“I understand Terran Standard. I learned to read and write at Nevarsin. As you pointed out, I am excellently well educated. Learning a new language is no great matter.”
“You say you are of age,” Hastur said coldly, “so let me quote some law back to you. The law provides that before you, who are heir to a Domain, undertake any such risky task as going offworld, you must provide an heir to your Domain. Have you a son, Regis?”
Regis looked sullenly at the floor. Hastur knew, of course, that he had not. “What does that matter? It’s been generations since the Hastur gift has appeared full strength in the line. As for ordinary laran, that’s just as likely to appear at random anywhere in the Domains as it is in the direct male line of descent. Pick any heir at random, he couldn’t be less fit for the Domain than I am. I suspect the gene’s a recessive, bred out, extinct like the catalyst telepath trait. And Javanne has sons; one of them is as likely to have it as any son of mine, if I had any. Which I don’t,” he added rebelliously, “or am likely to. Now or ever.”
“Where do you get these ideas?” Hastur asked, shocked and bewildered. “You’re not, by any chance, an ombredin?”
“In a cristoforomonastery? Not likely. No, sir, not even for pastime. And certainly not as a way of life.”
“Then why should you say such a thing?”
“Because,” Regis burst out angrily, “I belong to myself, not to the Comyn! Better to let the line die with me than to go on for generations, calling ourselves Hastur, without our gift, without laran, political figureheads being used by Terra to keep the people quiet!”
“Is that how you see me, Regis? I took the Regency when Stefan Elhalyn died, because Derik was only five, too young to be crowned even as a puppet king. It’s been my ill-fortune to rule over a period of change, but I think I’ve been more than just a figurehead for Terra.”
“I know some Empire history, sir. The Empire will finally take over here too. It always does.”
“Don’t you think I know that? I’ve lived with the inevitable for three reigns now. But if I live long enough, it will be a slow change, one our people can live with. As for laran, it wakens late in Hastur men. Give yourself time.”
“Time!” Regis put all his dissatisfaction into the word.
“I haven’t laraneither, Regis. But even so, I think I’ve served my people well. Couldn’t you resign yourself to that?” He looked into Regis’ stubborn face and sighed. “Well, I’ll bargain with you. I don’t want you to go as a child, subject to a court-appointed guardian under Terran law. That would disgrace all of us. You’re the age when a Comyn heir should be serving in the cadet corps. Take your regular turn in the Guards, three cadet seasons. After that if you still want to go, we’ll think of a way to get you offworld without going through all the motions of their bureaucracy. You’d hate it—I’ve had fifty years of it and I still hate it But don’t walk out on the Comyn before you give it a fair try. Three years isn’t that long. Will you bargain?”
Three years. It had seemed an eternity at Nevarsin. But did he have a choice? None, except outright defiance. He could run away, seek aid from the Terrans themselves. But if he was legally a child by their laws, they would simply hand him over again to his guardians. That would indeed be a disgrace.
“Three cadet seasons,” he said at last. “But only if you give me your word of honor that if I choose to go, you won’t oppose it after that.”
“If after three years you still want to go,” said Hastur, “I promise to find some honorable way.”
Regis listened, weighing the words for diplomatic evasions and half-truths. But the old man’s eyes were level and the word of Hastur was proverbial. Even the Terrans knew that.
At last he said, “A bargain. Three years in the cadets, for your word.” He added bitterly, “I have no choice, do I?”
“If you wanted a choice,” said Hastur, and his blue eyes flashed fire though his voice was as old and weary as ever, “you should have arranged to be born elsewhere, to other parents. I did not choose to be chief councillor to Stefan Elhalyn, nor Regent to Prince Derik. Rafael—sound may he sleep!—did not choose his own life, nor even his death. None of us has ever been free to choose, not in my lifetime.” His voice wavered, and Regis realized that the old man was on the edge of exhaustion or collapse.
Against his will, Regis was moved again. He bit his lip, knowing that if he spoke he would break down, beg his grandfather’s pardon, promise unconditional obedience. Perhaps it was only the last remnant of the kirian, but he knew, suddenly and agonizingly, that his grandfather did not meet his eyes because the Regent of the Seven Domains could not weep, not even before his own grandson, not even for the memory of his only son’s terrible and untimely death.
When Hastur finally spoke again his voice was hard and crisp, like a man accustomed to dealing with one unremitting crisis after another. “The first call-over of cadets is later this morning. I have sent word to the cadet-master to expect you among them.” He rose and embraced Regis again in dismissal. “I shall see you again soon. At least we are not now separated by three days’ ride and a range of mountains.”
So he’d already sent word to the cadet-master. That was how sure he was, Regis realized. He had been manipulated, neatly mouse-trapped into doing just exactly what was expected of a Hastur. And he had maneuvered himself into promising three years of it!
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Chapter FOUR
(Lew Alton’s narrative)
The room was bright with daylight. I had slept for hours on the stone seat by the fireplace, cold and cramped. Marius, barefoot and in his nightshirt, was shaking me. He said, “I heard something on the stairs. Listen!” He ran toward the door; I followed more slowly, as the door was flung open and a pair of Guards carried my father into the room. One of them caught sight of me and said, “Where can we take him, Captain?”
I said, “Bring him in here,” and helped Andres lay him on his own bed. “What happened?” I demanded, staring in dread at his pale, unconscious face.
“He fell down the stone stairs near the Guard hall,” one of the men said. “I’ve been trying to get those stairs fixed all winter; your father could have broken his neck. So could any of us.”
Marius came to the bedside, white and terrified. “Is he dead?”
“Nothing like it, sonny,” said the Guardsman. “I think the Commander’s broken a couple of ribs and done something to his arm and shoulder, but unless he starts vomiting blood later he’ll be all right. I wanted Master Raimon to attend to him down there, but he made us carry him up here.”
Between anger and relief, I bent over him. What a time for him to be hurt. The very first day of Council season! As if my tumbling thoughts could reach him—and perhaps they could—he groaned and opened his eyes. His mouth contracted in a spasm of pain.
“Lew?”
“I’m here, Father.”
“You must take call-over in my place … ”
“Father, no. There are a dozen others with better right.”
His face hardened. I could see, and feel, that he was struggling against intense pain. “Damn you, you’ll go! I’ve fought … whole Council … for years. You’re not going to throw away all my work … because I take a damn silly tumble. You have a right to deputize for me and, damn you, you’re going to!”
His pain tore at me; I was wide open to it. Through the clawing pain I could feel his emotions, fury and a fierce determination, thrusting his will on me. “You will!”