It was the slack time between breakfast and morning drill. The first-year cadets were making their beds, two of them sweeping the floor and cleaning out the fireplaces. Regis was sitting on the corner cot, mending a broken bootlace. Was it meekness or good nature which had let them crowd him into the drafty spot under the window? He sprang up and came to attention as I stopped at the foot of his bed.
I motioned him to relax. “The Commander has sent me to choose an honor guard detail,” I said. “This is Comyn business; it goes without saying that no word of what you may hear is to go outside Council rooms. Do you understand me, Regis?”
“Yes, Captain.” He was formal, but I caught curiosity and excitement in his lifted face. He looked older, not quite so childish, not nearly so shy. Well, as I knew from my own first tormented cadet season, one of two things happened in the first few days. You grew up fast … or you crawled back home, beaten, to your family. I’ve often thought that was why cadets were required to serve a few terms in the Guard. No one could ever tell in advance which ones would survive.
I asked, “How are you getting along?”
He smiled, “Well enough.” He started to say something else, but at that moment Danilo Syrtis, covered in dust, crawled out from under his bed. “Got it!” he said. “It evidently slipped down this morning when I—” He saw me, broke off and came to attention.
“Captain.”
“Relax, cadet,” I said, “but you’d better get that dirt off your knees before you go out to inspection.” He was father’s protege”, and his family had been Hastur men for generations. “You join the honor guard too, cadet. Did you hear what I said to Regis, Dani?”
He nodded, coloring, and his eyes brightened. He said, with such formality that it sounded stiff, “I am deeply honored, Captain.” But through the formal words, I caught the touch of excitement, apprehension, curiosity, unmistakable pleasure at the honor.
Unmistakable. This was not the random sensing of emotions which I pick up in any group, but a definite touch.
Laran. The boy had laran, was certainly a telepath, probably had one of the other gifts. Well, it was not much of a surprise. Father had told me they had Comyn blood a few generations back. Regis was kneeling before his chest, searching for the leather tabard of his dress uniform. As Danilo was about to follow suit, I stepped to his side and said, “A word, kinsman. Not now—there is no urgency—but some time, when you are free of other duties, go to my father, or to Lord Dyan if you prefer, and ask to be tested by a leronis. They will know what you mean. Say that it was I who told you this.” I turned away. “Both of you join the detail at the gates as soon as you can.”
The Comyn lords were waiting in the court as the detail of Guards was forming. Lord Hastur, in sky-blue cloak with the silver fir tree badge. My father, giving low-voiced directions to old di Asturien. Prince Derik was not present. Hastur would have had to speak for him as Regent in any case, but Derik at sixteen should certainly have been old enough, and interested enough, to attend such an important meeting.
Edric Ridenow was there, the thickset, red-bearded lord of Serrais. There was also a woman, pale and slender, folded in a thin gray hooded cloak which shielded her from curious eyes. I did not recognize her, but she was evidently comynara; she must be an Aillard or an Elhalyn, since only those two Domains give independent Council right to their women. Dyan Ardais, in the crimson and gray of his Domain, strode to his place; he gave a brief glance to the honor guard, stopped briefly beside Danilo and spoke in a low voice. The boy blushed and looked straight ahead. I’d already noticed that he still colored like a child if you spoke to him. I wondered what small fault the cadet-master had found in his appearance and bearing. I had found none, but it’s a cadet-master’s business to take note of trivialities.