“So how did you finally settle it?”
Hastur shrugged. “Compromise, as usual. The Terran was deported and the Guardsman’s brother was held in the brig until the Terran was off-planet; so nobody gets any peace except the dead man. Unsatisfactory for everyone. But enough of them. Tell me about yourself, Regis.”
“Well, I’ll have to talk about the Terrans again,” Regis said. This wasn’t the best time, but his grandfather might not have time to talk with him again for days. “Grandfather, I’m not needed here. You probably know I don’t have laran, and I found out in Nevarsin that I’m not interested in politics. I’ve decided what I want to do with my life: I want to go into the Terran Empire Space Service.”
Hastur’s jaw dropped. He scowled and demanded, “Is this a joke? Or another silly prank?”
“Neither, Grandfather. I mean it, and I’m of age.”
“But you can’t do that! Certainly they’d never accept you without my consent”
“I hope to have that, sir. But by Darkovan law, which you were quoting at Kennard, I am of legal age to dispose of myself. I can marry, fight a duel, acknowledge a son, stand responsible for a murder—”
“The Terrans wouldn’t think so. Kennard was declared of age before he went. But on Terra he was sent to school and required, legally forced, mind you, to obey a stipulated guardian until he was past twenty. You’d hate that.”
“No doubt I would. But I learned one thing at Nevarsin, sir—you can live with the things you hate.”
“Regis, is this your revenge for my sending you to Nevarsin? Were you so unhappy? What can I say? I wanted you to have the best education possible and I thought it better for you to be properly cared for, there, than neglected at home.”
“No, sir,” Regis said, not quite sure. “It’s simply that I want to go, and I’m not needed here.”
“You don’t speak Terran languages.”
“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 cristoforo monastery? 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 Stef an 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.”