“Child!” exclaimed the seamstress. “Wherever did you learn to sew like that?”
Bethany glanced up, completely unaware that she had been under the scrutiny of the old woman. She looked around the room, suddenly worried that she'd drawn attention to herself. It had never occurred to her to sew carelessly. She looked down at the seam, the stitches nearly hidden in the perfect fold of the fabric—just as her mother had taught her.
“I... uh... I, well, my mother taught me,” she said, glancing from face to face.
They were all staring at her, most with looks of mild entertainment, except for Sir Caldry. His brows were furrowed as he stared at her tiny hands. Bethany began pulling on her left thumb with her right hand, a mannerism her mother had often slapped her hands for. It was indecorous, her mother had often scolded, for a princess to fiddle with her fingers. Now, Bethany did it on purpose, hoping to distract her audience from her recent success with the needle.
“Your mother a seamstress?” huffed the fat, old woman. “She taught you real well.”
“Yes... yes she was,” agreed the princess, reaching for any lie that might seem plausible.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the knight's frown deepen. Bethany swallowed.
“Well, you can't take my slave,” chuckled the prince.
He had already turned away from the awkward scene and was admiring himself in the mirror. The rest of the room returned to their general hustle and bustle.
“What do you think, Cal, of my father's marrying scheme?”
Sir Caldry cleared his throat, forcing his attention off the slave girl with the perfect stitches. They were an improvement to what the seamstress had completed on the prince's garment. Cal stepped forward, as though to have a more private conversation with the prince, while his eyes ranged over the fabric, noting a place where the thread had been pulled too tightly, causing the fabric to bunch awkwardly.
“I think there are political reasons for nearly any marriage, especially that of a prince. It is only natural for the king to want your marriage to bring further peace to his people,” Cal responded diplomatically, while half his brain continued to wonder about the slave girl.
She wasn't really a girl, he amended after glancing back at her. Though she was thin, like all slaves, she clearly had the makings for a good figure, while her features were still soft and delicate under the streaks of dirt and half-washed, matted hair.
He could not believe she was the product of a seamstress. And yet, he had no idea who, or what, she could be; no answers to his questions—just more questions.
Chapter Six
Pelor had been winding his way through the numerous valleys north of Tolad without any success in his new mission. Within just a week of working for Lord Tethys, his skill in tracking had been discovered when the lord's prized dog had gone missing. Pelor had recovered the bitch in just a few short hours, endearing him to his new lord. It was then that he told Tethys an edited version of his history. He left out that he had served King Middin, but revealed that he was a trained knight.
Overnight, Pelor rose to the top of the ranks, creating discordance between him and the other guards. He was the newest of them and now suddenly out ranked them all. Thankfully, it wasn't long before Tethys needed him in the outside world.
Shortly after Pelor arrived, one of the lord's slaves went missing. It was quickly discovered—through some rather gruesome work of torture—that the slave Jos had escaped with the help of one of the cooks. The cook was now recovering from Tethys' rough treatment. Pelor knew, no matter what happened, he would not cross his hostile new lord.
He had entered a few villages, nestled into the small canyons, but thus far had failed to find Jos, the runaway slave. This village, though, he hoped would provide better information. The last village had sent him east, towards the Great Sea and the large towns that had once belonged to the Bumi nation. It had seemed like a promising lead. After all, if he were a slave, he would seek out a large city to hide in; but after a few days without any sign of him, Pelor had come to the conclusion that he had been sent on a red herring, and a purposeful one at that. This slave was proving to be smarter than he had initially surmised.
With a tap of his heels, he urged his horse into a trot. As he expected, the villagers eyed him suspiciously. He had quickly grown accustomed to it, since he technically wasn't reputable anymore. Instead of protecting a king or fighting a war for those who could not defend themselves, he hunted the weak and the lost. His blade drank deeply to fill his purse.
At first, it had bothered him, but hunger had gnawed away at his honor.
A man slowly herding a small band of bedraggled sheep watched him out of the corner of his eye, while nudging his young apprentice towards the other side of the road. A woman corralling three small children ushered them through the door of what looked to be a bakery, her wrinkled eyes squinting up at him. Pelor tried to quiet the voice in his mind that noted the patched state of their clothing and the gaunt look about their cheeks, but it was hard to silence a conscience that had served him well for so many years.
Near the center of the village sat a small building declaring itself to be the inn. Leaning against the doorframe loitered a man, dressed a grade above the rest—only one patch on the knee of his trousers rather than two. The man stepped forward as Pelor approached.
“Now warrior, we ain't got no gold here... nor noth'n you'd be wanting,” the man added when a pretty, young woman stepped through the doorway; at least, she would have been pretty if it weren't for the brand that had been drawn across her right cheek.
Pelor understood the reasoning for such treatment. The Aardê overlords were known to take any attractive woman into their beds until they grew tired of them. Pelor had heard many tales of women not being returned to their fathers or husbands until well advanced in pregnancy. The fact was any woman who wanted to avoid notice was forced to endure the torture of being branded. The Domhain people, who had been the first to be conquered by the power-hungry Aardê, had quickly mastered the trick.
Pelor kept his lips from tweaking up into a smile. He wasn't interested in taking their women and was a little surprised to be mistaken for an Aardê overlord, or were even the lowly solders taking advantage of their power?
“I'm only looking for lodging and information,” said Pelor.
The man eyed him for a moment, considering his words and the fact Pelor had barely glanced at the young woman before nodding slowly.
“A silver for a meal and a bed.” The man hesitated. “And I'll see what I can do about that information.”
He waved a hand toward the door, and the woman scurried back inside. Pelor dismounted and quickly pulled the saddlebags from his horse, as a small lad took the reins and led it around the back of the building. Pelor quietly followed the man inside. The main room held a long table, where one end was being used to prepare the evening meal. A dark, narrow set of stairs led up to the second story and a single door was open to a storeroom. The central fire was in use, both to heat the building and cook the dinner. Pelor took an appreciative sniff while waiting in the doorway, to let his sodden clothing drip.
The scarred woman, whom he judged to be the man's daughter due to the presence of an older woman, stepped forward, her face turning a pretty shade of pink, causing her scar to stand out white against the blush.
She tried to smile at him before saying, “Let me take your cloak.”
He shrugged out of the fabric, grateful to have the cold, heavy garment off his shoulders. He was frozen to the bone from the recent downpour, although it always seemed to be raining in the hill country. Pelor handed the wet cloak to the young woman, who immediately took it to a row of hooks near the fire.
“Follow me,” ordered the older man.
Pelor followed him up the stairs, which leveled out on a small landing surrounded by three doors. The man opened the one on his left. The tiny room held nothing more than a narrow bed and a wooden foot locker. Pelor stepped in,
ducking his head to avoid the sloped ceiling. He dropped his saddle bags onto the foot locker and pulled out the agreed-upon silver, which he handed to the man.
“I'm Gavius,” informed the man, after he bit the coin.
“Pelor.”
Gavius nodded and turned back towards the stairs. Pelor followed him and took the offered seat at the table. The scarred woman brought him a generous serving of the stew from the pot simmering on the fire. Pelor dug into the food silently. It was hearty, with large chunks of mutton, carrots, and potatoes. The rest of the family quickly assembled themselves and ate in silence.
Pelor finished his serving, and before he could say anything, the young woman was on her feet and refilling his bowl. She smiled at him again, which he ignored out of deference to the father. Now was not the time to offend anyone.
“About this information you seek,” hinted Gavius.
The knight smiled and set his spoon down.
“I'm pursuing a runaway slave named Jos.”
Pelor gave them a detailed description of the lad and where he may have last stopped, after which Gavius sat in silent contemplation.
“I will help you find this Jos, if you do one small favor for me.”
Pelor eyed him before motioning for him to continue.
“The village has been plagued by a small pack of wolves. Surely a man with your skills could eliminate them for us.”
“Agreed, so long as my lodging and food is provided for the duration of my stay.”
Gavius nodded.
Pelor spent the rest of the evening in Gavius' company, pouring over the faded maps of the area. The chief knew of only a few caves large enough to house a pack of wolves. As the night settled in on the small community, Pelor agreed to scout the possible locations tomorrow. With a few words of thanks, Pelor returned to his room.
Long after the family had retired and the sounds of intermittent snoring resounded throughout the house, Pelor began to remove his clothing and climb into the bed. Like the other rooms, his was stationed against one side of the wide chimney. He had spent most of the evening leaning against the warm bricks. Now he carefully covered himself with the thick blankets. Though it was nothing like his room in the castle of Dothan, it was a far sight better than the damp earth he had slept on lately.
Pelor had just begun to drift to sleep when he heard his door creak open. He lay still, listening to the light footsteps come closer before jerking upright, pointing his hidden dagger at the intruder’s throat. It was the daughter, dressed in a thin night shirt. She let out a tiny squeak of surprise before taking a quick step backwards. They both paused, listening to the distant snoring take up its natural rhythm.
“What do you want?” he asked, as he carefully tucked his dagger back under his pillow.
“My father is not the only one in need of coin... and with skills to trade,” she added as, with shaking fingers, she reached up to untie the neck of his sleeping shirt.
Pelor stood and grabbed her wrists before she could complete the job. He did not need any further temptation; she reminded him too much of the one woman he had ever loved.
“And what could you need gold for?”
“Do you really think I can rely on my father to care for me until I die? It's not like I'm an acceptable wife to any man,” she huffed, motioning towards her scarred cheek.
“Indeed, your beauty has become a curse, but I will not take advantage of it.”
He reached into the pouch he kept on his body at all times and pulled out two silvers—double what he had paid her father—and forced them into her cold fingers.
The girl began to shake. It was more from the release of fear than the cold, he suspected. Pelor reached down, pulled the heavy wool blanket from his bed, and wrapped her in it. She began to weep quietly. Pelor pushed her towards the bed and sat down next to her. After a few minutes, her crying subsided and she began to wipe her eyes with the sleeve of her nightgown.
“What’s your name?” Pelor asked, trying to break the awkward silence.
“Dana.”
“Dana, no matter what happens to you, you will always be a beautiful woman, and any man would be blessed to marry you.”
Dana sniffled, though her lips pulled up into a hesitant smile.
“You really think so?”
“I know so. Trust me, beauty is not everything. In fact, women are often better off without it.”
Pelor tried not to think back, but his memories were invasive. The knight squeezed his eyes shut in an effort to block out the images, but it was no use.
The ambush had come so suddenly. In an effort to concentrate their attention, the attackers had ignored his scouts and focused on the main caravan.
“Protect the princess!” Pelor had yelled the minute the arrows began to fly from the nearby tree tops.
Before he could organize the guards, the first man fell. He didn't have time to mourn the man's passing; there was a princess to save.
“Protect the princess,” he repeated.
His men flanked the enormous wagon in quick order and were ready when the main attack hit, but it wasn't enough. The enemy group was large for bandits. Pelor began to wonder, as he swung down at his opponent, if this was an intentional strike on the princess.
No. That didn't make sense.
She was the youngest of the royal family and still unmarried due to the war. Though her dowry was substantial, her position held no power in itself. In fact, if she were captured the royal family would be unlikely to meet any demands. It seemed harsh, but it was reality. One of the many things Pelor loved about the Kavadh family was that they did not value themselves more than the well-being of their people.
Pelor dragged his mind back to the battle at hand. A distracted mind got you killed. He had just freed himself from a swordsman, when he noticed the trapdoor of the wagon open, and the princess drop to the ground. He saw her bang her head painfully against the opening before darting out toward the forest. Pelor jerked his horse around to follow, but was intercepted by two bandits. He kept his focus on defending himself, refusing to worry about her. Worry would keep him from fighting his best.
And maybe, just maybe, if he saved her she would think differently about him.
The knight dispatched the enemies in record time before kicking his horse into a gallop. He charged into the forest in the direction she had gone, calling her name.
“Bethany? Princess Bethany?”
Though he spotted a few muddy foot prints heading north along the river, he never found her.
“What are you thinking about?” Dana asked, bringing him back to the present.
“Nothing... a... a woman. A very beautiful woman who let it become her pride and joy. Don't do that, Dana. Don't become prideful because of your beauty.”
“How could I?” chuckled the young woman derisively.
Her laugh was very different from Bethany's. Pleasant in its own husky way. Pelor gave her another squeeze before ushering her out of his room.
Chapter Seven
Bethany sat in one of the few swaths of natural light that fell from the small windows placed near the ceiling of the great hall, trying not to think of Malak, the friendly cook's assistant. Just as Sir Caldry predicted, Malak had lost his job for touching her. Bethany didn't understand the situation, but knew better than to get close to anyone else. Instead, she simply focused on her work, which, at the moment, meant sewing as quickly as she could.
Occasionally, she shifted her seat to stay within the sunlight as her fingers stitched furiously. Since the incident with the seamstress, she had been set to mending garments from dawn till dusk. Though she began with Prince Féderic's garments, she often ended the day by hemming a dress for the queen or letting out a gown for Princess Mirabelle, who had collected a few extra pounds over the winter.
The work was easier, but it resulted in Bethany's continued confinement. It had only been two days since she had unwittingly shown her aptitude for sewing, but she quickly realized th
at she would never get another chance to tinker with the castle’s management if she continued to sew.
Though she often wanted to ruin a garment for the prince or queen, they would know who to blame, and the whole point of her machinations was to continue unabated, and unpunished. The castle seamstress had come to examine her work twice each day, looking for something to critique. She never found anything.
Bethany glanced up from her seat on the floor. Queen Arabelle was still walking around the long table placed near the fire where her younger children sat pouring over their lessons. At the far end of the table sat Mirabelle focused on her own lesson. Bethany couldn't believe her eyes when she first saw the princess struggling through a simple sheet of arithmetic. At the age of fifteen, Bethany had been dismissed from such lessons, having mastered everything her tutors could teach her, but here sat Mirabelle, eighteen years old and struggling to complete basic rows of addition.
Across the hall stood the nursery slave, looming over young Josric as he battled the blanket entangling his chubby legs. Like the rest of this family—excepting Lyolf—Josric had wavy blond hair, and soft brown eyes. Once the child had freed himself from the vicious fabric, he set off at a speedy waddle towards his mother. The nursery slave gave a faint cry of surprise and took off after him.
Though unusual to Bethany, the family was often found congregating in the great hall throughout the day. The large family didn't seem to enjoy each other's company and yet there was an unspoken rule that if free from duties they would spend their time with everyone else. Bethany couldn't understand their habits. She was there to do her sewing in a supervised space and to fetch anything needed by the queen.
Bethany bit her tongue to keep from laughing at the nurse and small child as they played a tidy game of chase—a game which the prince was decidedly winning. She couldn't imagine caring for a royal child while still being a slave. Without any authority over the child, how could one keep them in line? Bethany shuddered at the thought of the beatings the older woman must have received before realizing the scope of her predicament.
The Dothan Chronicles: The Complete Trilogy Page 5