He'd also inherited her restlessness, her spirit. His mother was once known for her quick temper and her able sword-hand. She was a lady of standing who was notorious for her knack of getting into and winning duels. How a powdered fop like Sadric survived to court a savage Black Widow like her was a real mystery. In later years, his mother taught Davage how to sword fight, a skill that eventually served him well.
But for now, his mother simply handed her son over to his lurking father, throwing him back into the stately fire that had been set for him.
And the endless drilling and sessions began, the fine clothes and fancy shoes confining and galling. He was forced to learn how to stand, how to walk, how to bow, how to hold a fork—forced to study the traits, habits, and identifying characteristics of the Great Houses, forced to endure all the things he rather not have learned.
Sadric put him through his paces, then, armed with this useless knowledge, Davage was loosed upon the battlefield—the luncheons, the stuffy morning get-togethers, and the high-brow cotillions. It was a hoity-toity battlefield that was every bit as dangerous and fraught with peril as a real one.
There were the rules—the unbending rules.
Do not be early.
Do not be late.
Do not speak out of turn.
Do not speak like a commoner.
DO NOT USE … PROFANITY!
Do not eat until the proper moment. Do not eat your foods out of order.
Do not eat your foods with the improper utensil.
Do not miss a step when dancing. And on and on …
Breaking the rules had repercussions. There were the footmen who stood behind every chair at the dinners and luncheons. Any breach in the rules of etiquette and decorum, any at all, and the footmen seized one's plate and took it away. A seemingly harmless punishment … yet Davage often went meal after meal and managed to not eat a bite, his plate ruthlessly removed after he'd violated some rule early on. He always managed to mess something up. Lady Hathaline of Durst, a House from a nearby castle, was good friends with Davage, and she often tried to help him, to correct him under her breath. She'd somehow remove her complicated Durst shoe and kick him in the shin when he was going wrong, and many times her efforts were detected by the footmen and she lost her plate right along with Davage, the pair of them going hungry. He once went a whole week without eating a thing. Pacing the castle, he was ravenous. There was not a crumb of unsecured food to be found, and near collapse, he ate the wax bindings out of a stained glass window one day. It was a tasteless, unnourishing meal but something he could get his teeth on.
He told his father how hungry he was, and his father, not realizing how bad the situation was, told him he may eat when he accepted the rules of society and followed them to a mark. His father had no idea his son was literally starving to death; a feast of food and not a bite to eat.
And Davage ran from him, determined to find food, determined to put something, anything, into his belly. Sadric, chasing, caught him and punished him. A seemingly frail and dainty man, Sadric could nevertheless exact a terrible punishment on his unseemly son.
He put Davage to a Hard Stare—the Gift of the soul, putting him into wrenching pain before his gaze. When he was a younger boy, Davage shuddered and cried under the Stare, and Sadric, not a heartless or cruel man, held him and said it was for his own good, that he simply wished for him to become a fine lord. As Davage grew older, he simply stood there and took it … enduring the Stare, feeling the pain but ignoring it, putting his mind elsewhere.
Those painful Stare sessions were what first gave rise to his thoughts of going to the stars, to put Castle Blanchefort behind him. As he stood under the Stare, feeling his guts turning inside out, he looked skyward and Sighted through the room, through the walls of the castle, through the empty northern skies, to the starships
But for now, his mother simply handed her son over to his lurking father, throwing him back into the stately fire that had been set for him.
And the endless drilling and sessions began, the fine clothes and fancy shoes confining and galling. He was forced to learn how to stand, how to walk, how to bow, how to hold a fork—forced to study the traits, habits, and identifying characteristics of the Great Houses, forced to endure all the things he rather not have learned.
Sadric put him through his paces, then, armed with this useless knowledge, Davage was loosed upon the battlefield—the luncheons, the stuffy morning get-togethers, and the high-brow cotillions. It was a hoity-toity battlefield that was every bit as dangerous and fraught with peril as a real one.
There were the rules—the unbending rules.
Do not be early.
Do not be late.
Do not speak out of turn.
Do not speak like a commoner.
DO NOT USE … PROFANITY!
Do not eat until the proper moment. Do not eat your foods out of order.
Do not eat your foods with the improper utensil.
Do not miss a step when dancing. And on and on …
Breaking the rules had repercussions. There were the footmen who stood behind every chair at the dinners and luncheons. Any breach in the rules of etiquette and decorum, any at all, and the footmen seized one's plate and took it away. A seemingly harmless punishment … yet Davage often went meal after meal and managed to not eat a bite, his plate ruthlessly removed after he'd violated some rule early on. He always managed to mess something up. Lady Hathaline of Durst, a House from a nearby castle, was good friends with Davage, and she often tried to help him, to correct him under her breath. She'd somehow remove her complicated Durst shoe and kick him in the shin when he was going wrong, and many times her efforts were detected by the footmen and she lost her plate right along with Davage, the pair of them going hungry. He once went a whole week without eating a thing. Pacing the castle, he was ravenous. There was not a crumb of unsecured food to be found, and near collapse, he ate the wax bindings out of a stained glass window one day. It was a tasteless, unnourishing meal but something he could get his teeth on.
He told his father how hungry he was, and his father, not realizing how bad the situation was, told him he may eat when he accepted the rules of society and followed them to a mark. His father had no idea his son was literally starving to death; a feast of food and not a bite to eat.
And Davage ran from him, determined to find food, determined to put something, anything, into his belly. Sadric, chasing, caught him and punished him. A seemingly frail and dainty man, Sadric could nevertheless exact a terrible punishment on his unseemly son.
He put Davage to a Hard Stare—the Gift of the soul, putting him into wrenching pain before his gaze. When he was a younger boy, Davage shuddered and cried under the Stare, and Sadric, not a heartless or cruel man, held him and said it was for his own good, that he simply wished for him to become a fine lord. As Davage grew older, he simply stood there and took it … enduring the Stare, feeling the pain but ignoring it, putting his mind elsewhere.
Those painful Stare sessions were what first gave rise to his thoughts of going to the stars, to put Castle Blanchefort behind him. As he stood under the Stare, feeling his guts turning inside out, he looked skyward and Sighted through the room, through the walls of the castle, through the empty northern skies, to the starships
Similar Books
Touch the Wind
Janet Dailey
Seduced by a Spy
Andrea Pickens
Cat on the Fence
Tatiana Caldwell
A Fairytale Christmas
Susan Meier
Frightful Fairy Tales
Dame Darcy
Finity's End - a Union-Alliance Novel
C. J. Cherryh
South By Java Head
Alistair MacLean
With This Ring
Amanda Quick