occur, and all he could feel now was a vast sense of emptiness and failure that it had not. What a fool he was.

Danilo Syrtis-Ardais moved from his place in the shadow of the bedcurtains. The paxman set aside his mug and bent over the body in the bed. He put his hand around the wrist of his lifelong friend and held it in his grasp, his lean face alert and resigned at the same time. After a minute, he took Dani's hand off of his father's, and folded Regis' arms carefully across his chest. Danilo stared down into the still face of the man who had been his best friend and companion for more than four decades. He touched the brow softly, stroking the white hair, his face filled with infinite tenderness. Then he bent down and kissed the pale cheek of his lifelong friend, and turned away, his shoulders shaking with grief.

Dani Hastur gazed at his father for a long time, a look of yearning on his face. He continued to sit on the side of the bed, dumbstruck, and then finally he lifted the sheet tenderly and drew it over Regis Hastur's peaceful face. He stood shakily, then mastered himself. He took Lady Linnea into his arms again, and she seemed to collapse into his grasp, as if, at last, her legs would no longer support her. She leaned against him, her head pillowed on his shoulder, and wept uncontrollably.

The vivid details remained before Mikhail's eyes for several seconds, and then began to blur, as if rain were falling. He realized that the tears he had held back while he struggled for the life of his uncle would not be denied any longer. The overwhelming power of his feelings was too much, and, abruptly, he turned and walked out.

Mikhail sat in his uncle's shabby study, behind the large desk where Regis often worked, stared into the fireplace and wept. The carpet was rather threadbare, but Regis had refused to have it replaced, or to have anything done to the room. Servants were only permitted to come in to sweep and dust. It gave him an odd feeling to remember the rather pleasant arguments between his uncle and Lady Linnea about the state of the room-it had been such a cheerful and caring dispute.

He had come there hours before, unable to sleep or think or function, fleeing duty, fleeing life. There was no fire in the hearth, so the room was cold and the air was chill and stale. He had a bottle of firewine on the desk, and a glass beside it. The level of the wine was much diminished since he had arrived, but it had not lessened his paralyzing, aching grief at all. He was not even drunk. Such was the power of Varzil's matrix that he could not dull his senses, no matter how he tried.

Distantly, Mikhail could sense Comyn Castle bustling around him. Even the death of Regis Hastur could not halt the steady function of the huge complex completely. He knew that his young paxman and nephew, Donal Alar, was standing outside the door of the study, to guarantee his solitude, even though poor Donal was surely ready to drop in his tracks. Fostering the young man had been Marguerida's idea, and he was glad of it now. Prying Donal and his sister Alanna out of Ariel Lanart-Alar's anxious grasp had been difficult, but Mikhail believed it had probably saved their sanity. Ariel had never been the same after Alanna was born, and he was deeply saddened by that.

Somewhere he knew that Marguerida was doing her best to deal with all the arrangements that must be seen to. There would have to be a funeral, but not until all the lords of the Domains arrived, and that would be several days at least. His mother and father were still at Armida, even though he knew that Javanne should have been informed as soon as Regis fell ill. But Lady Linnea, usually the most sweet-tempered of women, had been adamant. "It is all I can bear to see him like this, Mikhail. I will not have that woman in Comyn Castle until I must." Under the circumstances, he had bowed to her wishes. And with a slight sense of guilt, he had agreed with Linnea. His mother was not an easy person at the best of times, and having her underfoot would have been intolerable.

His mind went to Marguerida, knowing she was as tired as he was himself, yet shouldering the burden of preparing for the funeral. There had not been such an event for decades, and although he knew that the coridom of Comyn Castle would do his best to help her, the man was ancient and likely so grief stricken he would be of little use. He would have preferred she was in bed, with a hot brick at her feet, but she was probably up and about, doing those things he himself should be managing. He tried to think what those duties might be, and found only sorrow and despair. He was not ready!

It was dark outside, and his belly was grumbling. How long had it been since he had eaten? Mikhail could not remember, and even though his body needed food, he had no appetite. His eyes were swollen with crying and lack of sleep, and his shoulder muscles were taut with tension. The candles were unlit, and he could not summon the energy to rise and set them aflame.

The light from the corridor made a bright band on the floor as the door of the study opened, and Lew Alton entered. He stared at his father-in-law dumbly, annoyed by being disturbed, and for a moment, furious that Donal had permitted even this special person to enter his sanctuary. Then he realized it was not his, but Regis' place, this battered desk and worn carpet. This room was still so filled with the presence of his uncle that he ached with it. It seemed to him it was all he had left of the man, and he did not wish to share it with anyone just yet. Donal followed Lew into the room, unwilling to let even this most trusted advisor alone with his master, and closed the door. Then he leaned against the jamb, folded his arms, and tried to become invisible.

Lew said nothing, but got a firestarter and knelt beside the cold hearth. There was a flash, then a flicker of flame in the kindling laid there. Mikhail watched the fire lick at the logs, curling around them, eating them up with light and color. He watched Lew take a small brand from the fire and start to light the candles. The comforting smell of hot wax and burning wood began to fill the room.

Lew poured himself a glass of wine and took a chair on the opposite side of the desk. His hair had turned completely gray, and his facial scars were almost invisible, buried in the wrinkles that seamed his face. He was a weathered man, his skin rough and dry, and tonight he looked his age. Mikhail saw the redness around his father-in-law's eyes, and knew that he had been weeping.

"Marguerida sent me," Lew said after swallowing half of the contents of his glass.

"Are you here to tell me I must put aside my grief and think of my duty to Darkover?" Mikhail snapped, startling himself with his own vehemence. He felt his face redden with embarrassment, and Donal roused from his place by the door and gave him an odd look.

"Certainly not! You can sit in the dark for the next week for all I care-although I hope you will not. But your absence is disturbing."

Mikhail hunched his shoulders. "I just couldn't bear to see him laid out-not yet. I am still in shock."

"There will be plenty of time for that later, Mikhail. It will take the better part of a week for everyone to arrive, for the bier to be constructed and put in place. And I do understand. When Dio finally died, even though I knew she was going to, even though Marguerida had restored her to me for five years, it took many days before I could believe it had actually happened. There were times when I cursed my own daughter for bringing her back, because I had to lose her twice. But I had time to prepare-although I did nothing of the sort! There is, I think, something in us that denies death. We convince ourselves that it will somehow be avoided or delayed, that everyone we love will outlive us, so we won't have to suffer the loss or perhaps admit that the ones we love are mortal. When my father died on Vainwal, I was completely stunned, and furious. And for you, as close as you were to Regis, this is probably more like the death of your father than anything else."

Mikhail heard the words, but they did not seem to penetrate his mind. All he could feel was a vast and endless numbness. But after a few moments of consideration he realized that Regis had been like a father to him, more than an uncle. For a time this had estranged him from Dom Gabriel, his actual father. And he realized that he knew now, as he had not before, that the Old Man would die, too, and he would be bereft again. And Lew, sitting across from him, sipping firewine. He had become so close to Marguerida's father during the past fifteen years that he was as dear to Mikhail as either Regis or Dom Gabriel.

At the same time, there was something else that troubled him. He prodded at it, trying to bring to consciousness the vagrant wisp that perturbed him. It was, he decided, guilt, though why he should feel that way he could not say immediately. Had he done enough? Was there anything he could have done to extend Regis Hastur's life?

Mikhail glanced down at his right hand, encased in a thin glove of finest leather once more, now he was no longer doing the healing work he had performed in the sick room. The great, glittering matrix that rode on his finger was hidden, but always he could sense its presence. It was so powerful that there had been times since he received it that he had wanted to cast it away, to be relieved of the burden of it. It had made him the most powerful person on Darkover, too powerful for the comfort of some of the lords of the Domains, like Francisco Ridenow, and certainly for the peace of mind of his mother, Javanne. More, it had kept him a near prisoner in Comyn Castle for fifteen years, surrounded by Guards and watchers, always aware that anything he might do would be measured and analyzed. He was respected, but he was also feared, even by the uncle he had loved so much.

And now-what? He would succeed Regis. Hadn't he prepared for this moment for his entire life? Why did it feel so wrong, so empty and frightening? He was no longer the boy who had dreamed of ruling Darkover, nor the man who had, for a time, given up those ambitions. He was someone else, and Mikhail wondered if he knew himself at all. He did not wish to think about it any longer. He was too weary for self-examination, and he suspected it was closer to self-indulgence in any case.

He forced himself to stop dwelling on his aching sense of loss, and searched for some topic of conversation. At last he said, "Marguerida told me that Herm Aldaran had arrived. What is going on?"

"Ah, that." Lew gave a grim smile and reached across the desk for the wine. The bottle was nearly empty, and he poured the last drops into his glass. "Herm and his family, actually. I received word that he was coming only hours before he arrived, and it did not seem important enough to tell you immediately. You had enough on your plate, Mikhail. But it seems that the entire legislature has been dissolved, by executive order of the Premier, until new elections can be held. My best guess is that this means that there will be no more Federation Congress-ever-or that if it exists, it will be filled with those who toe the Expansionist line completely. This coup was almost inevitable, given the Expansionist mind-set, and I fear that whatever survives of the Federation will be a military dictatorship or something even worse."

Mikhail's mind was too fatigued to completely grasp everything Lew was saying, so he focused on what he did understand. "Elections? Half the worlds in the Federation have no more use for democratic government than a donkey for dancing shoes." It felt like a blessing to channel his remaining energy into a mild sense of disbelief and concern over this new development, even though he was perfectly aware that it would have unimaginable ramifications for Darkover. Those fears would keep until his mind was less muddled.

"Precisely, Mikhail. Many of the Senators and the rest were appointed, just as I was, by kings and governors and oligarchs. And those hereditary or appointed positions have long been a thorn in the side of the Expansionists, one they appear to have plucked out for the moment. I think the Premier's action was ill-considered, and likely will have consequences that she will regret later. Sandra Nagy does not realize that she has set the fox loose in the henhouse, but she has. Probably she believes she has control of the Party, and when she discovers otherwise, it will be rather too late." Lew had been gloomily predicting all manner of dire things for the Federation for as long as Mikhail had known him, and appeared to take some grim satisfaction in what had now happened.

"Then she must be a fool! Does she think that worlds like Darkover will comply with this transparent plan?"

"Not being privy to the most recent thoughts of Sandra Nagy, I cannot say, Mik. I knew her years ago, when she was an appointee on the Trade Board. She is canny and extremely clever politically, but has little if any moral sense. I never liked her, but I had a certain respect for her cunning. I am saddened that my worst fears about the Federation seem about to be realized, but I find I am less disheartened than I expected."

"What does it mean for Darkover?" Mikhail did not particularly care what happened to the Federation, which remained an abstract conglomeration of places he had never seen or, in many cases, even heard of. No matter how much Marguerida or Lew told him about it, it remained more imaginary than real in his mind. More to the point, after he had received the great matrix stone, he had realized that he would never be able to travel off-world, as he had longed to when he was younger. So, although he remained interested and even curious, Mikhail had discovered that it pained him to talk about faraway planets he would never see. He was envious that Marguerida had traveled so extensively, and sometimes he even resented his wife's travels a little, enough that that feeling shamed him a good deal.

Lew shook his head. "I cannot guess. The Terranan might imagine we can be brought to our knees by the removal of their technologies, by closing the port and withdrawing."

"That's ridiculous-we've never had any use for their technology! It would probably be a blessing for us if they left."

Lew gave a gruff chuckle, a slight growling noise in his throat, like a bear trying to laugh and failing. "Bodies politic are rarely logical, Mikhail."

"Then how can they function?"

His father-in-law looked thoughtful for a moment. "They run on ideals and power struggles-often political movements are born of ideals, but deteriorate into power struggles, megalomania and the dissolution of the very ideals which gave birth to the political movement in question. Here, I believe, the ideal is that everyone in the Federation will be alike-without diversity-and that it is possible to achieve consensus by decree. The Expansionists believe that this can be achieved by everyone agreeing to do it their way, the Expansionist way. And since they have experienced strong opposition, they are seeking to force their 'ideals' down people's throats."

Mikhail frowned over this. His mind felt soggy, but he was glad of this distraction, this unwieldy problem to focus on, however poorly. "I am not sure I understand you. Do you mean to say that these people really believe that they can coerce entire planets to give up their customs, to be just like Terra? That is the most ridiculous thing I have heard in ages."

"I know-it sounds impossible. But I don't think you have any idea of how powerful the effect of propaganda can be on a populace, because Darkover has never experienced the effect of constant newsfeeds, which only tell what the government wishes its citizens to know. It has happened over and over in human history, like some recurring nightmare."

"Tell me." Over his father-in-law's shoulder, he watched Donal come to attention, and knew his paxman was listening intently. He felt a flutter of pleasure, the better for being completely unexpected. Donal had wisely chosen to make Danilo Syrtis-Ardais his model, and realized already that his task was much more than merely guarding the person of Mikhail Hastur. With time and experience, Donal would become a wise advisor. Oddly, this notion comforted Mikhail more than he would have thought possible.

Lew Alton made a kind of grunting noise, a familiar prelude to the conveying of information. Oddly, the ordinariness of the sound, and the anticipation of the words to follow soothed Mikhail's frayed nerves. At least this was the same. "First, someone in power announces things are going to hell in a handcart, and that the reason is the fault of some group or tribe or opposition party. Morals are decaying, or parents are not rearing their children properly. They propose that the answer lies in reformation, in everyone behaving according to some ideal that suits their notions of a good society. They demand conformity, and anyone who does not submit is regarded as a potential enemy, if not an outright traitor. It has happened in our own times, on places like Benda V, about thirty years ago, for instance."

"I've never heard of that planet." There were several hundred members in the Federation, and Mikhail had only read extensively about twenty or thirty. But although he was quite well-informed for someone who had never left Darkover, it always made Mikhail feel terribly ignorant when a planet was mentioned he knew nothing about. It was rather silly, since there were so many planets in the Federation, and even widely traveled people like Marguerida and Lew did not know about all of them.

"I'm not surprised, since it is a pretty out-of-the-way place. Here is what happened, as well I can recall. The Orthodox high priest announced he had had a vision from God, that the only way to save the planet from utter destruction was to wage a holy war against all members of the Church of Elan, which were the rivals of the Orthodoxy, and had become very powerful on Benda. They were accused of everything from poisoning the grain to murdering Orthodox babies and drinking their blood. And since the media was controlled by the Orthodox, this resulted in a planet-wide bloodbath. About sixty million people were slaughtered in a three-month period-men, women, children."

Mikhail was stunned. "But didn't the Federation intervene? I mean, I thought that was something they were supposed to do in . . . such situations?"

"Yes, I know. The taxes collected from the planets of the Federation are supposed to be used to maintain the Spaceforce, so that they can keep events like this from ever happening. However the real function of the Force is to keep Terran coffers full, to see that trade is not disrupted, that taxes are collected, and that resources continue to flow to Terra. They did not intervene because it was decided that it was a planetary matter, not a Federation one. So for the past three decades, as far as I know, Benda has been a theocracy where everyone spies on everyone else, and you can be executed for belching during services. These, I understand, take up at least four hours of every day. Needless to say, this has created great economic hardship, because if you are stuck in church, you can hardly be tending your fields or selling your goods, can you? And the loss of all those poor folks who belonged to the Church of Elan did not help either, since they were productive members of the community."

"Sixty million? That is three times more than the entire population of Darkover!" Mikhail stared at Lew, unable to quite believe what he had just heard. "And no one tried to fight back?"

"Mikhail, anyone who risked that was going to die." He sighed again, seeing the incomprehension in Mikhail's eyes. "I know-you cannot really grasp this sort of thing because it is beyond your experience. Darkover is a very special world, and one of the wisest things Regis ever did was to keep us out of the Federation except as a Protected Planet."

"When I was younger, I always thought he did it to keep people like my mother happy, or at least quiet!" Mikhail let himself chuckle softly at the ridiculous thought of Regis making so momentous a decision just to appease Javanne Hastur. She was never quiet, and now she would come to Comyn Castle and make his life miserable. He did not feel he had the strength to stand up to her intrigues and passions just now.

Lew nodded, as if he understood what Mikhail was thinking perfectly well. "He felt it was potentially too costly, that Darkovan culture would not survive if we embraced Terranan values completely. The plain truth is that we don't need the Federation. What do you think would happen if there was no longer a Federation presence here, Mik?"

"As far as I can see, if the Federation pulls out there would not be any more Big Ships, and the hospital at HQ would cease to exist. The Terranan would not pay us for the lease on the spaceport any longer. Not that they have been any too consistent with the payment in recent years." After a moment's reflection, he added, "And Marguerida would no longer be able to procure coffee at exorbitant cost for her occasional pleasure. It is a shame that we have never been able to cultivate the plant on Darkover." Mikhail had never taken to coffee, but he knew his wife loved the strange, bitter stuff. "None of that seems too earth shattering to me."

Lew chuckled. "That is a fairly good assessment of the impact, since the Federation controls the spaceways. There are quite a number of intersystem trading companies, but between the stars, one must have the technology of the Big Ships, and only the Terranan have that and guard it jealously. As for the other, the lease is about to end, and Belfontaine was trying to jigger Regis into concessions, as he should. It is part of his job."

Mikhail found himself amused at the memory of the excuses for the lateness of the payments that had been offered. "Regis told me that Belfontaine had suggested that when the lease is renewed, that Darkover should pay the Federation for maintaining a base, instead of them paying us. He got a big kick out of it." It hurt to remember that, but it touched his heart at the same time. It made him remember Regis' smile-his smile had always been one of his greatest assets.

"That's true enough, and I will never forget the look on Belfontaine's face when I had the pleasure of telling him the answer was a definite no. But, Mikhail, what economic effect would the Terranan leaving have on us?"

"Well, not much, I believe. The Trade City would certainly lose considerable business, and the pleasure houses would not be happy. Lady Marilla's pottery would not be exported any longer, but the Aillard and Ardais Domains would survive. We haven't really developed much trade, have we? I suppose that is why the Terranan want us to be a member world instead of a protected one, so they can market their products. We don't produce enough food to export, and we don't have enough metal to build ships or other things. Marguerida says that the sand up in the Dry Towns would be useful for silicon-based technologies, but somehow I can't imagine a factory in Shainsa. Besides, if I understand the process correctly, it would need a lot of water, and there isn't any to spare in that region.

"No, there is not. And that is one major problem with adopting Terran ways-the impact on the ecology would be tremendous and devastating. You have never seen a manufacturing world, but I have. The air is thick with smoke and foul smells, and the people live in wretchedness. We don't have slums on Darkover-you don't even know what that means, do you? Believe me, Mik, the poorest family on Darkover lives better than many people on advanced worlds. We are a marginal world, for which we should be thankful, because if we had more obvious resources, we would be more attractive to interlopers. Our timber would be hewn, exported to places we never heard of, our crops taken to feed people on other planets, and when the land would no longer support our populace, because the rivers were full of silt, we would either be abandoned or forced to pay enormous prices for food from other planets."

"You mean this has happened?"

"Absolutely. I know of at least two planets which have been almost destroyed by the greed of the corporations that owned them, then left to struggle along with a ruined ecosystem, where the population can hardly feed itself. And since I left the Senate, there have likely been several more."

"I find that hard to believe. Why? I mean, it seems very short-sighted."

"Exactly. The Federation has kept going through expansion, by finding new planets to exploit. This has been the policy for the last hundred years, give or take a decade. But in the last fifty, only a handful of habitable worlds have been discovered-the rest were places where establishing a new colony would either be prohibitively expensive, or so unattractive that the only way to get people there was to ship them out and force them to live there, which is quite costly. But the basic idea is that restraint is unnecessary. This is the foundation of the Expansionist philosophy, which is that unlimited growth is not only possible, but is also desirable. They remain blind to the actuality, which is that there are fewer and fewer habitable planets to be had in this region of space. And because the worlds they are exploiting are farther and farther away from the center of the Federation, the governing of these places becomes more and more difficult, demanding more and more resources to maintain contact, longer and longer journeys between worlds, with greater and greater cost to haul the raw materials home to Terra. So they want the member worlds to surrender everything they have, and be taxed for it as well. The home world, and a few other planets have become parasites on the rest of the Federation."

"Taxed to send their food to Terra?" Mikhail knew he was tired, but he was not sure he had understood his father-in-law.

"Yes."

"But, Lew, that is insane. Why would anyone pay to have their wheat sent somewhere else?"

"By using the media to convince the population that they derive some benefit from being taxed and starved at the same time."

"But what possible benefit . . .?"

"They are persuaded that by being taxed to support the Spaceforce, they are being protected from some imaginary enemy-aliens that are destined to appear in the skies and conquer them. They do not see that the real enemy has become the Federation itself. There are, at present, weapons that can reduce a planet to molten slag in hours, things created to defend against this phantom race, which are actually being used to keep the member worlds in line. The only thing that keeps the whole situation from dissolving into chaos is that the expense of such things is enormous-sending a fleet of ships to destroy a planet costs a great deal, not to mention that it is poor policy. It is very hard to keep the knowledge of something that monumental out of the newsfaxes, and it tends to make other worlds more anxious, rather than more obedient. The Federation has become rather like a big bully, kicking smaller children around just because it can. And, until now, the existence of the Senate and the Chamber of Deputies has acted as a restraint on such insane undertakings."

"Do you think that we will have Federation Marines invading Thendara, then?" Mikhail was only half serious.

"I hope not. And I do not really expect such an assault, although it could happen, if someone decided that Darkover had strategic importance. No, the greatest danger is that the Federation itself will crumble, and that there will be splinter groups, with their own ambitions for power and dominance. A planetary governor or some local king with a few captured dreadnoughts could be real trouble. Or worse, if some admiral in the Force decides to mutiny and go adventuring for his own profit." There was a grim look on his father-in-law's face now.

"Do the Terranan know that?"

"Some of them certainly do. There are people within the Federation who have likely given as much thought to this, over the years, as I have. The problem is, however, these people have no power and do not make policy. It's probably the nightmare of the General Staff, that some planet will manage to get hold of enough armaments to be a threat to Terran security. There have been a few rebellions in the last fifteen years, planets where the populace revolted, or the governor went off on his own hook. They have been put down with force, but with enough restraint to keep things from getting completely out of hand. Again, it was the function of the Senate to keep things from getting to that point, to restrain the Premier and the General Staff from making overt war on too many worlds. But I think you must talk to Herm since his information is more recent than mine."

"I suppose I must. I just don't feel as if I am ready. Everyone has been telling me for years how powerful I am because of this accursed ring," he said, making a fist of his gloved hand. "But I do not feel powerful. I don't have Regis' charm or cunning, nor his experience, although I have tried to learn all I could."

"You will do very well, Mikhail. Regis believed that, and I do as well."

"I am glad I will have you to advise me, Lew, and Herm as well. And I am even more glad I do not have the Aldaran Gift because I think that if I could foresee the future, I would be too frightened to do anything at all. I would give a great deal to have some of my youthful certainty back again, instead of all these doubts."

"If you did not have doubts, Mikhail, I would be very concerned."

"That is an odd thing to say, even for you." Lew was notorious in Comyn Castle for voicing outrageous opinions as if they were the merest commonplace.

"The man who is absolutely sure of himself is much more dangerous than the one who entertains uncertainty. Robert Kadarin was such a man, and so was old Dyan Ardais. They paid a great price for their pride and vanity, and nearly ruined this world in the process. You are a thoughtful man, and that is exactly what is needed at present."

"Thank you for your confidence. It means a great deal to me, especially now." He was too tired to think about the future any longer. It was too big and very frightening. He need to change the subject, talk about more mundane matters. "You said Herm brought his family? Have you met them yet? Have they been seen to properly?"

"I stopped in and greeted them before I came to you. Since I did not feel I could leave the Castle myself, I let Rafael do the welcoming, which I think he was glad to do, since it got him out of Gisela's clutches for a short time. The wife, Katherine, is a very lovely woman from Renney, with hair like night and a forceful chin. She has a son, Amaury, from her first marriage-she was a widow-and she and Herm have a daughter, Terese, as well. A pretty child, and so like Marguerida at the same age that it nearly made my heart turn over in my chest. They are all exhausted and I suspect that Katherine and the children are more than a little frightened at the prospect of being exiled on Darkover for the rest of their lives. Herm, however, seems very glad to be home-and I can certainly understand why!"

"Rennet? Why does that planet sound familiar?"

"Because one of Marguerida's favorite composers, Korniel, was born there, long ago. It is another Protected Planet, and has a history of uprisings and rebellions, and a strong movement, called the Separatists, which caused trouble from time to time, while I was still in the Senate. It was settled by colonists from Avalon, New Caledonia, and some other places, several hundred years ago. That exhausts my entire knowledge of the place, except that I understand it is very beautiful."

"I must make them feel welcome." Regis would have wanted him to greet them, he was sure. Besides, he hadn't seen Herm in years, and wanted to reacquaint himself with the fellow. Mikhail was disgusted to realize that, for all the will in the world, he could not even attempt this small courtesy.

Lew shook his head. "The first thing you should do is bathe and get some sleep, and perhaps a decent meal. Marguerida has arranged for their needs, and she is planning a small supper for them tomorrow night. Until then, you do not have to do anything except rest. Comyn Castle will run just fine without your attentions for a day or two. The world has not ended with Regis' death."

"Maybe not, but why does it feel as if it has?"

There were tears in both men's eyes as they rose from either side of the desk. Lew blew out the candles and damped down the fire. They stood, shoulder to shoulder for a moment, united in their desire to guide their world through the difficult times that lay ahead, and then Donal opened the door and they left the room.

4.

Lyle Belfontaine, Station Chief at Cottman IV's HQ, leaned back in his rigid and uncomfortable chair and stared west through his large window, toward the afternoon sun, which was almost hidden behind some watery clouds. It would rain soon, or perhaps a little snow would fall. From his office he could see all the plain, square buildings that made up the headquarters complex-the power generator, the barracks, the hospital, and the rest. It was a good view, in his opinion, because from here he could see nothing of the native "city" of Thendara itself. This suited him very well. He loathed the city, its inhabitants, and, in particular, Regis Hastur and all the other recalcitrant lords of the Domains. Nothing he had done in the years he had been exiled to this godforsaken place had made any more impact on them than a gnat, and he hated being ignored.

After several minutes spent in futile musing, Belfontaine turned around and leaned forward to pick up the skimpy sheet of messagefax that lay on his otherwise empty desk blotter. He read it again, in utter dismay and disbelief. He shifted miserably, for the chair had been constructed for a taller man than he, and was bolted to the floor. He had requisitioned a new one several times, but it never had come. The chair seemed symptomatic of everything he thought wrong with the Federation at present-it was too rigid, and the wrong size.

His features twisted with discontent, and the scar he had gotten in the disastrous mess on Lein III itched across his cheek and brow. Belfontaine could have had it removed, but he had chosen not to. He believed it made him look dangerous and commanded respect. And it was a reminder of his fall from the good graces of the Federation, his removal to this benighted planet with its miserable climate, and his complete failure to execute the plans that had danced in his mind before he arrived. He had been determined to do what no one else had managed-deliver Cottman IV to the Federation on a platter. But thus far he had not succeeded, or come even close. If only he was not forced to act through underlings, and work with stupid, obstinate people like Lew Alton. At least he had gotten rid of Captain Rafe Scott-forced him to retire. Let him run his mountaineering expeditions to the Hellers-he hoped he'd break his arrogant neck or freeze to death. In fact, if the entire population turned to icicles, he would be very pleased. The place was marginal at best, but if there were no native people, then the planet could be colonized, and he could be made Governor-General, at least.

Now everything he had hoped for was ruined! The entire Federation staff was being ordered off Cottman, in only thirty days. He shook his head, ran nervous fingers through graying hair, then crunched up the missive and tossed it toward the disposal chute. It missed, falling short and dropping to the floor. The crumpled message lay there, mocking him. His chance to redeem himself, to get back in favor, was slipping away, all because of Premier Nagy and her ruthless ambition! Maybe it was a mistake. This was not the time for the Federation to pull back!

He only needed another year-two at most-and the title of Governor-General would surely be his. Not, of course, that this was what he wanted. Being governor of a place like Cottman IV would not satisfy his ambitions, but it would have been a beginning. He was sure he could have parlayed it into a better position, one on a planet where he could wield real power and influence. Cottman was as worthless a piece of rock as he had ever seen.

God, how he hated the planet. Sometimes he dreamed of calling in a Strike Force, to slag the whole place down to radioactive magma, boiling away into the void. It seemed such a suitable fate for a damned cold place, where the filthy natives believed that Hell was a freezer. It was only a fantasy, and a wasteful one at that, but the idea kept him from going crazy. Or, failing that, Belfontaine longed for a Task Force, at least. He had done his best to create a situation to justify such an order, so he could at least get a couple of regiments of Marines to "preserve order." That had worked very well on other worlds, even on members of the Federation itself. But the damned Protected status tied his hands, and unless he could demonstrate that the spaceport was in danger, or Headquarters was besieged by hostiles, it was pointless to request help. All he got was form refusals from some clerk on Alpha, telling him that the present economic problems made it impossible to fulfill his demands. He doubted anyone in charge even saw the reports he was at such pains to generate.

He was surrounded with incompetents! He had agents-true, not many, and not the best that the Security Services had to offer-and he had sent them out to make just the sort of trouble that should have brought him the power he wanted. They had failed him, for the riots he had managed to get started had ceased almost as quickly as they were begun, and Regis Hastur had never applied to him for help. He had used his own Guards, and kept order in a way that won him Belfontaine's grudging respect, or would have if he had not hated the fellow quite so deeply. He had never met Hastur, and knew of him only through the eerie Danilo Syrtis-Ardais or that damned Lew Alton, who had been appointed to a position that seemed to be the equivalent of Secretary of State, except that Cottman IV didn't use titles like that. He loathed the tall, one-handed man, and tried to avoid meeting with him whenever possible. There was something uncanny, almost unnatural, about him, something that set his nerves on edge. Alton was a wall that Belfontaine had never managed to get past.

He toyed once again with the idea of sending in a false report. His personal clerk was stupid and obedient, chosen for these qualities, actually, and would not question his orders. She likely would not even read the message, but would only type in the code. Belfontaine shuddered a little. That was exactly what had gotten him sent to Cottman in the first place, with a reduction in rank from Lieutenant General to Colonel, and a black mark on his record. His punishment was this backward, frozen hell where the populace never saw newsfeeds, and could not be influenced except by word of mouth. And Cottman had proved quite resistant to the rumors his agents had tried to spread-almost as if they knew the falseness of them.

Belfontaine's single attempt to get around the technology restrictions directly had been a complete failure. He had installed mediafeeds in a few of the taverns in the Trade City-even though this was a direct violation of several agreements-and they had been dismantled within a day. It had been a costly mistake, and he was sure that Alton was at the bottom of it. If only he could have had direct access to Regis Hastur, he was sure he could have persuaded the man of the advantages of media screens, which would have easily led to electrification of the city of Thendara, and given the Federation a grip on the attention of the people. But despite many requests, Belfontaine had never been invited to Comyn Castle, and Regis Hastur could have been an imaginary person for all the contact he had had with the man. In a fit of spite, he had put the Medical Center off limits to any except Federation personnel, thinking that the natives would be loath to forgo the conveniences of the place. He'd shut down the John Reade Orphanage as well. That hadn't worked out either. They were so stupid that they didn't care about Terran medical technology and they took care of any abandoned children themselves! They didn't even use Life Extension treatments-except that old fool up in the Hellers, Damon Aldaran-and got old and died!

This, among many other things, offended him. He intended to live for at least a hundred and fifty years-longer if possible. Hell, he'd sell his soul for immortality, if he still believed in souls or gods or any of that other claptrap. But if he did not find some way to get Cottman in his hands before the deadline, some means to destabilize the government, such as it was, he was going to find himself on another backwater world, and never have the money needed to afford the treatments at all. He was close to sixty, after thirty years in various arms of Federation Service, and he would need treatment soon. But the price had risen enormously during the past decade, which he found peculiar. Coming from a corporate family, he had a grasp of basic economics, and knew that the LE treatments should have become cheaper with the passing of time, not more expensive. Someone was clearly making a huge profit on the process. Belfontaine Industries had nothing to do with pharmaceuticals, so he could only speculate in fury.

He had been told, in a burning interview with his father, that he lacked the sort of mind that was needed for the vast empire that was Belfontaine Industries. Otherwise, he would not have been on Cottman IV, but would instead have been dragging the molten guts out of some planet, like his brother Gustav was, producing the raw materials for the Big Ships and the dreadnoughts the Federation was busily creating.

He would never forget the day his father had told him there was no place for him in BI, that the corporate psychprobes had determined he was unsuitable for any position in the company. At least he had not suffered the unspeakable insult of a plant managership. Vividly he remembered standing in front of the huge desk behind which his father was buttressed, waiting to be told he would be appointed to the Federation legislature from one of the many planets that the corporation owned. That was the usual path for those who did not go into the company.