“And believe me, cousin, such instruction would at least leave no bruises.”
He strode quickly away. Regis, collecting his cloak from the seat, felt more puzzled than ever, feeling there was something else Dyan had wanted to say.
He had to pass the table crowded with cadets, lounging over cider or beer; he noticed that they were staring at him in no friendly fashion. None of them offered him even the bare civility of a formal greeting. He set his chin and turned his back on them. He heard one say in a low tone, “Catamite!”
Regis felt a flood of intense anger washing over him. He wanted to turn on the boy and beat him to a crimson pulp. Then he set his jaw, disciplining himself to walk away and pretend he had not heard. If you listen to dogs barking, you’ll go deaf and never learn much.
He remembered various insults he had pretended not to hear, mostly to the intent that the Comyn hung together, that he had had special favors because he was a Comyn heir. But this one was new. He recalled the taunt Danilo had flung at him the night before his expulsion. Dani was a cristoforo and to him it was more than an insult.
He knew Dyan would have nothing but scorn for such gossip. He never made any secret of his tastes. Yet Regis felt oddly protective toward his kinsman, having sensed his bitterness. He felt a strange wish to defend him.
It occurred to him again, with frustration too new for him to realize it was a commonplace among telepaths, that there were times when laran was absolutely no help at all in personal relationships.
The season ended. The cadets were dismissed to their homes and Regis moved into the Hastur apartments in Comyn Castle. He appreciated the peace and quiet and felt a certain pleasure in being able to sleep as late as he pleased in the morning. And the Hastur cooks were certainly better than those in the Guards mess. The prolonged austerity, though, first in Nevarsin, then in the barracks, had made him almost guilty about this kind of luxury. He couldn’t appreciate it as he wanted to.
One morning he was at breakfast with his grandfather when Lord Hastur said abruptly, “You’re not looking like yourself. Is something wrong?”
Regis thought that his grandfather had seen so little of him that he would have no idea what he usually looked like. He was too polite to say it, of course, so answered, “Bored, maybe. Not getting enough exercise.”
It disturbed him that he could not help picking up his grandfather’s thoughts: It’s wrong to keep the boy hanging about here when I’ve so little time to spend with him.
Hastur said aloud, “I’m afraid I’ve been too busy to notice, my boy. I’m very sorry. Would you like to return to Castle Hastur, or go somewhere else?”
“I wasn’t complaining, sir. But I feel I’m no use to you. When you asked me to stay for the winter, I thought there was something I could do to help you.”
“I wish you could. Unfortunately, you haven’t the experience to be a great deal of help yet,” Hastur said, but could not conceal a faint flicker of satisfaction. He’s beginning to be interested. “Some time this winter you might attend a few sessions of the Cortes and find out about the problems we’re facing. I’ll get you a pass. Or you could ride to Edelweiss, spend a few days with Javanne.”
Regis shrugged. He found Edelweiss dull. There was no hunting except for rabbits and squirrels, the rain kept them indoors much of the time, and he and Javanne were too far apart in age and too unlike in personality to find much pleasure in each other’s company.
“I know it’s not very exciting there either,” Hastur said, almost apologizing, “but she is your sister, and we do not have so many kinfolk that we can neglect one another. If you want hunting, you know, you are free to go to Armida at any time. Lew is away and Kennard too ill to travel, but you can go there and take a friend.”
But the only friend he’d made in the cadets, Regis thought, was sent home in disgrace. “Kennard is ill, sir? What’s wrong?”
Danvan sighed. “This climate doesn’t agree with him. He grows more crippled every year. He’ll be better when the rains—” He broke off as a servant came in with a message. “Already? Yes, I have to go and talk with a trade delegation from the Dry Towns,” he said with weary resignation, laying down his napkin. He excused himself to Regis, adding, “Let me know your plans, lad, and I’ll arrange for escort.”
Left alone, Regis poured himself another cup of Terran coffee, one of the few luxuries the austere old man allowed himself, and thought it over. The duty visit to Javanne could not, of course be avoided. A visit to Armida could await Lew’s return; he could hardly be intending to spend the winter at Aldaran.
If Kennard was ill, courtesy demanded that Regis pay him a visit in his suite, but for some unknown reason he was unwilling to face the Alton lord. He did not know why. Kennard had always been kind to him. After a time he focused it down to resentment: he stood by and watched Danilo’s disgrace and didn’t say a word. Lew wanted to interfere, but he couldn’t. Kennard didn’t care.
And Kennard was one of the most powerful telepaths in Comyn. Regis, feeling this much resentment, was reluctant to face him. Kennard would know immediately how he felt.
He knew, rationally, that he should go to Kennard at once, if only to tell him about his newly developing laran. There were training techniques to help him master and control his new facilities. But in the cadets it had not seemed to matter, and the proper time to speak to Lew about it had never come till too late. Dyan had seemed to take it for granted that he already had what training he needed. Kennard was the obvious one to tell. He admonished himself sternly that he should go at once, now, today.
But he was still reluctant to face him. He decided to go to Javanne for a few days first. By that time perhaps Lew would be back.
A few days later he rode north, the weight of it still on his mind. Syrtis lay half a mile from the northward road and, on an impulse, he told his escort to wait in a nearby village. He rode alone to Syrtis.
It lay at the far end of a long valley, leading downward to the lake country around Mariposa. It was a clear autumn day, with ripening fruit trees hanging low under their thick harvest and small animals making scurrying noises in the dry brushwood at the side of the road. The sounds and smells made Regis feel content as he rode along, but as he came down toward the farm his spirits sank. He had been thinking Danilo well off, to be coming home to this pleasant country, but he had not realized how poor the place was. The main house was small, one wing falling into such disrepair that it could hardly have been safe for human habitation. The sparse outbuildings showed how few men must live on the place. The old moat had been drained, ditched and put to kitchen-gardens with neat rows of vegetables and pot-herbs. An old, bent servant told him, touching his breast in rustic courtesy, that the master was just returning from the hunt. Regis suspected that in a place like this rabbit would be more plentiful on the table than butcher’s meat.
A tall, aging man in a once-fine threadbare cloak rode slowly toward him. He was moustached and bearded, and sat his horse with the erect competence of an old soldier. A fine hawk sat, hooded, on his saddle.
“Greetings,” he said in a deep voice. “We see few travelers at Syrtis. How may I serve you?”
Regis alighted from his horse, making him a courteous bow. “Dom Felix Syrtis? Regis-Rafael Hastur, para servirte.”
“My house and I are at your service, Lord Regis. Let me see to your mount. Old Mauris is half blind; I’d not trust him with such a fine animal. Will you come with me?”
Leading the horse, Regis followed the old man toward a stone barn in better repair than most of the outbuildings, being weathertight and newly roofed. At the far end was a screened-off enclosure; nearer were open box stalls, and Regis tethered his horse in the closest while Dom Felix took a cluster of small birds from the hook at his saddle and unsaddled his mount. Regis saw Danilo’s beautiful black gelding in another stall, the old bony hunter Dom Felix had been riding and two good, but aging mares. The other stalls were empty, except for a couple of clumsy plowhorses and
a milk animal or two. This was abysmal poverty indeed for a family of noble blood and Regis was ashamed to witness it. He remembered that Danilo had hardly had a whole shirt to his back when he joined the cadets.
Dom Felix was looking at Regis’ black mare with the kind of love that men of his type bestowed openly only on their horses and hawks. “A fine mount, vai dom. Armida-bred, no doubt? I know that pedigree.”
“True. A birthday gift from Lord Kennard, before I went to Nevarsin.”
“Might I ask her name, Lord Regis?”
“Melisande,” Regis told him, and the old man stroked the velvet muzzle tenderly. Regis nodded to Danilo’s fine black. “And there is another of the same breed; they might well be foals of the same dam.”
“Aye,” said Dom Felix curtly, “Lord Alton does not withdraw a gift, however unworthy given.” He shut his mouth with a snap and Regis’ heart sank; it promised ill for his mission. Dom Felix turned away to see to the hawk, and Regis asked politely, “Had you good hunting, sir?”
“Indifferent,” said Dom Felix shortly, taking the hawk from his saddle and carrying her to the enclosure at the far end. “No, my lord, you will frighten a haggard I have here. Be pleased to remain where you are.”
Rebuked, Regis kept his distance. When the old man returned, he complimented him on a well-trained bird.
“It is my life’s work, Lord Regis. I was hawk-master to your grandsire, when your father was a lad.”
Regis raised a mental eyebrow, but in these disturbed days it was not unusual to find a former courtier out of favor.
“How is it that you honor my house, Dom Regis?”
“I came to see your son Danilo.”
The old man’s tight-pressed lips almost disappeared between moustache and chin. Finally he said, “My lord, by your uniform you know of my son’s disgrace. I beg you, leave him in peace. Whatever his crime, he has paid more than you can know.”
Regis said, in shock, “No! I am his friend!”
Now the pent-up hostility exploded.
“The friendship of a Comyn lord is as the sweetness of a beehive: it bears a deadly sting! I have lost one son already to the love of a Hastur lord; must I lose the last child of my old age as well?”
Regis spoke gently. “All my life, Dom Felix, I have heard nothing but good of the man who gave his life in a vain attempt to shield my father. Do you think me evil enough to wish harm on the house of such a man? Whatever your grudge against my forefathers, sir, you have no quarrel with me. If Danilo has, he must tell me himself. I had not known your son was so young he must seek a parent’s leave to welcome a guest.”
A faint, unlovely flush spread slowly over the bearded face. Regis realized too late that he had been impertinent. It came as no surprise that Danilo should be under his father’s displeasure, yet he had spoken the truth: by the law of the Domains, Danilo was a responsible adult.
“My son is in the orchard, Dom Regis. May I send to summon him? We have but few servants to bear messages.”
“I’ll walk down, if I may.”
“Forgive me, then, if I do not accompany you, since you say your business is with my son. I must take these birds to my kitchen folk. The path will lead you to the orchard.”
Regis walked down the narrow lane the old man pointed out. At its end the path opened out to an orchard of apple and pear trees. The fruit, fully ripe, hung glistening among the darkening leaves. Danilo was there at the far end of the grove, his back to Regis, stooping to rake up some mulch around the tree roots. He was stripped to the waist, his feet thrust into wooden clogs. A damp sweat-rag was tied around his forehead, his dark hair in disorder above it.
The smell of apples was sweet and winy. Danilo slowly straightened his back, picked up a windfall and thoughtfully bit into it. Regis stood watching him, unseen, for a moment. He looked tired, preoccupied and, if not content, at least lulled by hard physical work and the warm sun into a momentary peace.
“Dani?” Regis said at last, and the boy, startled, dropped the apple and stumbled over his rake as he turned. Regis wondered what to say.
Danilo took a step toward him. “What do you want?”
“I was on the road to my sister’s house; I stopped to pay my respects to your father and to see how you did.”
He saw Danilo visibly struggling between the impulse to fling the polite gesture back into his face—what more had he to lose?—and the lifelong habit of hospitality. At last he said, “My house and I are at your service, Lord Regis.” His politeness was exaggerated almost to a caricature. “What is my lord’s will?”
Regis said, “I want to talk to you.”
“As you can see, my lord, I am very much occupied. But I am entirely at your bidding.”
Regis ignored the irony and took him at his word.
“Come here, then, and sit down,” he said, taking his seat on a fallen log, felled so long ago that it was covered with gray lichen. Silently Danilo obeyed, keeping as far away as the dimensions of the log allowed.
Regis said after a moment, “I want you to know one thing: I have no idea why you were thrown out of the Guards, or rather, I only know what I heard that day. But from the way everyone acted, you’d think I left you to take the blame for something I myself did. Why? What did
I do?”
“You know—” Danilo broke off, kicking a windfall apple with the point of his clog. It broke with a rotten, slushy clunk. “It’s over. Whatever I did to offend you, I’ve paid.”
Then for a moment the rapport, the awareness Danilo had wakened in him, flared again between them. He could feel Danilo’s despair and grief as if it were his own. He said, harsh with the pain of it, “Danilo Syrtis, speak your grudge and let me avow or deny it! I tried not to think ill of you even in disgrace! But you called me foul names when I meant you nothing but kindness, and if you have spread lies about me or my kinsmen, then you deserve everything they have done to you, and you still have a score to settle with me!” Without realizing it, he had sprung to his feet, his hand going to the hilt of his sword.
Danilo stood defiant. His eyes gray, gleaming like molten metal beneath dark brows, blazed with anger and sorrow. “Dom Regis, I beg you, leave me in peace! Isn’t it enough that I am here, my hopes gone, my father shamed forever—I might as well be dead!” he cried out desperately, his words tumbling over themselves. “Grudge, Regis? No, no, none against you, you showed me nothing but kindness, but you were one of them, one of those, those—” He stopped again, his voice tight with the effort not to cry. At last he cried out passionately, “Regis Hastur, as the Gods live, my conscience is clear and your Lord of Light and the God of the cristoforos may judge between the Sons of Hastur and me!”
Almost without volition, Regis drew his sword. Danilo, startled, took a step backward in fear; then he straightened and stiffened his mouth. “Do you punish blasphemy so quickly, lord? I am unarmed, but if my offense merits death, then kill me now where I stand! My life is no good to me!”
Shocked, Regis lowered the point of the sword. “Kill you, Dani?” he said in horror. “God forbid! It never crossed my mind! I wished . . .Dani, lay your hand on the hilt of my sword.”
Confused, startled into obedience, Danilo put a tentative hand on the hilt. Regis gripped hand and hilt together in his own fingers.
“Son of Hastur who is the Son of Aldones who is the Lord of Light! May this hand and this sword pierce my heart and my honor, Danilo, if I had part or knowledge in your disgrace, or if anything you say now shall be used to work you harm!” Again, from the hand-touch, he felt that odd little shock running up his arm, blurring his own thoughts, felt Danilo’s sobs tight in his own throat.
Danilo said on a drawn breath, “No Hastur would forswear that oath!”
“No Hastur would forswear his naked word,” Regis retorted proudly, “but if it took an oath to convince you, an oath you have.” He sheathed the sword.
“Now tell me what happened, Dani. Was the charge a lie, then?”
D
anilo was still visibly dazed. “The night I came in—it had been raining. You woke, you knew—”
“I knew only that you were in pain, Dani. No more. I asked if I could help, but you drove me away.” The pain and shock he had felt that night returned to him in full force and he felt his heart pounding again with the agony of it, as he had done when Danilo thrust him away.
Danilo said, “You are a telepath. I thought—”
“A very rudimentary one, Danilo,” said Regis, trying to steady his voice. “I sensed only that you were unhappy, in pain. I didn’t know why and you would not tell me.”
“Why should you care?”
Regis put out his hand, slowly closed it around Danilo’s wrist. “I am Hastur and Comyn. It touches the honor of my clan and my caste that anyone should have cause to speak ill of us. With false slanders we can deal, but with truth, we can only try to right the wrong. We Comyn can be mistaken.” Dimly, at the back of his mind, he realized he had said “We Comyn” for the first time. “More,” he said, and smiled fleetingly, “I like your father, Dani. He was willing to anger a Hastur in order to have you left in peace.”
Danilo stood nervously locking and unlocking his hands. He said, “The charge is true. I drew my dagger on Lord Dyan. I only wish I had cut his throat while I was about it; whatever they did to me, the world would be a cleaner place.”
Regis stared, disbelieving. “Zandru! Dani—”
“I know, in days past, the men who touched Comyn lord in irreverence would have been torn on hooks. In those days, perhaps, Comyn were worth reverence—”
“Leave that,” Regis said sharply. “Dani, I am heir to Hastur, but even I could not draw steel on an officer without disgrace. Even if the officer I struck were no Comyn lord but young Hjalmar, whose mother is a harlot of the streets.”
Danilo stood fighting for control. “If I struck young Hjalmar, Regis, then I would have deserved my punishment; he is an honorable man. It was not as my officer I drew on Lord Dyan. He had forfeited all claim to obedience or respect.”
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