Free Hastur Lord by Marion Zimmer Bradley Page B

assembled.
    Regis paused in adjusting folds of his short indoor cloak. In all likelihood, the wedding itself could not be arranged sooner than Midsummer, but that was all for the best, for many of the remaining Comyn still came to Thendara during that time.
    Still whistling, he sent a servant ahead to ask Linnea to receive him. After waiting what seemed an appropriate time for the lady to prepare herself, he made his way to her suite of rooms. The same maidservant from last night ushered him inside. Linnea wore a gown of gray that shimmered a little like moonlight. She looked up from the little table on which sat a tray bearing a pitcher of the usual jaco and a basket of plain brown bread. She came toward him, her expression puzzled.
    Regis took her hand in his and drew her to sit beside the fire.
    “Linnea,” he began, “we have known one another for a number of years.”
    She stiffened then, perhaps at his formality or the prospect of unpleasant news. He winced, fearing that he had inadvertently offended her.
    “As you know, my grandfather has pressured me to marry for a long time. Until now, I could not bring myself to do so. It has also been suggested that I choose an official consort for ceremonial occasions—”
    Linnea did not move. Her skin turned very pale. Her breathing became slow and shallow.
    “I want to be frank with you, Linnea. I have not—in the past, I have not had the deepest feelings for women.” He swallowed hard. “You know that since boyhood, I have been committed to Danilo.”
    “I doubt there is a single Comyn in the Seven Domains who is not aware of your preference.” Under the calmness of her voice, she gave no hint of her feelings.
    “Be that as it may,” Regis cleared his throat, “for the sake of my Domain and the necessities of my position, I must have a legitimate heir of my own body.”
    . . . the son we conceived last night . . .
    “You already have an heir,” she pointed out.
    “My sister’s son, Mikhail, yes. But that was an extraordinary circumstance. I thought I might not return from Caer Donn. If anything happened to Mikhail, I could not ask Javanne again—it would be better if . . .”
    Linnea turned away. She kept silent for a long moment, leaving Regis hanging in a hellish backwash of uncertainty. Then she said, very quietly, “I am aware of the great honor you do me, Regis. I am grateful for your honesty.”
    She paused, visibly gathering herself. “As you say, we have known each other for some years now. I think we have been as good friends as a man—particularly a lover of men—can ever be with a woman. But I do not believe . . .” Her voice faltered and grew rough. “. . . that I would care to . . . to be a ceremonial consort . . .”
    “I asked you to be my wife!”
    “Wife, consort, barragana ! It is all the same!” she shot back at him. “It would mean binding myself to someone who does not want me, only a woman—any well-born one will do!—to fill a position!”
    Regis stared at her in dismay. Never had he thought to see the usually calm and self-possessed Comynara in such a state.
    “That’s not what I meant,” he stammered.
    “I understand you all too well! You come all the way from Thendara, flouting your position and your wealth. No ordinary Darkovan, even a Comyn lord, could command a Terran aircar. You offer me the one thing I cannot refuse, the one thing you knew I could not turn away from, and that is the means to work, to use the skills for which I trained so hard, and still be a mother to Kierestelli.”
    Training Felix to use his laran! In the frenzy of the moment, Regis had all but forgotten that request. Obviously, Linnea had not.
    “And then you come to me, all romantic. You ply me with memories of the dreams I—we once had. You play with our daughter, you give me hope that we could be together as a family. You kiss me and hold me as if I were the most precious—”
    She broke off. Every fiber in her slender body quivered in