Left alone, Regis poured himself another cup of Terran coffee, one of the few luxuries the austere old man allowed himself, and thought it over. The duty visit to Javanne could not, of course be avoided. A visit to Armida could await Lew’s return; he could hardly be intending to spend the winter at Aldaran.

If Kennard was ill, courtesy demanded that Regis pay him a visit in his suite, but for some unknown reason he was unwilling to face the Alton lord. He did not know why. Kennard had always been kind to him. After a time he focused it down to resentment: he stood by and watched Danilo’s disgrace and didn’t say a word. Lew wanted to interfere, but he couldn’t. Kennard didn’t care.

And Kennard was one of the most powerful telepaths in the Comyn. Regis, feeling this much resentment, was reluctant to face him. Kennard would know immediately how he felt.

He knew, rationally, that he should go to Kennard at once, if only to tell him about his newly developing laran. There were training techniques to help him master and control his new facilities. But in the cadets it had not seemed to matter, and the proper time to speak to Lew about it had never come till too late. Dyan had seemed to take it for granted that he already had what training he needed. Kennard was the obvious one to tell. He admonished himself sternly that he should go at once, now, today.

But he was still reluctant to face him. He decided to go to Javanne for a few days first. By that time perhaps Lew would be back.

A few days later he rode north, the weight of it still on his mind. Syrtis lay half a mile from the northward road and, on an impulse, he told his escort to wait in a nearby village. He rode alone toward Syrtis.

It lay at the far end of a long valley, leading downward to the lake country around Mariposa. It was a clear autumn day, with ripening fruit trees hanging low under their thick harvest and small animals making scurrying noises in the dry brushwood at the side of the road. The sounds and smells made Regis feel well content as he rode along, but as he came down toward the farm his spirits sank. He had been thinking Danilo well off, to be coming home to this pleasant country, but he had not realized how poor the place was. The main house was small, one wing falling into such disrepair that it could hardly have been safe for human habitation. The sparse outbuildings showed how few men must live on the place. The old moat had been drained, ditched and put to kitchen-gardens with neat rows of vegetables and pot-herbs.

An old, bent servant told him, touching his breast in rustic courtesy, that the master was just returning from the hunt. Regis suspected that in a place like this rabbit would be more plentiful on the table than butcher’s meat.

A tall, aging man in a once-fine threadbare cloak rode slowly toward him. He was moustached and bearded, and sat his horse with the erect competence of an old soldier. A fine hawk sat, hooded, on his saddle.

“Greetings,” he said in a deep voice. “We see few travelers at Syrtis. How may I serve you?”

Regis alighted from his horse, making him a courteous bow. “ DomFelix Syrtis? Regis-Rafael Hastur, para servirte.”

“My house and I are at your service, Lord Regis. Let me see to your mount. Old Mauris is half blind; I’d not trust him with such a fine animal. Will you come with me?”

Leading his horse, Regis followed the old man toward a stone barn in better repair than most of the outbuildings, being weathertight and newly roofed. At the far end was a screened-off enclosure; nearer were open box stalls, and Regis tethered his horse in the closest while DomFelix took a cluster of small birds from the hook at his saddle and unsaddled his mount. Regis saw Danilo’s beautiful black gelding in another stall, the old bony hunter DomFelix had been riding and two good, but aging mares. The other stalls were empty, except for a couple of clumsy plowhorses and a milk animal or two. This was abysmal poverty indeed for a family of noble blood and Regis was ashamed to witness it. He remembered that Danilo had hardly had a whole shirt to his back when he joined the cadets.

DomFelix was looking at Regis’ black mare with the kind of love that men of his type bestowed openly only on their horses and hawks. “A fine mount, vai dom. Armida-bred, no doubt? I know that pedigree.”

“True. A birthday gift from Lord Kennard, before I went to Nevarsin.”

“Might I ask her name, Lord Regis?”

“Melisande,” Regis told him, and the old man stroked the velvet muzzle tenderly. Regis nodded to Danilo’s fine black. “And there is another of the same breed; they might well be foals of the same dam.”

“Aye,” said DomFelix curtly, “Lord Alton does not withdraw a gift, however unworthy given.” He shut his mouth with a snap and Regis’ heart sank; it promised ill for his mission. DomFelix turned away to see to the hawk, and Regis asked politely, “Had you good hunting, sir?”

“Indifferent,” said DomFelix shortly, taking the hawk from his saddle and carrying her to the enclosure at the far end. “No, my lord, you will frighten a haggard I have here. Be pleased to remain where you are.”

Rebuked, Regis kept his distance. When the old man returned, he complimented him on a well-trained bird.

“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, DomRegis?”

“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, DomFelix, 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, DomRegis. 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.