The Dothan Chronicles: The Complete Trilogy

by Charissa Dufour

  The queen sat beside Féderic’s bed, holding his hand. His older brother still lay on his stomach at an angle across the bed. The healer stood at the work table, grinding herbs in small dishes. Wolfric sat in Fed’s large chair near the fire, his elbow perched on the armrest and his head leaning against his fist. Lyolf felt a stab of guilt as he realized he hadn’t had the time to check on his brother since the initial disaster. He wasn’t even sure what the latest expectation was for his brother’s welfare.

  Arabelle looked up at his entrance, a faint smile appearing on her lips. Lyolf smiled back and turned to the king.

  “You wanted to see me?” he asked in the quiet tone appropriate for a sick room.

  “That man—what was his name?—Pelor? Is he off?”

  Lyolf nodded.

  “He’ll find them,” Wolfric said as though he had already seen into the future and knew it to be fact.

  “My lord, the snowfall overnight was heavy.”

  “What is this ‘my lord’ stuff?” asked the queen from the other end of the room.

  Lyolf thought he heard a hint of laughter in her voice, but it might have only been her effort not to cry.

  “Haven’t you heard?” sneered the king. “Your son is joining the army. He intends to leave this little family.”

  Lyolf ground his teeth together as he turned back to looked at his mother. If he hadn’t felt guilty beforehand, one look at the hurt spreading across her face was enough to bring it upon his exhausted shoulders.

  “Can we talk about this later?” he asked.

  “No,” snapped the queen, somehow still keeping her voice soft enough not to wake her injured son. “You two, out. We will discuss this in my room.”

  Lyolf followed the king and queen down the hall and into the queen’s spacious chambers. Without invitation, Lyolf moved to the fire and began warming his cold body.

  “Now,” continued his mother. “What is this nonsense about joining the army?”

  The prince sighed. Of course, his mother would word it in a way that any reply would make him sound like an idiot, but he knew this was the right choice.

  “I informed Father,” he ground the word out, nearly gaging on it, “that I would be joining the army once this crisis no longer needed my attention.”

  “No longer needed your attention?” parroted the queen. “You are needed here, where it is safe until we know Féderic is out of danger. After all, you are the next in line for the throne.”

  Lyolf burst into a dark, derisive laugh. He couldn’t help it. Was she really so naive?

  “Let’s not kid ourselves,” said Lyolf out loud, glancing at the king.

  “Excuse me?” asked Arabelle in a prim voice.

  “Don’t pretend Wolfric would actually give me the throne.” Lyolf paused. “Should I say what no one is willing to?”

  Wolfric turned away and Arabelle blushed a deep shade of red. Now she understood.

  “I’m not Wolfric’s offspring and we all know it. There is no way he would ever consider giving me the throne. Not when he has other sons, real sons.”

  “Silence, Lyolf,” ordered the king. “Do not embarrass your mother.”

  “You mean don’t embarrass you! After all, you’re the one who hasn’t addressed this issue for twenty-two years.” Lyolf turned to his mother, unable to stop the flow of repressed anger. “Admit it Mother, you had an affair. And I even think I know the name of your lover.”

  “Stop! Just stop!” screamed his mother, for once not keeping her emotions tightly in rein.

  Arabelle burst into tears, collapsed in a chair, and wept loudly.

  “You know who?” asked the king.

  Lyolf balked at his question. Was he really interested in who his wife’s lover had once been?

  “Mandek Payne, your most trusted advisor.”

  Neither of them spoke.

  “You never realized your own lover was my half-sister, did you?” murmured Lyolf.

  A sick feeling was creeping into Lyolf’s stomach. Would Wolfric kick him out, now that he’d forced them to address the issue? After all, he wasn’t the king’s son.

  Long before Lyolf expected it, the queen stopped crying and gave him a nasty glare. “I think the army would be a good place for you,” she said, prim and proper once again. Her red eyes darted to the door—a clear signal of dismissal.

  “As you wish, my lady. I live only to serve the crown,” said Lyolf in an equally formal voice.

  He left, and to his surprise Wolfric followed him.

  “Lyolf,” said the king once the door was shut. “Don’t leave until the morning. I know you haven’t slept much since the attack. Get a good night’s sleep. In the morning, come find me. I’ll have a letter drafted and I’ll have a regiment chosen for you.”

  Lyolf stared at the king. It seemed as though their sudden exchange gave Wolfric the ability to be generous, or had his sudden outburst finally earned him the king’s respect? Lyolf nodded before starting back to his room. Perhaps Wolfric no longer felt the need to put his bastard son in his place. There was a new understanding between them.

  Lyolf let out a gusty sigh, suddenly realizing that tomorrow he would have to say his goodbyes. Would he ever see his brothers and sisters again?

  Lyolf finally drifted off to sleep, too exhausted to let his pain and frustration keep him awake.

  Pelor had been traveling for twenty-four hours, staying the night at a tiny farm where he bought a bed and meal at an exorbitant price, before he entered a village that could truly be called separate from Tolad. Up until then, all the farms and clusters of homes were still close enough that they would travel up the mountain to Tolad to do any trading. Here, though, was a true village. On the main road he spotted a blacksmith, a farrier, a large building used for market-day and other town events, and a tiny hut declaring itself to be an herbalist and healer. Pelor pulled his little mare to a stop in the midst of the small town and looked around.

  It was early enough in the afternoon that there ought to be people about, and yet the little village was deserted. The knight was about to move on when he heard a commotion from the large village hall. He urged the little nameless mare over to the entrance of the hall just as the doors burst open and a flood of people emerged, each one muttering angrily to his or her neighbor, even though no one was listening; they were each too busy with their own anger to deal with their companion’s.

  Those in the front quickly took notice of Pelor on his horse and slowed until they stopped altogether. Eventually, those behind noticed that others had stopped and stopped themselves. There was a slow trickle effect as each person took notice of their neighbor’s distraction and then spotted Pelor himself.

  “It’s the king’s man,” muttered one of the leaders.

  Pelor glanced down at his tabard and was reminded of the black horse emblazoned upon the hardened leather. It was easy, when alone, to forget the treason he had committed by donning Wolfric’s livery. Then again, it didn’t matter since King Middin had banished him. Pelor ignored the nervous rumblings of his stomach and focused on exuding an air of confidence and control.

  “I am the king’s man. I seek a man with a long scar down the left side of his face. He should have a woman with him and a large, black warhorse.”

  He didn’t need them to answer, he saw their confusion on their faces as they turned to question each other.

  “We ain’t seen no one,” spat their spokesman.

  “What’s this all about?” Pelor asked, nodding his head toward the crowd.

  “We been robbed!” shouted a woman in the middle of the crowd.

  “Robbed?”

  “The Waverly farm got robbed two nights past.”

  “What was taken?”

  “Some clothes and jerked beef and some jars of preserved vegetable.”

  “My son’s best trousers too!” shouted the same lady as before.

  Pelor hesitated, thinking through the possible ramifications. Could these be his prey? Were th
ey desperate enough to blatantly steal? The wind picked up, blowing fresh snow in his face. The crowd immediately began to disperse, though he noticed the spokesman and a few others remained. Yes, it was cold enough for this knight, Sir Caldry, to steal. If they had left the castle without proper provisions it would be necessary.

  “You gonna help us?” demanded the woman as she sidled up to his horse.

  Pelor looked down at her. “I’m sent by the king to apprehend a fugitive. If I find them with your items, I’ll have them returned to you.”

  The woman pursed her lips and nodded once before marching off with a middle-aged man and what must have been their son.

  “Were there any tracks?” he asked the spokesman.

  “No, my lord. We got a heavy snowfall the next night.”

  “They wouldn’t have gotten far then.”

  “No, my lord.”

  “Any place nearby they could have taken shelter?”

  The man crinkled his brow as he considered the question. “Yessir. An ol’ shack up that way, near collapsin’ that one, but sturdy enough to keep them safe from the storm. Follow this road for, oh, ‘bout half mile. It’s on the left. Come to a fork in the road you gone too far.”

  “Thank you,” Pelor said as he rummaged in his pouch and tossed the man a half-silver coin.

  Pelor kicked his little mare into an easy canter and left the angry village behind.

  It had been his first experience interacting with the locals as an employee of the king, and the experience had left him unsettled. For the first time, he felt like a traitor to his nation. Pelor had been banished after the princess was killed in an ambush on her caravan. He had fought as hard as he could, as all his men had, but in the end seventeen soldiers had lost their lives and the princess had been lost.

  The princess’ lady-in-waiting—what was her name?—had been questioned and it was revealed that she had told the princess to run into the woods to save herself. Stupid woman. Now the princess was dead and he was forced to find some other way to fill his belly and his purse.

  Until now he had done small jobs, tracked down slaves, and worked as a guard to earn his keep. While working for people loyal to Wolfric, it wasn’t the same as working for the king himself. He really was a traitor now; he had finally earned his banishment.

  Pelor urged the horse into a faster gate, determine to catch up with his prey. Surely his sprightly little mare could run faster than a bulky warhorse burdened down by two passengers.

  Chapter Eleven

  Bethany woke to the feeling of a toe being jabbed into the small of her back.

  “Get up,” ordered a growling voice.

  The princess rolled over to look up at the knight. He was frowning down at her, his scar puckering near his lips. Bethany blinked, trying to recall the past events. The last thing she remembered was lying down in the snow, Éimhin following her. The horse had provided some warmth, but not enough to offset the bitter night. At some point, she must have fallen into a deep slumber. But why hadn’t she woken when he returned? And, more importantly, where were they?

  In a quick glance, Bethany saw that they were in a little shack with one end collapsed under the weight of the snow. The remains of a fire glowed in the fireplace, sending smoke up the chimney and out the cracks of the dilapidated roof.

  “Where are we?” she asked as she struggled to sit up.

  She wasn’t wearing the torn dress anymore, but she was well guarded from the cold by the horse blanket. Hanging from the fireplace’s mantel were a few garments she didn’t recognize. Bethany spotted the horse standing near the door of the shack, already saddled.

  “I said, get up,” snapped Sir Caldry before she could finish looking at their surroundings.

  “What happened last night?” She also wanted to ask why he was so angry, but chose to keep that question to herself.

  “I said, get up!”

  The knight bent down, grabbed the collar of her shirt and dragged her to her feet. The blanket fell away and Bethany shivered.

  “There are better pants and a sweater there for you. Get dressed.”

  Sir Caldry turned away to check the straps and buckles of Éimhin’s tack. Bethany felt awkward as she stripped out of the nasty clothing. What had happened last night? Why was he so different today? It was impossible to keep up with the knight’s mood swings. Also, how had the stealing gone? Obviously he was somewhat successful, being that she was currently donning clean garments, but had something else happened? Had he gotten them food?

  Bethany’s fingers shook with hunger and nervousness as she laced up the leather trousers. They must have been made for a young boy, because they fit her thin frame perfectly. The tunic was rather snug, making her grateful for the leather jerkin, which laced up the front. Last of all, she slipped a wool sweater over the leather. Over all, the outfit was not designed for winter, but was much, much warmer than the thin tunic and trousers.

  “Done,” she said, disgusted with how her voice quivered.

  The knight turned around to look at her. He motioned for her to sit down as he gathered up what remained of her dress. He removed the burlap from her feet, wrapped them in numerous layers of fabric and tied it all to her ankles with narrow strips of cloth. Over this he added the burlap, also tying this down with strips of the dress. The result was bulking and awkward, but it was enough to keep her feet from freezing instantly.

  Sir Caldry tossed her a small piece of jerked beef as he said, “Come.”

  Bethany climbed awkwardly to her feet and gnawed on the food as she followed him out. By the look of things, another few inches of snow had fallen while they hid in the shack. Bethany frowned. How long had it been since she’d fallen asleep in the grove? She felt too rested for it to be the very next morning. She glanced back at the hut.

  “How long were we there?”

  “One day.”

  “Why?”

  “You were unconscious.”

  “What happened?”

  “Don’t worry about,” he responded, his voice growing harsher.

  Bethany went back to eating as they walked back to the path. “Are we taking the road?”

  “Only for about a mile. After that, if my memory serves, there’s a trail we can take that will be a more direct path down into the foothills. We need to get out of this snow as soon as we can.”

  Bethany frowned. “What happened?”

  The knight glanced at her before turning back to the road, but in the split second, she read volumes in his look: she had nearly died

  “Hypothermia?” she asked.

  “You were very sick. You’re fine now.”

  She focused on her dress-clad feet, trying her best to remember something from the last day and night, but nothing came to her. They walked on in silence for nearly an hour before any sound reached their ears. From somewhere behind them they heard the noisy thud-crunch of horse’s hooves hitting the packed snow.

  “Get on,” ordered the knight as he came around Éimhin’s side and offered his hand to assist her into the saddle.

  “What is it?” she asked as she turned back to look for the source of the sound.

  Before she could take more than a step, the knight grabbed her arm and dragged to the horse’s side. He pushed and shoved until she clambered up into the saddle. In a swift, graceful move, the knight followed her. Sir Caldry dug his heels into Éimhin’s flanks and the horse charged down the road. After a few minutes, the knight pulled the horse into a slower pace and directed him off the road.

  The snow was deep, but it seemed to barely faze the warhorse. Only a short distance away from the road the slight slope turned into a steep hill. Bethany leaned into the knight’s chest as they both worked to stay in the saddle. Éimhin slid on his wide hooves more than he walked. As the incline grew even steeper, Bethany feared they would be sent off a cliff or into a deep flowing river.

  She tried to stay calm, but the longer they continued in this head-long plunge down the mountain side the m
ore she sensed the knight’s growing anxiety. Bethany closed her eyes and turned her face away from the sight of the mountain continuing downward for mile upon mile. How long could they keep this up before Éimhin had an accident and hurt himself?

  Bethany’s head whipped back into the knight’s chest as their path suddenly leveled out. She felt the horse continue to slide and heard Sir Caldry curse. When they finally came to a skidding stop, and she had the courage to open her eyes, she found that they had stopped a mere foot away from the edge of a steep cliff. Like the horse, Sir Caldry was breathing heavily as they all peered down the precipice that could have been their final resting place.

  “Get down,” said the knight, his voice sounding unusually breathy.

  “What? Why?” she asked, never taking her eyes off the deep ravine.

  Rather than explaining himself, the knight grabbed her under the armpits, lifted her off the horse, and dumped her onto the ground, not two feet from the cliff face. Bethany scrambled away from the edge, but she couldn’t get very far due to the steep slope they had just descended. The knight swung his leg over the horse’s rump and landed in the snow next to her feet. He grabbed her again, hauling her to her feet.

  “When I give you an order,” he growled, “you obey it, without question. Do you understand?”

  “I just want to kno…”

  “I said,” he snapped, not letting her finish her statement. “Obey me without question, or I leave you behind. Now. Do we have an understanding?”

  Bethany bit down on her lower lip, aware that his threat wasn’t an idle one. He really would leave her behind. Finally, and with as much grace as she could muster under the circumstances, she nodded.

  “Good. Now we walk.”

  And they did. They walked until her feet were numb with cold and her heart ached for a kinder companion.

  Bethany and Sir Caldry continue to walk along the narrow cliff-side path for hours, most of the time waiting for the cliff to give way, plunging them to their death. But it never happened. Sometimes the path was so narrow Éimhin could barely keep his footing. Eventually, Sir Caldry took the old slave shirt she had used to escape the city and wrapped it around the horse’s eyes. This was both a help and a hindrance. Now Éimhin was forced to step forward, forced to trust his master, but it also meant that the animal couldn’t see where it was stepping. They had to slow to a crawl, making sure each step by the horse was on safe ground. For much of this, Bethany was forced to lead the horse while Sir Caldry walked behind him, one hand on each flank, guiding the horse’s movements.