The Dothan Chronicles: The Complete Trilogy

by Charissa Dufour

  He alone was ever invited to join the royal family on the dais. Even the king’s most trusted advisor was forced to sit on the main level, along with the other members of the castle—including visiting generals, Wolfric’s other knights, and a few noble men and women.

  King Wolfric and his wife, Queen Arabelle, were already seated at the high table, while six of their eight children trickled in. The two youngest were already asleep with the ancient nursery maid. Bethany placed the platter near the queen on the wide, trestle table. The queen was beautiful, despite being past her prime, with hair that had turned snow white long before expected and skin that still held the tightness of youth. The contrast of the two extremes made it hard to judge her age, though based on the number of children and Bethany's knowledge of the Aardê nation, she suspected the queen was around forty-five years old.

  The king was a burly man, with gray hair and wrinkles from frowning too much. His neatly trimmed beard was always kept pristine, despite his rich diet of juicy meats and red wines. He was already eating the food set before him, while his wife waited for their children. His haste, Bethany had lately realized, was not due to gluttony, but to the urgency of being the ruler of so much land. She could only imagine the demands on his time. Granted, if he would stop conquering peaceful nations, he would have more time to enjoy food and family.

  Bethany scurried back to the kitchen before she could be accused of dawdling. She returned with two heavy clay pitchers of chilled wine. Lyolf and Rulfric had arrived, the two younger sons to have reached adulthood. Unlike the rest of the family, Lyolf had black hair that hung down to his shoulders in gentle curls. The first rumor Bethany had heard about the royal family upon arriving at the castle was that Lyolf was a bastard. However, it was a rumor never discussed amongst the family; they seemed content to live with the unknown. Queen Arabelle had never admitted to taking a lover, and her husband seemed content to assume she was faithful. Bethany couldn't imagine a woman taking a lover. In fact, she couldn't recall her father ever having a mistress either. Still, the Aardê people were different in many ways. Despite the unwillingness to discuss the topic, there was a subtle difference in how Lyolf was treated—the last to enter in formal settings, the last to be asked his opinion, and so on.

  Rulfric, on the other hand, was clearly the child of Arabelle and Wolfric. His hair was the exact same shade as Féderic's, though he was not quite as muscled. Even at twenty, he carried the subtle softness of baby fat. But that was changing. In the short two months since Bethany's arrival, she had noticed a difference; he was growing slim with continued exertion.

  Before Bethany could escape to the kitchen, Mirabelle, the eldest daughter entered. She quickly spotted Bethany, having taken a dislike to her brother's new slave.

  “What happened to your slave, Féderic?” she asked over her shoulder.

  Her brother joined her at the end of the table, dressed in the garments Bethany had selected for him. He eyed her bruised and swollen cheek, laughed, and took his seat.

  “She'll learn,” he said through his mirth.

  “Doubt that,” grumbled the princess as she waited for her brother to pull her seat out.

  He ignored her.

  Mirabelle was a pretty, plump girl, two years younger than Bethany. She had hazel eyes that flitted constantly around the room, making sure no one had received better food or was wearing something finer.

  The last two to enter, Cedric and Isabelle, scurried to their places at the table and stifled the giggles produced by their mother's fiery gaze. At sixteen, Cedric was more of a man than a boy, though he seemed to possess none of his older brothers’ drive to claim the throne. Isabelle was just what a ten year old girl should be: lively, playful, and curious.

  Bethany shifted to the wall with the other slaves. Each family member contributed a slave from their “stock” to serve at family dinners, and three or more slaves when the castle held any sort of celebration. Bethany glanced down the line of slaves, noticing she was the only one with any signs of punishment. Unlike her, though, the others were licking their lips in anticipation of feasting on the left overs. Bethany didn't like the southern food, but quickly found it was better than starving. Besides, moldy bread and over-cooked meat tasted the same no matter how they were prepared, and that was what she usually ate.

  “Féderic, I've been in contact with Lady Amiria, my childhood playfellow,” the queen was saying. “Her daughter has just turned, and Lady Amiria would be pleased to offer you her hand.”

  Bethany frowned from her place by the wall. What did it mean to “turn?” Bethany leaned towards the closest slave and asked her question in a hushed whisper.

  “It means she has become an adult and is therefore available for marriage,” the other slave whispered back, followed by a hissing warning to be quiet.

  It wasn't needed. Sir Caldry was already glaring at her from his place, and he was much more frightening than the slave. Bethany clamped her mouth shut hard enough to be visible to the knight. He nodded and turned away.

  “Mother,” growled the prince. “I will marry when I'm good and ready, and not before. Besides, I don't want some mewling child who doesn't know the first thing about men. Give me a real woman,” he added, emphasizing his statement with a thump of his fist on the table. “Am I right Cal?”

  Sir Caldry nodded politely from his end of the table and turned his focus to his plate.

  “I'll see what I can do,” murmured the queen as she tried her hardest to maintain an air of elegance and superiority.

  “What about me?” whined Mirabelle. “I turned years ago and you still haven't found me a husband.”

  Arabelle glanced around, looking nervous. “I'm sorry dear. I just can't bear the thought of losing you,” lied the queen.

  Bethany knew the truth. She'd heard Féderic guffawing about how no lord would take her once they'd met her. The sour princess was oblivious to the real issue. Bethany felt a smile pull up at her lips then quickly vanish. At twenty, Bethany was far less likely to marry—should she ever return home—than Mirabelle. She might as well be an old maid.

  “Féderic, your ridiculously ugly slave is staring at me again,” stated the princess, cutting into Bethany's thoughts. She flinched and forced her eyes back to the floor.

  “Cal, get that brazen girl out of here,” ordered the queen in a prim tone that denoted she was at her most angry.

  Sir Caldry rose slowly from his seat, his green eyes darkening with his growing anger. This was the second time in one day she had caused him to be sent from the room. She would not avoid punishment this time.

  Bethany quivered as Sir Caldry took her by the arm, and dragged her forcefully from the hall. He didn't stop there, but pulled her along until he reached the cavernous basement where the slaves slept and ate. The slave master spotted the knight and followed them to the far corner where slaves were punished. Bethany glanced at the numerous trap doors that led into the cells used for solitary confinement. Next to them sat the stocks, a few rings hanging from the beams that supported the upper story, and a metal cage which held another slave already being punished. There were duplicates out in the frigid courtyard.

  Sir Caldry pushed her towards the iron rings and deftly attached them to her wrists. One yank on the chain and Bethany was hanging by her wrists, her toes struggling to reach the floor. Bethany felt his hands loosening the strings that kept her simple frock from slipping off her shoulders and the back of her dress fall open. Bethany felt a new wave of shame as they saw her already marred back, though she told herself time and again she didn't care if they damaged her body any more.

  After all, what was the point of being beautiful now?

  “My lord,” mumbled Bainard, the slave master, as he sidled up to the knight. “Let me save you the trouble.”

  Bethany heard the creak of Sir Caldry's leather tabard as he quickly pulled away from the sniveling man. “No need, slave master. Go about your business.”

  There was a brief hesitatio
n before Bethany heard the older man's retreating steps. She cringed, wondering if the strong knight could hit harder than Bainard.

  Yes, very much so.

  The first blow made her cry out, despite her determination not to put a voice to her pain. The next four blows of the whip were just as bad. Tears streamed down her face as her body quivered uncontrollably in shock. Sir Caldry released the chain and dumped her in a heap on the ground.

  After a few moments, when Bethany assumed the knight had walked away, she suddenly felt him kneel down beside her. She flinched when he whispered in her ear.

  “I don't know what your secret is, but I swear I will figure it out.”

  Little did he realize, Bethany mused as she listened to his boots click across the stone floor, had he asked her then and there, she would have told him everything. She would have even produced the signet ring still tied in her thick, matted hair.

  Chapter Four

  Pelor noticed the guards eyeing him as he entered the mountainous city of Tolad, the capital of the Ardê Nation. He had removed his patched cloak during the exhausting three day push to the elevated city. Throughout those three days, Pelor watched as mounted traders and soldiers passed him. He envied them their steeds, even those with nothing but thin nags. Of course, it didn't help that he had once had his pick of many glorious war horses.

  How the times had changed.

  Pelor had been working in Dothan for most of his life as a knight and family guard in King Middin's family, until an unfortunate mistake had resulted in him being branded as a traitor. Now, even if his name was cleared, he would not return to the land of his birth. The weeks of hunger and solitude had filled him with hatred and distrust. Honor no longer meant anything, especially if it got between him and his next meal.

  The knight ignored the guards, knowing how he appeared to them. Dressed in worn leather trousers, riding boots—despite the lack of a horse—a hardened leather jerkin over the remains of a tattered chain mail shirt which hung raggedly from his shoulders, Pelor looked the part of a vagabond. Of course, all this was somewhat distorted by the pristine sword hanging in its well-oiled sheath.

  Pelor marched on, hoping to find a friendly face who might give him directions to the sheriff's lodgings. He stopped at a cross street and glanced down both directions. The wind whipped around him, causing his black hair to fall into his eyes. He brushed it back irritably to get a better view of the different streets, but the wind caused his eyes to sting and water.

  How do people live in this damn city? he wondered.

  A woman bumped into him, and he grumbled as he felt for his nearly empty pouch, hidden under his snug jerkin. It was still there. His stomach growled, reminding him of his mission. Pelor chose to continue down the main thoroughfare. He had just reached another intersection when a voice spoke to him.

  “You look lost.”

  Pelor turned, his right hand automatically reaching for his sword. A man well past his prime stood, garbed in black with gold chains hanging from his neck. Pelor forced himself to relax, though he quickly spotted the bodyguards trying to be discreet. No one paid that much attention to another person unless they were guards or pick pockets. Either way, it told him something about the stranger.

  “I'm looking for the sheriff,” Pelor stated.

  “What would a man like you want with the sheriff?”

  “I'm looking for work.”

  “You?”

  “I'd like to eat sometime this week.”

  “And you think the sheriff is the man to talk to?” asked the stranger.

  “With my skill set, yes,” Pelor concluded, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The wealthy man smiled, his eyes following the subtle movement.

  “City guards work for the poor. You can make far more if you work for the rich.”

  “Is that so?”

  In just a few short minutes, Pelor agreed to work as a guard for Lord Tethys on a trial basis.

  Bethany made her way across the bailey and into the main keep's enormous kitchen, trying to ignore the pain of her unhealed back. Scrubbing the prince's floor had caused her to sweat, and the salty liquid stung the cuts and welts. She tried to move her shoulders to keep the fabric of her dress from sticking as she stopped in the doorway of the kitchen, once again amazed by the controlled chaos.

  Though only a few people beside the royal family and their numerous slaves, lived in the keep itself, this one kitchen provided the food not only for the residents of keep, but all the hundreds of guards and workmen who resided in the outbuildings surrounding the large bailey. These structures were built up against the outer wall with brick, stone and wood—leaving no two alike.

  Inside the kitchen, Bethany dodged the scurrying bakers in her attempts to reach the larder. She had finished her last task in record time, giving her a few minutes freedom before anyone would come looking for her. It was likely fruitless, but she felt the need to do something, anything in protest to the way she was being treated. She slipped into the storeroom, which was nearly as large as the kitchen, and spotted the three carcasses hanging at one end. Though there were other larger storerooms in the subbasements, this one was used to store the food needed for the next couple meals. It was restocked every other day. Bethany moved with purpose in the general direction of the one exterior door, leading from the larder to the bailey, as though just passing through, while one of the kitchen slaves filled his arms with herbs and left.

  Once alone, Bethany did an about-face and returned to the main door where she flipped the seldom used lock, locking the larder from the inside. She moved to the trap door, unlocked it and gave it a push. Before she got the door half opened, a wet tongue slid up the length of her face. She forced herself not to giggle, for fear of calling attention to herself. She ushered the four large dogs, recently released from the kennels, into the larder. They quickly lost interest in her as they smelled the fresh meat. Bethany didn't have to offer them any encouragement as all four sunk their teeth into the meat and began to tear it from the bones.

  Bethany tied a small piece of string to the latch, climbed out, and closed the trap door. Hoping this would work, the princess pulled the string as hard as she could. From within the larder, she heard the faint thud of the latch sliding into place and the dog’s growls as they battled over the meat. Bethany cut the string off so that no one could unlock it from the outside and walked away. None of the men gave her a second glance; if she looked as though she was busy, no one tended to bother her. She may not be able to run away again without dire consequences—such as a brand on the neck or losing her head—but she could still cause her enemies problems.

  She worked her way around the three story keep to a different servants’ entrance and dashed up the stairs to Féderic's quarters. She picked up her brush and began scrubbing the already clean floor, her dress pressed against her back, making her wince. Bethany knew that ruined meat was a small inconvenience to a castle this size. They would discover the problem, break down the door, and replace the meat, but it gave voice to her pain and frustration. Bethany sighed and poured her emotions into the rhythm of her scrubbing.

  A bare moment later, Flora entered.

  “Finished?” the other woman asked.

  Bethany nodded as she climbed to her feet and plopped the brush into the bucket of dirty water.

  “Good. Get down to the laundry and see iffen they done with the prince's things.”

  Bethany obeyed, taking the bucket of water with her. Once, she had left it on the floor and the prince had stepped in it. She'd received yet another beating for it. Bethany took the winding slave's stairwell to the ground level where most of the work related rooms, such as the kitchen and the laundry, were hidden. Of course, the ground level also held the king's office, the great hall, and a few guards’ quarters.

  “What you want?” snapped the head of the laundry.

  “I've come for Prince Féderic's clothes.”

  The pudgy woman glared at her from within the
folds of skin around her beady little eyes.

  “They ain't done yet.”

  Bethany shrugged and left. She didn't care if his clothing was finished or not. Nor would she get punished if they weren't finished—the old woman would—or at least she hoped.

  But now what to do? Bethany wondered, as she came to a stop in one of the wide corridors stretching the length of the ground floor.

  “You there,” someone said from a few doors down before Bethany could hide herself in the slave stairwell.

  Bethany looked up to see Lady Lynette making her way down the corridor. The daughter to Lord Mandek Payne—most trusted advisor to the king—Lynette was one of the special few who resided in the keep itself. Of course, her living here made it that much easier for her to reach the king's bedchamber; she had been the king's mistress since before Bethany had arrived in Tolad. It was yet another unspoken issue within the royal family. Lady Lynette even had two children, most likely bastards of the king.

  “Please take this note to Prince Féderic?” she asked sweetly.

  Lynette was known for being nice to the slaves. Of course, they knew she did it to get them to keep her “secret,” but they didn't care who she slept with or why she was kind to them, so long as she was. Bethany bobbed a curtsy, and dashed up the steps. Once out of sight, she stopped and pulled the note open. It wasn't sealed, since Lynette never suspected a slave could read.

  “Dear Féderic. I cannot meet you as planned until much later. If I can slip away from your father, I will come to you after the twelfth hour.”

  Bethany blinked a few times. This was news to her: Lynette and Féderic, too.

  How long has this been going on? she wondered.

  Bethany swallowed the bile that rose to her throat. Could Lynette's most recent off-spring belong to the prince? Bethany carefully folded the slip of paper as she resumed her climb.

  Why did this shock her? She already knew the Aardê people were depraved; this was just another example of their debauchery. Though they were a hard working sort of people, when the work was finished, they sought the most sordid types of pleasure. Even their slaves were quick to enjoy themselves at the end of the day. Thus far, Bethany had maintained a covering of dirt or bruises that kept the men from noticing her; but as she worked more directly with the prince, they expected her to bathe.