“Well, that was a hell of a way to treat the heir to Hastur,” said a harsh, musical voice. Regis looked up and recognized Lord Dyan Ardais, a pale, tall, hawk-faced man he had seen making brief visits to the monastery. Regis bowed and greeted him. “Lord Dyan.”
Dyan’s eyes, keen and almost colorless—there was said to be chieri blood in the Ardais—rested on Regis. “I told Hastur that only a fool would send a boy to be brought up in that place. But I gathered that he was much occupied with affairs of state, such as settling all the troubles the Terranan have brought to our world. I offered to have you fostered at Ardais; my sister Elorie bore no living child and would have welcomed a kinsman to rear. But your grandsire, I gather, thought me no fit guardian for a boy your age.” He gave a faint, sarcastic smile. “Well, you seem to have survived three years at the hands of the cristoforos. How was it in Nevarsin, Regis?”
“Cold.” Regis hoped that settled that.
“How well I remember,” Dyan said, laughing. “I was brought up by the brothers, too, you know. My father still had his wits then—or enough of them to keep me well out of sight of his various excesses. I spent the whole five years shivering.”
Kennard lifted a gray eyebrow. “I don’t remember that it was so cold.”
“But you were warm in the guesthouse,” Dyan said with a smile. “They keep fires there all year, and you could have had someone to warm your bed if you chose. The students’ dormitory at Nevarsin—I give you my solemn word—is the coldest place on Darkover. Haven’t you watched those poor brats shivering their way through the offices? Have they made a cristoforo of you, Regis?”
Regis said briefly, “No, I serve the Lord of Light, as is proper for a son of Hastur.”
Kennard gestured to two lads in the Alton colors, and they rode forward a little way. “Lord Regis,” he said formally, “I ask leave to present my sons: Lewis-Kennard Montray-Alton; Marius Montray-Lanart.”
Regis felt briefly at a loss. Kennard’s sons were not accepted by Council, but if Regis greeted them as kinsman and equals, he would give them Hastur recognition. If not, he would affront his kinsman. He was angry at Kennard for making this choice necessary, especially when there was nothing about Comyn etiquette or diplomacy that Kennard did not know.
Lew Alton was a tall, sturdy young man, five or six years older than Regis. He said with a wry smile, “It’s all right, Lord Regis, I was legitimated and formally designated heir a couple of years ago. It’s quite permissible for you to be polite to me.”
Regis felt his face flaming with embarrassment. He said, “Grandfather wrote me the news; I had forgotten. Greetings, cousin, have you been long on the road?”
“A few days,” Lew said. “The road is peaceful, although my brother, I think, found it a long ride. He’s very young for such a journey. You remember Marius, don’t you?”
Regis realized with relief that Marius, called Montray-Lanart instead of Alton because he had not yet been accepted as a legitimate son, was only twelve years old—too young in any case for a formal greeting. The question could be sidestepped by treating him as a child. He said, “You’ve grown since I last saw you, Marius. I don’t suppose you remember me at all. You’re old enough now to ride a horse, at least. Do you still have the little gray pony you used to ride at Armida?”
Marius answered politely, “Yes, but he’s out at pasture; he’s old and lame, too old for such a trip.”
Kennard looked annoyed. Diplomacy indeed! His grandfather would be proud of him, Regis considered, even if he was not proud of himself for the art of double tongues. Fortunately, Marius was not old enough to know he’d been snubbed. It occurred to Regis how ridiculous it was for boys their own age to address one another so formally anyway. Lew and he used to be close friends. The years at Armida, before Regis went to the monastery, they were as close as brothers. And now Lew was calling him Lord Regis! It was stupid!