Regis felt exasperated at the obviousness of the question—where else would he be going, on this road, at this season?—until he realized that the formal words implied recognition as an adult. He replied, with equally formal courtesy, “Yes, kinsman, my grandsire has requested that I attend Council this year.”

“Have you been all these years in the monastery at Nevarsin, kinsman?”

Kennard knew perfectly well where he had been, Regis reflected; when his grandfather couldn’t think of any other way to get Regis off his hands, he packed him away to Saint-Valentine-of-the-Snows. But it would have been a fearful breach of manners to mention this before the assembly so he merely said, “Yes, he entrusted my education to the cristoforos; I have been there three years.”

“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 chieriblood 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 cristoforoof 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!

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 castaslogan, 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 nedestroheir 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 isno 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 larangift 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?”