I followed them outside. Regis looked as if he’d had the same nightmare-ridden sleep I had, and he was fully barriered against me—a new thing, and a disquieting one. He said, “He was your kinsman, Lew. I’m sorry for your grief. And I know my grandfather respected him. It’s fitting there should be someone here from the Hasturs, to extend our condolences. Things will be different, now, in the mountains.”
I had been thinking that myself. The sight of Regis almost automatically taking his place as the formal representative of Comyn was disquieting. I knew his grandfather would approve, but I was surprised.
“He told me, Regis, shortly before his death, that he hoped for a day when you and Beltran could sit down together and plan a better future for our world.”
Regis smiled bleakly. “That will be for Prince Derik. The Hasturs are not kings now.”
I gave him a skeptical smile. “Yet they stand nearest the throne. I have no doubt Derik will choose you for his nearest counselor, as his kinsmen chose your grandsire.”
“If you love me, Lew, don’t wish a crown on me,” Regis said with a shudder of revulsion. “But enough of politics for now. I will remain for the funeral, of course; I owe Beltran no courtesies, but I’ll not insult his father’s death bed, either.”
If Kermiac’s untimely death had delayed Regis’ immediate departure, it must also, in all decency, delay my ultimatum to Beltran. I anticipated less trouble now that he had had a bitter taste of the dangers inherent in Sharra. Kadarin might be less tractable. Yet I had faith in his good sense and his affection for all of us.
And so, all those days of mourning for the old lord of Aldaran, none of us spoke of Sharra or Beltran’s plans. During the days I could guard myself against the memory and the fear; only in terrifying dreams did it return, claw at me with talons of torment….
The funeral services were over; the mountain lords who had come to pay their respects to the dead, and to give allegiance to Beltran, departed one by one. Beltran made an appearance of grave dignity, solemnly accepting their pledges of amity and support, yet I sensed in all of the mountain men an awareness that an era had irrevocably come to an end. Beltran was aware of it, too, and I knew it hardened his resolve not to run peaceably along the track his father had made—resting on his father’s accomplishments and accepting their homage because of their goodwill to Kermiac—but to carve his own place.
We were so much alike, he and I, I have known twins less like. And yet we were so different. I had not known he was personally ambitious, too. I had lost the last traces of personal ambition at Arilinn, had resented Father’s attempts to rouse it in me, in the Guards. Now I was deeply disturbed. Would he let his plans slip through his fingers without protest? It would take all my persuasion, all my tact, to convince him to a course less dangerous for all our world. Somehow I must make it clear to him that I still shared his dreams, that I would work for his aims and help him to the utmost, even though I had irrevocably renounced the means he and Kadarin had chosen.
When the mountain lords had departed, Beltran courteously asked Regis and Danilo to remain for a few more days. I had not expected either of them to agree and was ready to try to persuade them, but to my surprise, Regis had accepted the invitation. Maybe it was not so surprising. He looked dreadfully ill. I should have talked to him, tried to find out what ailed him. Yet whenever I tried to speak to him alone be rebuffed me, always turning the conversation to indifferent things. I wondered why. As a child he had loved me; did he think me a traitor, or was it something more personal?
Such was my state when we gathered that morning in the small fireside hall where we had met and worked together so often. Beltran bore the marks of stress and grief and he looked older, too, sobered by the new weight of responsibility. Thyra was pale and composed, but I knew how hard-won that composure had been. Kadarin, too, was haggard, grieved. Rafe, though subdued, had suffered the least; his grief was only that of a child who had lost a kindly guardian. He was too young to see the deeper implications of this.