"Bradley, Marion Zimmer - Dyan Ardais 02 - The Hawkmaster's Son" - читать интересную книгу автора (Bradley Marion Zimmer)

The Hawkmaster's Son
by Marion Zimmer Bradley
Dyan Ardais laid down his pack on the narrow cot, covered with a single rough blanket, which would be his in the cadet barracks, and started to transfer his gear into the wooden chest standing at the foot of the bed.
Third year; the final year as a cadet. He was just enough older than the others to put him out of step as a cadet; he had spent his first two cadet years here before his father's inexplicable decision—and all of his father's decisions were inexplicable to Dyan—that he should spend several years in Nevarsin Monastery. Now, an equally inexplicable whim had brought him back here.
He thought, with resignation so deep that he did not fully realize how bitter it was, that his family did not seem to care where he was—Nevarsin, the cadet corps, in one of Zandru's nine hells—so long as he was not at Ardais.
He had been glad to leave Nevarsin, however. He had learned much there, including the mastery of laran denied him when the Keeper of Dalereuth Tower had refused to admit him to a Tower circle; he had seriously wished to study the healing arts and medicine, and he had been given ample opportunity, at Nevarsin, to study these things normally denied to a son of the Comyn. More than this; he had been able to forget himself there, giving himself up to his first love, music and singing in the great Nevarsin choir. The Father Cantor had admired his clear treble voice and gone to some trouble to have it trained; the saddest day of Dyan's life had been the day his voice broke, and his mature singing voice turned out to be a clear, tuneful but undistinguished baritone.
But it was not really suitable, that a Comyn heir should live among cristoforos. He had accepted their discipline with calm, cynical obedience, as a means to an end, without the slightest intent of taking their rules of life into his personal world-view; and when the time came, he had left them without much regret. Tempting as it might be, to give his life to music and healing, he had always known that his real vocation, the path laid out for every Comyn son, was here; to serve, and later to rule, among the Comyn. There was a Council seat awaiting him, as soon as he was old enough to take it.
And as soon as he completed this mandatory third year in the cadet corps there would be an officer's post in the Guard. The Commander of the Thendara City Guard, Valdir Alton, had only one son of an age to command; Lewis-Valentine Lanart was nineteen. Valdir's younger son, Kennard, had been sent to Terra, a few years ago, as an exchange student for the young Terran, Lerrys Montray. Dyan had known Lerrys, a little, during his own second cadet year; Lerrys had been allowed to serve a single year in the cadets, in token that he was taking up the obligation of a Comyn son. Dyan had heard his superiors say that the young Terran had been a credit to his people, but Dyan felt cynical about that. They could hardly expel or harry a political guest, so they would find tactful praise for whatever he did right and ignore his blunders, and it would make for excellent diplomatic relations.
Dyan wondered why the Comyn bothered. It would be better to send all of those damned Terrans yelping back to whatever godforgotten world had spawned them!
Dyan remembered Lerrys Montray as a pleasant-looking, amiable young nonentity, but he could have been a dozen times as capable and competent and Dyan would still have loathed him. For Larry had taken Kennard Alton's place—and for Dyan, no man alive, not the legendary Son of Aldones, could have done that. Dyan had fiercely resolved that this Terran intruder get no joy of his usurped place; he flattered himself that he had made things damned difficult for the presumptuous Terran who thought he could stand in Kennard Alton's boots!
As if some trace of precognition had sent the thought of Kennard to his mind moments before the reality, a voice behind Dyan said softly, "You're here before me, cousin? I had hoped to find you here, Janu...."
Only one person living, since Dyan's mother had died ten years before, had ever dared to use that childish pet-name. Dyan's breath caught in his throat, then he was swept into a familiar kinsman's embrace.
"Kennard!"
Kennard hugged him tight, then held him off at arm's length. "Now I really know I am home again, bredu ... so you interrupted your time in the Cadets, too? Third year?"
"Yes. And you?"
"I finished my third year before I left, remember? But Lewis has gone to Arilinn Tower, so Father wants me as his seconde this year. I'll be your officer, Dyan. How old are you now?"
"Seventeen. Just one year younger than you, Kennard—or had you forgotten, we have the same birthday?"
Kennard chuckled. "Why, so I had. But you remembered?"
"There isn't much I don't remember about you, Ken," Dyan said, with an intensity that made the older lad frown. Dyan saw the frown and quickly went back to lightness. "When did you come back?"
"Only a few days ago, just time enough to pay my respects to my foster sister and my mother. Cleindori is at Arilinn now, and of course, there is talk of marriage, or at least handfasting, for all of us. And what about you, Dyan? You're at the age when they start talking about such things."
Dyan shrugged. "There was some talk of marrying me to Maellen Castamir," he said, "but there is time enough for that; she is still playing with dolls; there might be a handfasting, but certainly not a wedding, not for ten years and more. Which suits me well enough. And you?"
"Talk," Kennard said, "There's always talk. Time enough to listen when it's something more than talk. Meanwhile I can renew my old friendships—and speak-
ing of old friendships," he said, and broke off as two young men came into the barracks.
"Rafael!" he said, then laughed, looking at the second youth. "I mean, of course, both of you!"
Rafael Hastur, Heir to Hastur, a slight, handsome youngster, with eyes nearer to blue than the true Comyn gray, smiled merrily and held out both hands to Ken-nard. "It is good to see you again, cousin! And you, Dyan—do you know Rafael-Felix Syrtis, my paxman and sworn man?"

Kennard smiled at him, "We probably met as boys; before I was sent to Terra. But I know your family, of course; the Syrtis hawks are famous."
"As famous as the Armida horses," young Syrtis said, smiling. "I heard you were to be one of our officers, Captain Alton."
"Kennard will do," Kennard said genially, "There's no need for formality here, kinsman. You know my cousin Dyan, don't you?"
Dyan frowned and gave Rafael Syrtis the most distant of nods, his frown reproving Kennard's effusive friendliness. A Syrtis, the son of the hawkmaster, and a cristoforo, too, as the Syrtis folk had been for generations, was no suitable paxman or companion for a Hastur heir, and, to look at the two of them, Dyan sensed they were not paxman and master alone, but bredin as well! Young Syrtis addressed his master in the familiar inflection, and he saw that the young Syrtis, though he was only a minor noble, wore in his sheath a dagger with the fine Hastur crest. Well, Rafael Hastur might have a taste for low company, but he could not force his commoner friend on other Comyn! He began talking to Rafael Hastur, pointedly ignoring young Syrtis' sycophantic efforts to be friendly. Young Hastur tried to include his friend in the conversation, but Dyan gave him only brief, frigidly courteous replies.
After a time Kennard went to attend on his father, and one of the armsmasters sent for Dyan; Rafael Hastur and Rafael Syrtis remained in the barracks, helping each other put away their possessions.
Rafael Hastur said, in apology, "You must not mind Dyan, my friend. The Ardais are proud ... he was dis-
gustingly rude to you, Rafe; I regard that as an insult to myself, and I shall tell him so!"
Rafael Syrtis laughed and shrugged. "He is very young
for his age," he said. "He has always been a bit like
that, acting as if he thought himself far above everyone
else, probably because he is self-conscious ... his father,
you know. I should not say so about a Comyn Lord, but
old Lord Kyril is a disgusting old sot, the most unpleas
ant drunk I have ever met."
"You won't hear any arguments from me about that, Rafael said, "I have no love for my Uncle of Ardais. But Dyan used to be a nice lad."
Rafe Syrtis shrugged. "Well, I can live without his liking. But I'm sorry for the lad; he has not many friends. He would have more, no one would blame Dyan for the old man's faults, but he is prickly and over-swift to take offense and slight others before they can snub him. Dom Rafael, shall I go and look at the duty lists and see where and when we are assigned?"
"Go by all means," Rafael Hastur said. "Bring me word of where I am assigned, and forget not to take note of when we are off duty, so that we pay our respectful compliments to my sister Alisa and to her companion ... ha, Rafael, you see, I can feel the wind when it blows from the right quarter, and need no weather vane for that!"
Rafe Syrtis made a gesture of laughing surrender.
"You know me, vai dom caryu ... indeed, I am eager
to pay my respects to the damisela Caitlin "
"But not too respectfully, I hope," Rafael Hastur teased, then sobered. "No, I won't make fun of you, bredu. I am truly glad you have found someone you can love, and she is worthy of you in all ways, my foster sister Caitlin."
"But I am not worthy of her ..." Rafe's voice trembled. "How could I look so high "
Rafael Hastur laid his hand on his friend's shoulder. He said vehemently, "No, Rafe, don't speak like that. My father knows, we all know, your worth and quality. My father, too, values your father as one of his most loyal men. To me, Caitlin is only one of my cousins, all
eyes and teeth, and what you want with that scrawny buck-toothed little thing—"
"Scrawny! Caitlin scrawny!" Rafe Syrtis cried in indignation, "She is divinely slender, and her eyes ... those eyes...."