“It is my life’s work, Lord Regis. I was hawk-master to your grandsire, when your father was a lad,”
Regis raised a mental eyebrow, but in these disturbed days it was not unusual to find a former courtier out of favor. “How is it that you honor my house, Dom Regis?” “I came to see your son Danilo.”
The old man’s tight-pressed lips almost disappeared between moustache and chin. Finally he said, “My lord, by your uniform you know of my son’s disgrace. I beg you, leave him in peace. Whatever his crime, he has paid more than you can know.”
Regis said, in shock, “No! I am his friend!” Now the pent-up hostility exploded.
“The friendship of a Comyn lord is as the sweetness of a beehive: it bears a deadly sting! I have lost one son already to the love of a Hastur lord; must I lose the last child of my old age as well?”
Regis spoke gently. “All my life, Dom Felix, I have heard nothing but good of the man who gave his life in a vain attempt to shield my father. Do you think me evil enough to wish harm on the house of such a man? Whatever your grudge against my forefathers, sir, you have no quarrel with me. If Danilo has, he must tell me himself. I had not known your son was so young he must seek a parent’s leave to welcome a guest.”
A faint, unlovely flush spread slowly over the bearded face. Regis realized too late that he had been impertinent. It came as no surprise that Danilo should be under his father’s displeasure, yet he had spoken the truth: by the law of the Domains, Danilo was a responsible adult.
“My son is in the orchard, Dom Regis. May I send to summon him? We have but few servants to bear messages.” “I’ll walk down, if I may.” “Forgive me, then, if I do not accompany you, since you say your business is with my son. I must take these birds to my kitchen folk. The path will lead you to the orchard.”
Regis walked down the narrow lane the old man pointed out. At its end the path opened out to an orchard of apple and pear trees. The fruit, fully ripe, hung glistening among the darkening leaves. Danilo was there at the far end of the grove, his back to Regis stooping to rake up some mulch around the tree roots. He was stripped to the waist, his feet thrust into wooden clogs. A damp sweat-rag was tied around his forehead, his dark hair in disorder above it.
The smell of apples was sweet and winy. Danilo slowly straightened his back, picked up a windfall and thoughtfully bit into it. Regis stood watching him, unseen, for a moment. He looked tired, preoccupied and, if not content, at least lulled by hard physical work and the warm sun into a momentary peace.
“Dani?” Regis said at last, and the boy, startled, dropped the apple and stumbled over his rake as he turned. Regis wondered what to say.
Danilo took a step toward him. “What do you want?”
“I was on the road to my sister’s house; I stopped to pay my respects to your father and to see how you did.”
He saw Danilo visibly struggling between the impulse to fling the polite gesture back into his face—what more had he to lose?—and the lifelong habit of hospitality. At last he said, “My house and I are at your service, Lord Regis.” His politeness was exaggerated almost to a caricature. “What is my lord’s will?”
Regis said, “I want to talk to you.”
“As you see, my lord, I am very much occupied. But I am entirely at your bidding.”
Regis ignored the irony and took him at his word.
“Come here, then, and sit down,” he said, taking his seat on a fallen log, felled so long ago that it was covered with gray lichen. Silently Danilo obeyed, keeping as far away as the dimensions of the log allowed.
Regis said after a moment, “I want you to know one thing: I have no idea why you were thrown out of the Guards, or rather, I only know what I heard that day. But from the way everyone acted, you’d think I left you to take the blame for something I myself did. Why? What did I do?”