Startled at his tone—Dyan was indeed showing extraordinary gentleness—Danilo raised his eyes to his guardian’s face. Dyan said gently, “Your friend will be waiting for you when you reach Syrtis, foster-son; you need not face the funeral alone, I made sure of that. I would myself come to do him honor but . . .” Dyan took Danilo’s two hands formally in his own; he was perfectly barriered, but Danilo sensed a threat of some emotion he could not quite identify; regret? sorrow? Dyan said quietly, “Your father was one of the few men living who dared to incur my displeasure in honor’s name; I have great respect for his memory. Stay as long as you wish, my boy, to set his affairs in order. And convey my compliments to Regis Hastur.”
He released Danilo’s hands and stepped back, formally dismissing him. Danilo bowed, his emotions too mixed to say anything. Regis Hastur, already awaiting him at Syrtis? He went slowly to his room, where he found Dyan’s body-servant packing his saddle-bags; Dyan had sent a purse of money, too, for the expenses of the journey and to make gifts to his father’s servants. He had told off three men to escort him, and as Danilo went down to the hall, he found a hot meal, which could be eaten quickly, already on the table and smoking. Danilo was too weary and troubled to swallow anything, but he noticed distantly that the coridom, or hall-steward, brought a basket of food and packed it with the saddlebags on the pack-animal; inns were almost nonexistent and travel-stops few and far between.
~o0o~
The snowflakes were falling into the open grave, mingling with the lumps of dirt there as the men and women of Dom Felix’s household, one after another, stepped to the side of the pit and let a handful of dirt fall on the coffin.
“ . . . and the Master said to me, ‘your daughter she’s a good clever girl, it’s too bad for her to stay here milking dairy-animals and scrubbing pots all her life.’ And even though we were short of kitchen help, he sent her with a letter to the Lady Caitlin at Castle Hastur, and the Lady took her into her own household as a sewing-woman and later she became the lady’s housekeeper and married the steward, and he always asks . . . asked me about her,” the old cook finished, her voice shaking, and crumbled the lump of dirt between her hands, letting it fall with the snowflakes into the grave. “Let that memory lighten grief.”
Each of the housefolk had told some small anecdote, some kindness done, some pleasant memory of the dead man. Now the steward Dyan had sent last year was standing at the graveside, but Danilo hardly heard what he said. Regis was behind him; but they had had no more than the briefest chance to greet one another. And now Regis stepped to the graveside; and as he looked up, his eyes met Danilo’s for the first time since they had greeted one another that morning. Between Dyan’s efficient steward and Dom Felix’s own men, there had after all been very little to do. Danilo had been beginning to think that he might as well have stayed at Ardais for all there was left for him to do here.
“When first I saw Dom Felix,” Regis said, the snowflakes falling on the elegant blue Hastur cloak and on his coppery hair—he had, Danilo thought dully, gone to considerable trouble to present himself as prince and Heir to Hastur before these men—“he snarled at me as if I had been a naughty small boy come to rob his orchards. He thought I had come to trouble his son’s peace, and he was willing to send me away angry and incur the ill-will of Comyn, to protect his son. Let that memory lighten grief.”
But that, Danilo thought numbly, was almost exactly what Dyan had said, would no doubt, have said if he had come here—that his father would face angering powerful men for his son’s sake. He thought, I should have been a better son to him. He took the crumbling ball of earth Regis had put into his hand. He was remembering how Regis had sought him out here at Syrtis. We sat over there, he thought, in the orchard, on that crumbling log.
At the time he had been no more than a small-holder’s son, without even a decent shirt to his name; no one knew he had the Ardais Gift. Yet Regis had said, “I like your father, Dani.” Regis had come here when Dyan had contrived to have him expelled in disgrace from the Cadet Corps. And Dom Felix had been rude to him. Danilo said, blind with pain and unable to pick and choose at his words, “My father cared nothing for the court, or for riches and power for himself. His older son had been taken from him—” Taken from him twice; once when my brother Rafael chose to follow a Hastur as his sworn man, and then when he followed that Hastur to death. And I struck him a blow on that old bruise. Yet . . .
“Yet he willingly let me go from him when most fathers would have kept me at his own side, to serve him in the obscurity he preferred. He let me go first into the Cadets and then to Ardais. Never once did he seek to keep me at home for his own comfort. Let that memory . . .” his voice broke and he could hardly finish, “lighten . . . grief . . .”
His fingers tightened convulsively, crumbling the lump of dirt. He felt Regis’ hand over his own, and suddenly he felt numb. It would soon be over, and all these people would go away, and he could go inside and drink hot soup . . . or hot wine which might be more to the point . . . and get warm, and sleep. The funeral feast was over, the burying was over, and now he could rest.
Brother Estefan, a cristoforo monk who had come from the village, was saying a few kindly words at the graveside. “ . . . and as the Bearer of Burdens bore the Worldchild across the swollen river of Life, so our departed brother here strove all his life to help his fellow-men bear their burdens as best he could. Dom Felix was not a rich man, and much of his life he lived in great poverty, yet many in the country round here can speak of having been fed in his kitchens when the winter was hard, or that he sent his men to bring firewood to cold houses when that was all he had to give. Once I came late after visiting some sick folk on his estate; his cook and steward had gone to bed, so he welcomed me in with his own hands and brought me to warm at his fire; and since he said his cook had left him too much supper, he simply poured half of his soup into my bowl and cut a chunk from his own loaf, and because there was no one to make up a room for me, he set down some saddle blankets by the fire to make up a bed for me. Let that memory lighten grief, and may the Lord of all the Worlds welcome him to the Blessed Realms, having held there in store for him all the kindnesses which when he dwelt among us he shared with his fellow men.” He made the Holy Sign over the grave and signaled the workmen to start filling it in. “So we on earth may cease to grieve and allow our brother to journey to the Blessed Realms untroubled by the thought of our mourning. Farewell.”
“He has laid down his burdens, farewell,” chorused the watchers beside the grave and turned away.
So, Danilo thought, there he will lie, in an unmarked grave here on his own lands, resting beside my great-great-grandfathers before him, and my sons and grandsons after him. Or does he truly feast this night in the Blessed Realm, in the presence of his God, with my mother on one hand and my elder brother on the other? I do not know.
Only Brother Estefan returned to the house with them. Danilo went to fetch some of the money Dyan had sent with him to make gifts to Dom Felix’s men and came back into the hallway; the priest had refused to enter the main Hall, saying he knew Danilo needed to rest after the long journey and the funeral feast and burying. Danilo knew he was eager to get back to the Longhouse in the village.
“The snow will be heavy tonight; what a good thing it did not begin to come down so hard until the burying was over,” Brother Estefan said.
“Yes, yes, a good thing,” Danilo said, thinking, Surely he is not going to stand here and make small-talk with me about the weather!
“You will remain here at Syrtis now, my lord, in your rightful place, and not return to Ardais? All through the Domains and beyond, it is known that Lord Ardais is a wicked man, fearing no gods, licentious and wicked . . .”
“He has behaved honorably to me,” Danilo said, “and he is the brother of my own mother; I am sworn as his Heir. It is my duty to my mother’s blood and to Comyn.”
The priest’s mouth tightened, and he made a small expressive sound as
Danilo said, Comyn. “Your father was never really at ease about you in that place. And it is rumored that Lord Regis is one of the same debauched stamp; he is neither married nor handfasted, and he is eighteen already. Why has he come here?”
“I am his sworn man and paxman,” Danilo began, but behind him in the shadowed hallway Regis Hastur said, “Good Brother.” Danilo had not noticed before that Regis’ voice had deepened and strengthened to an almost organlike bass.
“Good Brother, if anyone you know has complained to you of my conduct toward him, I am prepared to make an accounting of my behavior, to him or to you. If not, I have not appointed you as keeper of my conscience, nor is that office vacant. May I send a servant to guide your donkey through the storm? No? Are you sure? Well, good night, then, and the Gods ride with you.” And as the door closed behind the priest, he muttered, “ . . . or anyone else who is willing to endure your company!”
Danilo felt almost hysterical laughter rising in his throat, but he turned away into the main Hall. Regis caught at his sleeve; at the touch memory blazed between them, but then Danilo drew away, and Regis, shocked less by the withdrawal than by the refused rapport, said vehemently, “Naotalba twist my feet . . . I am a fool, Dani! I know you do not want it gossiped, especially among those who are all too ready to seek scandal of Comyn!” He laughed, embarrassed. “I am to blame, that I thought myself above suspicion, perhaps; I had only feared to expose you to rude jesting, not to Brother Estefan’s long-faced concern about the state of your soul and your sins!”
“I don’t care what they say,” Danilo blurted, “but I can’t bear that they should say such things about you . . .”
“My own honor is my best safeguard,” Regis said quietly, “but then I am not exposed to their talk; there are not many who will dare speak slander of a Hastur. I, at least, am not ashamed of the truth. Of all evils I hate lying the most . . .” They were still standing in the doorway, and the old cook, who was still setting out a simple supper in the Hall—porridge sliced cold and fried with bacon, a baked pudding which smelled of dried fruits, bowls of steaming soup—raised eyes still blotched and red to summon them. She said with the freedom of an old servant—when Danilo was very small she had fried him dough-cakes and mended the torn knees of his first riding breeks—“You should ha’ asked the Brother to dine with us, Dom Dani . . . Master Danilo,” she corrected herself quickly.
“True,” Regis said in a lazy voice. “We could have done with his company, I suppose, for an hour more, if we must, and it is a pity to send the poor man out into the snow with nothing in his belly. What would they say to you at Nevarsin, Dani?”
“He will dine better in the Longhouse, nanny,” said Danilo to the old woman, “and he would probably not wish to dine in the house of a sinner; I made it clear I was none of his flock.”
“And I am just as glad to be spared his company,” said Regis. “I had all I could stomach of pieties when we dwelt together in Nevarsin, Danilo; I had enough for a lifetime and more, of their solemn nonsense. Oh, I suppose some of them are good men and holy; but I cannot believe what they believe, and there is an end to it. I do not wish to be rude about your father’s religion, but it is not mine, and I feel no particular obligation to your priest. Well,” his face sobered, “we have had no time to talk. I was eager to see you again, bredu, but not like this.” There was a stone jug of wine on the table, too; he poured a cup and handed it to Danilo. “Drink first, my brother, then eat. You are exhausted, and no wonder, and I saw that you could eat but little at the funeral feast.”
Danilo drank off the wine, feeling it warming him all the way down. Then he put a spoon in his soup, but he felt Regis’ eyes on him, puzzled.
Damn that priest, he thought; now it is all between us again. I had not wanted to think of that. It is enough that I dwell in Dyan’s house and am forced to turn my eyes away from that accursed Julian, flaunting Dyan’s favor, and the knowledge that Dyan’s household thought, for a time, that I was there in that position, Dyan’s favorite, his minion or catamite . . . I am sworn to Regis. But what lies between us is more honorable than that.
His mind returned for a moment to a small travel-hut in the Hellers, where he and Regis had acknowledged the bond between them, had been, through their laran, more open to one another than lovers. Surely no more was wanted nor expected of him. I cherish Regis, and I love him with all my heart. But he would never ask more than that of me. Perhaps, if we had come to one another as young boys . . . but that was spoilt forever when Dyan sought from me what it could never have been in my nature to give. And tonight in the hallway Regis had been apologetic about exposing him even to the accusation.
He reached up for the bowl of fruit-spread for his fresh porridge and met Regis’ eyes. Regis smiled at him and said, “What are you thinking, my brother?”
Danilo said impulsively, “Of that night in the travel-shelter . . .”
“I have not forgotten,” Regis said, reached across the table and squeezed Danilo’s hand in his own. And at the touch, for a moment, they were there together, wholly open to one another, and a moment when Regis had drawn back, saying softly, “No. You don’t want to stir that up, do you, Dani?”
And they had both withdrawn . . . it is acknowledged between them, but they had both drawn back. The shadow of Dyan lies heavy on us both . . . neither of us wished, then, to admit what we wished for. It was enough that we knew . . . .
But the elderly cook was standing before them again.
“I made up the first guest-room for Lord Regis last night, sir,” she said to Danilo, “and I had the Master’s own room made up for you; was that right?”
Not right, thought Danilo, but customary and to be endured. He nodded acquiescence at the old woman and stood up, taking a candle in his hand.
“I am tired, nanny, and I will go up now. Go to your own rest now, and thank you for everything.”
She came and kissed his hand, and he saw her blinking hard as if she were about to start crying again. “There, there, nanny, go and sleep now,” he said, and patted the old woman’s cheek. She went out, clutching her apron to her face, and Regis took an apple from the bowl on the table and came after him. “I like your apples here,” he said. “Could your steward send me a barrel of them in Thendara?”
“Nothing is easier. Remind me to tell him tomorrow,” Danilo said, and together they went toward the stairs.
~o0o~
In the upper hallway, Danilo hesitated before the heavy carven doors of what had been his father’s room. He had not been inside it a dozen times in his life. He said at last, “I . . . I can’t go in alone . . .” and Regis’ hand was firm on his shoulder.
“Of course you can’t. She should not have expected it of you. If you were coming back here to live it would be different.” He pushed the door and they went in together. Danilo touched his candle to a branch of candles that was sitting on the old carven desk, and light sprang up, gentle to the faded tapestries, the shabby carpet; but the old furniture was well-kept and shining with wax.
The big bed listed heavily to one side where the old man had slept in it alone all these years; on the other side was a still high, firm, untouched bolster, in pathetic contrast to the flattened, lumpy old one which had, all these years, known the weight of his father’s graying head.
Seventeen years now, since I was born in this bed, and my mother died there on that same day. That sagging, one-sided old bed struck him as unutterably pathetic. He lived alone here, all those years, and I left him even more alone.
“But you are not alone here,” Regis said quietly. “I’ll stay with you, Dani.”
“But I . . . you . . .” Danilo looked helplessly at Regis, and his friend smiled a little. He said, “No, Dani . . . we must talk about this now. Neither of us could face it then, I know. But . . . we are sworn. And you know as well as I what that means . . . .”
Danilo looked at the threadbare carpet. He said, striking out in protest, “I thought . . . you were as . .
. as shocked, as sickened as I was . . . by what Dyan wanted of me . . . .”
Regis’ mobile face twisted in the candlelight, his brows coming almost together.
“I still am . . . by force or unwillingness,” he said, “but what made me sick was Dyan’s . . . insistence, not his tastes, if you understand me. Those are . . . no mystery to me. On the contrary. But . . . freely given and in bond of friends. Not otherwise. I thought . . .” as if from a very great distance, Danilo knew that his friend’s voice shook and barriered himself against the naked outrush of that emotion, “I thought you truly shared that—that we were as one, but that we had simply set it aside for another time. A time when we were not ill, nor terrified, nor in danger of death, nor under the shadow . . . the shadow of your fear of Dyan. And I believed no time would be better than now . . . to confirm what once we swore to one another, that we would be together . . . .”
Moving through intense embarrassment, Danilo managed to reach out to Regis, to take him into a kinsman’s embrace. He kissed him shyly on the cheek. He remembered when he had done this before, that day in the orchard. He said, groping for words, “You are . . . you are my beloved brother and my lord. All that I am, all that I can give in honor . . . I cherish you. I would give my life for you. As for the rest . . . that, I think, it is not in me to give . . .” and he could not go on.
Regis held him hard, his hands sliding up to grip Danilo by the elbows. He stared into his eyes. He said softly, “You know I want nothing of you that you are not willing to give. Not ever. What I do not understand is why you are not willing. Dani, do you still believe that what I want of you is . . . is shameful, or that I want you . . .”
No less than Danilo, the younger boy knew, Regis was groping blindly through a forest of uprushing words, avoiding the deeper touch of laran. “Do you think I want you for pride, or to show my power over you, or . . . or any of those things? You said, once, that you knew I was not like Dyan, and that you were not afraid of me . . .” But he sighed and let Danilo go.