“Time!” Regis put all his dissatisfaction into the word.
“I haven’t laran either, 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 El-halyn, 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!
* * *
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.