“I didn’t know you had a son, sir.”
Dyan poured himself more wine and said, not looking up, “I had a son.” His tone did not alter even a fraction, but Regis felt the genuine pain behind Dyan’s carefully steady voice. “He was killed in a rockslide at Nevarsin a few years ago.”
“I am sorry, kinsman. I had never been told.” “He came to Thendara only once, when I had him legitimated. He was in his mother’s care so, I saw him very seldom. We never really got to know one another.”
The silence stretched. Regis could not barricade the sharp sense of regret, of loss, he could feel in Dyan. He had to say something.
“Lord Dyan, you are not yet an old man. You could have many sons.”
Dyan’s smile was a mere mechanical stretching of his mouth. “More likely I shall adopt one of my father’s bastards,” he said. “He strewed them all about the countryside from the Hellers to the Plains of Valeron. It should be easy enough to find one with laran, which is all the Council cares about. I have never been a man for women, nor ever made any secret of it. I forced myself to do my duty by my clan. Once. That was enough.” To Regis’ awakened sensitivity he sounded immeasurably bitter. “I refuse to think of myself as a very special sort of stud animal whose fees are paid to Comyn. I am sure that you”—he raised his eyes and met Regis’, again prolonging the glance with intensity—”can understand what I mean.”
Dyan’s words struck home, yet his intent look, the feeling he was apparently trying to create, that there was a special rapport between them, suddenly embarrassed the boy. He lowered his eyes and said, “I’m not sure just what you mean, kinsman.”
Dyan shrugged and the sudden intensity was gone as quickly at it had come. “Why, just that, being heir to Hastur, they’ve already begun placing you under pressure to marry, just as they did with me when I was your age. Your grandsire has a reputation in Council as a most persistent and tenacious matchmaker. Do you mean he let Festival Night pass without parading a dozen suitable maidens in front of you, in the hope you’d develop an intolerable itch for one of them?”
Regis said stiffly, “Indeed he did not, sir. I was on duty Festival Night.”
“Truly?” Dyan raised an expressive eyebrow. “There were a dozen high-born maidens there, all pretty, and I thought they were all intended for you! I’m surprised he allowed you to stay away.”
“I’ve never asked to be excused from duty, sir. I’m sure Grandfather would not have asked it for me.”
“A most commendable attitude,” Dyan said, “and one I might have expected from your father’s son. But how disappointed the old man must have been! I’ve accused him to his face of being a disgraceful old procurer!” Dyan was grinning again. “But he assured me that he is always careful to have the wedding properly in order before the bedding.”
Regis could not help laughing, although he knew he should be ashamed to join in making fun of his grandfather. “No, Lord Dyan, he hasn’t spoken of marriage. Not yet. He only said that I should have an heir as young as possible.”
“Why, I’m ashamed of him!” Dyan said and laughed again. “He had Rafael married off by the time he was your age!”
Regis had resented the memory of his father, whose death had robbed him of so much; now he felt an almost wistful longing to know what kind of man he had been. “Kinsman, am I so like my father as they say? Did you know him well?”
“Not as well as I could have wished,” Dyan said. “He married young, while I was in Nevarsin where my father’s… debaucheries . . . could not contaminate me. Yes, I suppose you are like him.” He looked attentively at Regis. “Although you are handsomer than Rafael, handsomer by far.”
He was silent, staring down at the swirl in his wineglass. Regis picked up the mug of cider and sipped at it, not looking up. He had grown sensitive to the far-too-frequent comments on his good looks at Nevarsin and in the barracks. From Dyan they seemed somehow more pointed. He gave a mental shrug, recalling what else they said in the barracks, that Lord Dyan had an eye for pretty boys.