Untitled (3 page)

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 floating high on the horizon, the Fleet starships soaring so graceful, so carefree, so unchained … In his frequent Stare sessions, he came to know the ships by heart. There were the
Venture
and
Midnight
, the
Great Expectations
and the
Fictner
, to mention a few. Able to see through the ship's hulls, he came to recognize their crews and their captains as well. He watched them eating and drinking in the mess halls; all that food, all that drink and good fellowship—oh, how he craved it. He watched the ships launch from their berths, going to wherever it was they were going. He watched them return to port weeks later, sometimes with battle damage. Sometimes, they didn't come back at all, their berthing docks empty, and he, missing their presence, mourning the lost crews, wept. His father, not a hard-hearted man, stopped the punishment, thinking he was hurting his son too much.

Those ships had been destroyed in space by the Xaphans. The enemy. The betrayers. The Xaphans weren't so bad his father, ever the diplomat, said. The Xaphans should be welcomed back into the League. Remembering the lost ships, the dead and wounded crews that he had befriended from afar, he stood and told his father to be quiet … to shut up in front of a shocked luncheon. The Xaphans were evil.

More Stare … the hardest yet, the longest, the most angry.

* * * * *

Another indignity Sadric subjected him to was letter-writing— endless correspondence to this Great Lord and that Great Countess, all people he neither knew or cared to know. A fashionable trend in the League was to forgo the usual methods of communicating—no holos, no tele-vids, or insta-types. No, Great Lords were expected to write letters longhand using ink and fine paper, the way the ancients before the time of the Elders did it. Three hours a day of letter-writing was Davage's bane. He swore his hand was going to fall off, his fingers hurt so badly. Another hour a day was spent reading the letters coming back to him—letters from peers and ladies of standing from other Houses who might be agreeable to court one day. The letters he got back from Countess Hortensia of Monama were characteristically dark and depressing, full of the usual warnings regarding a terrifying evil presence that searched for him across the stars. In one letter, Countess Monama drew a picture of a strange pyramidal shape that she had seen in her frequent visions. Within the pyramid was a smaller one with a crudely drawn stick figure sitting at the top. At the base of the pyramid were many prone and weeping stick figures. "Here, the evil searches. Here the evil commands," she wrote. "Beware this place."

Good Creation, why couldn't the evil force be done with him already and give him peace?

* * * * *

Much later, no longer a boy, as a handsome young man Davage again ran through the castle. By this point, his father was mad, locked in his tower, and his mother had passed away, resting in her tomb on Dead Hill.

He ran, this time from his sister, Pardock, the new Countess of Vincent.

How could his sister have done this to him?

Davage had two sisters, Pardock, again, the newly married Countess of Vincent, and Lady Poe, several years her younger. Both sisters were decades older than Davage, their faces unchanged with time, ever young. Pardock, like their mother, was tall and statuesque. She was blue-haired and beautiful. Additionally, like her mother and her grandfather Maserfeld, she was rowdy, and she could be downright mean too. She often stood firm against Sadric, arguing with him in public, defying him at home, spurning his efforts to make a proper lady of standing out of her. Sadric couldn't punish her with the Stare like he did with Davage because Pardock had the Stare too. Two Starers couldn't Hard Stare each other, so that was that. So, there was yelling— lots and lots of yelling—and slammed doors.

Pardock, rough and tumble with outsiders and an obstinate rock with her father, always loved her brother, always looked out for him. Seeing him suffering, starving in his room, going meal after meal without getting a bite to eat, she often smuggled him food, just a bit of cheese and some fruit wrapped in a cloth, but Davage, grateful, devoured it. She had a habit of sneaking out of the castle and going to the village by the sea. When Davage was old enough, she took him with her. They dressed up as peasants, and using the tunnels running under the castle, they snuck into the pubs and wharf-side bars. Davage was astounded. He loved talking like a commoner, walking among them, not being judged at every turn. And the food—to simply order what you wanted and be able to eat it at your leisure … truly remarkable. And fights; Dav and Par often got into fights in the bars, bouncing their fists off of commoners' faces and then mug-hoisting with them afterwards, no hard feelings, no harm done.

Davage's incognito forays into the village with Pardock were some of the most wonderful adventures he'd ever had. How he cherished his sister.

And then there was Poe, his other sister. Poe was often away from the castle for long periods of time—where she was or why she was gone for so long, Davage didn't know. When she was there, she was strange, silent, gazing at something that only she could see—not even Davage with his Sight.

It was unheard of to be sick in the League. Sickness, other than embarrassing and seldom spoken of fungal infections, was a scandal, a sure sign of weakness and bad breeding. And Poe was sick, badly sick in her brain. She was mentally ill.

She was crazy, to use the vernacular. One could smell the sickness on her … a strange, metallic, basic smell.

Were House Blanchefort not so highly placed, were Sadric not such a skilled gentleman at spinning a topic in League circles, her illness could have brought the House down in a scandal-ridden heap. Sadric, though, was very protective of Poe. If he was strict and harsh with Davage, if he was angry and argumentative with Pardock, he was patient and doting on Poe. Somebody had to be, for she was so sad, so lonely in her haze-clouded little world. Everything about her seemed to be flawed … imperfect. She was attractive but not beautiful like Pardock. She was tall like her brother but frail, bent, teetering. She had blue hair like her brother and sister, but only in strange wispy patches—she was mostly blonde-headed. Platinum blonde—a commoner's hair color.

Sadric often tasked Davage and Pardock to watch Poe after their mother's passing during the days when he was away at a function. They sat there with her for long periods of time, two sisters and a brother— one tall and fierce, one tall and restless, one sad and sick.

It was hard not to love Poe, though—that innocent face, that silly head of blonde-blue hair, her shy, slightly comical bearing. Davage and Pardock passed the time by trying to entertain Poe, they took her into the huge, mysterious Telmus Grove behind the castle and showed her the wondrous plants and animals there, and she laughed and clapped, her blue eyes full of wonder.

Then, before long, her eyes always grew blank, and she fell into a spell. Such was her life. Pardock once knocked the teeth out of a lady who had made a crass public comment about "Crazy Poe," and said that she "smelled" funny—Dav and Par eventually became as protective of her as their father. She was their sister, sick or not, and they loved her.

* * * * *

Davage ran through the castle … pursued this time by his sister Pardock.

As they ran, they both wept, Davage heartsick and in grief, Pardock out of fear and love for her brother.

Gasping for air, his heart fluttering, Davage stopped and slumped to the floor, weeping in wracking spasms. Pardock caught up to him, she in her blue House Vincent gown, Davage in his best, his wedding attire.

The wedding the Pardock had just prevented from happening. The baton rolling on the floor of the chapel, his Xaphan bride who was, even now, shooting her way back Xaphan space ahead of an angry mob.

Pardock put her arms around him. He tried to pull away.

"Dav!" she cried. "Dav, look at me!"

"What have you done to me? Do you hate me so?" he sobbed.

Pardock, in a panic, put her hands on his face. "Dav … you don't know … you don't know what I saw … you don't know what she is—what she would do to you!"

Dav reared his head back. "Marilith!" he cried.

Pardock, weeping, held her brother to her. "I'm sorry, Dav. I did it for you! I threw down the baton for you! You can hate me if you want. You can hate me as much as you need to. As long as I know your soul is safe, that's all I care about."

And Davage stood, composed himself, and walked away from his sister. He looked around at the walls of stone and felt them closing in on him.

He ran.

Unable to stay in the castle any longer, seeing little bits of Marilith, Princess of Xandarr, everywhere, he left. Wearing common clothes, he went to the city of Minz and joined the Stellar Fleet … to go to the stars, to get away from the woman he loved but couldn't have, to get away from the sister who had prevented his marriage—for his sake, she had said.

The common clothing was a quaint touch, the Lords at the Fleet office thought, but everybody knew the Lord of Blanchefort—the Unable Groom, the man who couldn't be married to that randy, halfnaked Xaphan iconoclast. His public shame made him a celebrity of sorts. His family connections undeniable, he was accepted as is without the usual Letter of Recommendation and was oathed at once. He became a junior helmsman aboard the
Faith,
a rickety old
Webber
-class starship. Nobody expected much out of him—a spoiled Blue Lord who was going to probably quit on his own or get drummed out in shame. It happened all the time.

But what a helmsman he was. Before long, he was flying the
Faith
, that old tub, like she was a Main Fleet vessel ready for war. Those regal hands of his—hands that could properly hold a fork after years of drill, hands that could flatten a roughneck in the bars, hands that could write out a letter in flowing, exquisite script—could turn a mean wheel, could fly a wicked starship. He was magical; he could make a ship dance. It was said he could fly a starship through a thunderstorm and not get the ship wet. He quickly became a master helmsman, a man of great renown, and Fleet captains fought over his services. He recalled the first time he helmed a starship into battle with a new Xaphan enemy, an angry rising star in the evil Xaphan ranks—Princess Marilith of Xandarr, his once love and future antagonist.

He had just been promoted to full lieutenant, ten years to the day after joining the Fleet, when he took some time ashore and went to see his sister Pardock at Castle Vincent on Nether Day—a warm, solemn holiday, a holiday for families, for togetherness. Pardock, usually regal and proper, upon seeing Davage in his blue Fleet uniform and hat, put her children down and ran to him. She ran down the tree-lined lane as fast as her confining House Vincent gown allowed her, and Davage ran to her as well. They embraced when they met, ten years of pain and hurt erased in one moment.