Kennard looked at the sky. “Shall we ride on? It’s near sunset and sure to rain. It would be a nuisance to have to stop and pack away the banners. And your grandfather will be eager to see you, Regis.”
“My grandfather has been spared my presence for three years,” Regis said dryly. “I am sure he can endure another hour or so. But it would be better not to ride in the dark.”
Protocol said that Regis should ride beside Kennard and Lord Dyan, but instead he dropped back to ride beside Lew Alton. Marius was riding with a boy about Regis’ own age, who looked so familiar that Regis frowned, trying to recall where they’d met.
While the entourage was getting into line, Regis sent his banner-bearer to ride at the head of the column with those of Ardais and Alton. He watched the man ride ahead with the silver-and-blue fir-tree emblem of Hastur and the casta slogan, Permanedál. I shall remain, he translated wearily, yes, I shall stay here and be a Hastur whether I like it or not.
Then rebellion gripped him again. Kennard hadn’t stayed. He was educated on Terra itself, and by the will of the Council. Maybe there was hope for Regis too, Hastur or no.
He felt queerly lonely. Kennard’s maneuvering for proper respect for his sons had irritated him, but it had touched him too. If his own father had lived, he wondered, would he have been so solicitous? Would he have schemed and intrigued to keep his son from feeling inferior?
Lew’s face was grim, lonely and sullen. Regis couldn’t tell if he felt slighted, ill-treated or just lonely, knowing himself different
Lew said, “Are you coming to take a seat in Council, Lord Regis?”
The formality irritated Regis again. Was it a snub in return for the one he had given Marius? Suddenly he was tired of this. “You used to call me cousin, Lew. Are we too old to be friends?”
A quick smile lighted Lew’s face. He was handsome without the sullen, withdrawn look. “Of course not, cousin. But I’ve had it rubbed into me, in the cadets and elsewhere, that you are Regis-Rafael, Lord Hastur, and I’m … well, I’m nedestro heir to Alton. They only accepted me because my father has no proper Darkovan sons. I decided that it was up to you whether or not you cared to claim kin.”
Regis’ mouth stretched in a grimace. He shrugged. “Well, they may have to accept me, but I might as well be a bastard. I haven’t inherited laran”
Lew looked shocked. “But certainly, you—I was sure— He broke off. “Just the same, you’ll have a seat in Council, cousin. There is no other Hastur heir.”
“I’m all too well aware of that. I’ve heard nothing else since the day I was born,” Regis said. “Although, since Javanne married Gabriel Lanart, she’s having sons like kittens. One of them may very well displace me some day.”
“Still, you are in the direct line of male descent. A laran gift does skip a generation now and then. All your sons could inherit it.”
Regis said with impulsive bitterness, “Do you think that helps—to know that I’m of no value for myself, but only for the sons I may have?”
A thin, fine drizzle of rain was beginning to fall. Lew drew his hood up over his shoulders and the insignia of the City Guard showed on his cloak. So he’s taking the regular duties of a Comyn heir, Regis thought. He may be a bastard, but he’s more useful than I am.
Lew said aloud, as if picking up his thoughts, “I expect you’ll be going into the cadet corps of the Guard this season, won’t you? Or are the Hasturs exempt?”
“It’s all planned out for us, isn’t it, Lew? Ten years old, fire-watch duty. Thirteen or fourteen, the cadet corps. Take my turn as an officer. Take a seat in Council at the proper time. Marry the right woman, if they can find one from a family that’s old enough and important enough and, above all, with laran. Father a lot of sons, and a lot of daughters to marry other Comyn sons. They’ve got our lives all planned, and all we have to do is go through the motions, ride their road whether we want to or not.”