The Kindreds, Volume 1

The Fourth, Pt. 1

Sada

"Hello, Father," Sada said. She was aware of each fluctuation of her voice, the pronunciation of every vowel. "I was most delighted to hear of your early return. How fared your journeys?"

She dipped her head, staring at the way her skirts laid on the ground as she bowed, ensuring her knee almost scraped the gravel, but didn't quite.

"What?" he said loudly above her. "You're so quiet I can scarcely hear you. Have we not spoken of this matter?"

"Yes Father, you're right, my apologies," Sada said, straining to make her voice loud above the cacophony of the dozens of guards and servants arriving behind her father. She wasn't sure why, but her voice always dropped to a murmur around him.

Darius Solares, the Duke of Altamira and Commander of the esteemed Kingsguard in service to His Majesty Abel Castellor, hardly deigned to look at Sada as he dismounted from his horse. The stomping, bit-biting warhorse was the unchecked twin to her father's temper, half-rearing and snorting and snapping whenever a servant neared to grab his bridle. Yet Duke Solares did not let more than a flicker of that temper show now as he lifted Sada from her deep bow with a firm finger under her chin.

"You have yet to learn the simple art of curtseying with a straight back," he said. "Was that not the very purpose for which your latest corset was purchased? Why did I even expend the copper? My funds do not materialize from the air, as you seem to think they do." He strode away from the gathering guards and horses, making his way toward the manor.

Sada scurried after him. "My apologies, Father. But was my curtsey sufficiently low this time? I have been focusing on the placement of my feet, just as you suggest—"

"It matters little whether it is low enough if your back is bent and your chin is jutting out, does it? Would you present yourself in such a manner before King Abel? Or even the queen? I should think not, hope not—so, then, why should I, your own father, be subjected to such laxity?" he said as she stared at his emerald-caped back. Walking now was an automatic process; she felt as though her mind was receding further into her body with each step. "I have long held the belief that you were the daughter of a duke and Commander of the Kingsguard, not daughter to one of the minor lords like the housemaids who serve us."

"Yes, Father," her voice said, forgetting to be loud, and she continued trailing after him in his great wake. Face hot with shame, she fought against the invisible claws that were trying to paralyze her chest which was already being squeezed shut by her new corset.

Her father summoned and dismissed servants as he strode toward the wooden manor in great, important steps. He shrugged his great emerald riding cape off as he walked, revealing a full suit of rich, dark velvet. His great but shaped beard and mutton shops were freshly oiled, and the dust had already been toweled from his face. Even when Duke Solares rode, he refused to wear anything but his finest clothes, always reminding onlookers of who he was and what he was. The Duke's valet, always near enough to hear but not be heard, and see without being seen, caught the cape as it fell. The Duke didn't turn to see what he did with it, just continued on to the few polished steps where Beron was waiting patiently with two pale-faced footmen.

"How did you find the road, Your Grace?" Beron asked, bowing low.

"Rocky as ever. The servants couldn't even manage the simple task of shoeing a horse when Charger's shoe came off. I had to halt the entire caravan, dismount, and show them myself, as though it isn't their very job to attend both myself and my steed. The imbeciles put us back by nearly half an hour; they're lucky it wasn't longer." His face was a study in disgust.

Beron grimaced in return and muttered something about how people nowadays seem incapable of performing the simplest of tasks.

Even as his brother, Beron still put on a show of respect for the Duke. If he didn't, he would be outcast from the family, their city, and the entire kingdom, sentenced to dwell wherever commanders of the king's armies were sent following a dishonorable discharge. It wasn't a joke that Beron really had taken more than just a commander's mannerisms with him when he'd left the battlefront. He'd always had wandering fingers and hungry pockets, and King Abel often looked the other way in favor of his best battle commander and longstanding drinking mate. But stealing Prince Simon's riding knife had been the end of the king's leniency, and Beron quickly found himself without a career, title, or estate, having lived in the king's court since his coming of age. Duke Darius, with his high titles and higher stacks of coin, had offered his brother a way out. Beron was a kleptomaniac, but not an idiot; he knew that when someone rescued you from a fate like his, you became indebted to them for the rest of your would-be miserable life. And Beron also knew that the Duke did not believe in second chances—even the first was a rare courtesy. It would not do to jeopardize this one.