The Dothan Chronicles: The Complete Trilogy

by Charissa Dufour

  “What do you mean he’s been here the whole time? I nearly died fighting your battle, and you’ve had him here the whole bloody time?”

  “All I can do is ask for your forgiveness. My whole village was in danger from these wolves. And you, a strong, brave knight were exactly what we needed. I couldn’t let an opportunity like that slip by. You must see that.”

  In some respects, Pelor could see Gavius’ point of view, but at that moment, all he could think of was his pounding foot and the time he had wasted.

  “He wants to meet you,” Gavius spoke, interrupting Pelor’s fuming.

  “He what?”

  “He’s tired of running. He wants to meet you and tell you his story.”

  “He wants to tell me how he ran away from his rightful master?”

  “Ah, so you are an Ardê by nature as well as birth.”

  “I’m not Ardê.”

  “Could have fooled me.”

  Pelor ground his teeth together. “Fine, bring him here, and I’ll talk to him.”

  After an order from her father, Dana rose form her seat and darted out the front door of the inn. A few minutes later, she returned with a gawky lad of fifteen or sixteen. He was nothing but skin and bones, draped in grimy clothing. His gaunt faced was smeared in muck, and a strong smell of hay and manure emanated from him, giving Pelor the idea that the lad had been sleeping in the stables. He trembled as a cool summer breeze drifted in through the open door at his back, making it look as though a light breeze might knock him over.

  Despite his best efforts, Pelor felt a sudden sense of pity for the lad. Pelor finished his dinner while he listened to the boy tell his story. It was the same story as all slaves—taken from his home, sold into slavery, beaten, degraded, and betrayed. What turned Pelor’s heart in the end was Jos’ home town, a small village near the city of Dothan, in Tokë. They were from the same nation. As much as he might want to, he couldn’t return one of his own people into the hands of the Ardê.

  Pelor sat in silence for a moment, fretting over his empty bowl. Finally, he raised his head and looked the young lad in the eye. “What would you do if I didn’t return you to Tethys?”

  “There are those in the village that will take him under their wing,” responded Gavius, instead of the boy. “We’ll make a place for him here.”

  “I have an idea,” said Pelor. “But I don’t think you’ll like it.”

  “I’m not going back,” announced Jos defiantly, though unnecessarily.

  “I wasn’t suggesting that. But I would have to go back with some proof that I’d found you. You say you ran away once before.”

  Jos nodded.

  “You were branded?”

  Jos nodded again, his eyes brightening with realization.

  “Tethys’ brand?”

  This time Pelor didn’t wait for the slow nod. He knew Jos had only ever been owned by the Ardê lord.

  “If we cut off that brand, and I took your possessions, I could say that I found you dead, and that I buried you.”

  “Cut off my leg?”

  “No lad,” guffawed Gavius. “Just that bit o’ skin. I think it’s a great idea. And Pelor here is mighty brave to be willin’ to risk his own neck for you.” Jos didn’t look as though he understood, so Gavius explained further, “If Tethys suspects Pelor is lying, he could have him hanged.”

  “There is one thing I will need from you in return, Gavius. I need a better horse. I’m sure the boy here can work it off, in payment for the risk I take on his behalf.”

  Gavius and Jos glanced back and forth between themselves and Pelor, each one waiting for the other to speak first. Jos didn’t look as though he liked the idea of owing Gavius so that Pelor could have a horse, but he knew better than to complain. Gavius seemed to question just how much work he could get out of the young lad. Finally, the innkeeper nodded.

  “Issa deal.”

  Gavius shook hands with Pelor.

  “Good. I’ll leave as soon as I’m fit, which, if I have my way, will be very soon.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Bethany carefully lowered her load of firewood into the large box next to the fireplace. She didn’t want to have to fetch more, considering the ominous clouds darkening the western sky, and she hoped the prince would return from his ride before the rain hit. If he came in soaked and muddy, it would be that much harder to get him, and his room clean. Though the space was clean already, Bethany had worked for the prince long enough to know what it would look like after he traipsed in with mud-caked boots and soiled clothing. Bethany wondered how Gia would take to Féderic’s tendencies to ride out into the country and occasionally not return until the next morning; though this had been happening less and less since the king discovered his son’s affair. Bethany wondered if the prince had been truly punished. She hoped so. Punishment seemed to be a common practice within this castle.

  Granted, Bethany hadn’t been punished the other day when she ran away from the great hall during dinner. She couldn’t help but wonder what had kept the steward from charging after her and putting her in the stocks.

  Not that she was complaining.

  A few days after that eventful evening, Gia and her father had left for their home, with the intention of returning in four months for the wedding—giving the queen time enough to plan a great event. Bethany wasn’t looking forward to it for many reasons. Perhaps the dearest to her heart was the idea of Gia being forever bound to a man like Féderic. Another reason to dread the event was the amount of work it would require.

  On the other hand, she hoped the prince’s marriage would make Féderic satisfied.

  He still spent a great deal of his time trying to convince Bethany to be his mistress. Thus far, she had managed to remain resolute in her convictions, but it was difficult. The prince had started using bribes. He would often offer her some of his dinner when she delivered it to his room, where he occasionally ate in private. Of course she refused, but the idea of eating these delicacies again was a hard temptation to ignore. The prince had also taken to offering her breaks in her work. While he lounged in his room, he would allow her to sit by the fire and rest her tired, battered body. These strange niceties made his offer harder to resist than if he had continued to be brutal and hard handed.

  Nevertheless, Bethany held firm.

  Just as she finished arranging the carefully cut logs into an orderly pile within the box, a loud shout echoed down the hall. She wanted to investigate, but knew she would be punished if she was seen lurking in the corridors.

  As it turned out, she didn’t need to lurk in order to see the commotion. The noise grew louder, and a moment later the prince’s door was thrown open. An odd huddle of men converged on it and carefully squeezed themselves through the doorway. Bethany backed herself into the corner in an effort to stay out of the way and not be sent from the room. She wanted to figure out why the knights were so awkwardly huddled. Finally, through a gap, she spotted a long figure being carried on a filthy cloak. The group of men laid their burden on the bed and stepped away. Bethany gasped.

  Though she recognized the prince by the glossy blond hair, he was lying on his stomach, and she couldn’t see his face, but she didn’t need to, to know that he was in immense pain. His right ankle was swollen, the back of his tunic was shredded, and the flesh beneath it looked more like raw meat than skin.

  “What happened?” Bethany asked without thinking.

  “His cinch snapped. Where’s the healer?” demanded Sir Caldry from the doorway.

  “The healer has gone to Dacfield to see to Lord Tuathail… I believe,” Bethany answered timidly.

  The group of knights stared at her until Sir Caldry interrupted the moment of silence.

  “Sir Rían, take two horses and ride to Dacfield. Bring that healer home immediately. Where’s his apprentice?”

  “He doesn’t have one right now, but… maybe…” began Sir Kerwin, but before he could finish, the prince groaned and began to shift, causing
more damage to his contused body.

  The crowd of knights backed away while Bethany rushed forward.

  Afterwards, she tried to convince herself that she had rushed forward in an effort to somehow save herself, but in truth Bethany felt an unusual pang of guilt as she looked at his mangled body. Her stupidity and anger had brought this about. Féderic was the toy rocking horse all over again. This time though it wasn’t an expensive play thing that her pride and anger had destroyed, but a living person.

  The fact was she had the training and the ability to save his life. Bethany rushed forward and carefully pinned the prince to his mattress as he began to wake up. With a commanding voice she had not used in nearly half a year, the captured princess began barking orders to the men around her.

  “Hold him still. He’ll do more damage if he stirs. You there, take his feet. Be careful of that ankle. You, hold his shoulders.”

  The knights hesitated, most of them looking enraged at being ordered by a slave. Bethany scanned their faces, letting her gaze fall on Sir Caldry. She pleaded with her eyes. Surely he, of all people, would understand. He had bandaged her hand with expert care. Didn’t he realize the danger the prince was in?

  “Hold the prince,” he finally said with his own tone of command.

  Sir Caldry stepped forward, leading by example, and took hold of the prince’s shoulder, careful to avoid the damaged skin. Quickly, the other men followed. Féderic groaned and tried to roll over. Once the men had a good hold on him, Bethany scurried to the small cabinet next to the bed where she knew the prince had a liquor bottle hidden.

  “What are you doing?” asked Sir Gregory, his tanned face contorted in a mixture of disgust and rage.

  “The prince has some alcohol stored here,” she said without looking away from her search.

  She reached into the back of the cabinet and yanked out a tall bottle, the motion causing half the items in the cupboard to tumble onto the floor. She kicked them out of her way as she lunged back to the bed.

  “Roll him on his side… but carefully,” Bethany added as she saw the men move Féderic with too much force.

  They obeyed and got him on his side. With Sir Caldry’s help, she slowly poured the liquor down his throat. Féderic gagged slightly before realizing that the alcohol was just what he wanted. After a few large gulps, he began to relax. Once he had drunk half the bottle, she pulled it away, and he collapsed back onto his stomach.

  “I need hot water, clean cloth, a few needles, and the queen’s finest thread,” she said, focusing her gaze on Sir Caldry.

  “Excuse me?” he asked, his brows furrowing as he stared down at her.

  The movement caused his scar to pull across his strong features.

  “Do you want me to save the prince? I need these supplies, and I need them now.”

  The scarred knight hesitated only for a brief second before nodding. “Sir Mannering, go fetch the things she needs and send for the king.”

  “You’re going to obey this slave?” Sir Mannering demanded from his place on the other side of the bed.

  The cocky young man struggled with orders even when they came from Sir Caldry. Taking them from a slave was like drinking poison.

  “Do you have a better idea? Now go,” ordered Sir Caldry.

  Though there was no specific hierarchy between the knights, they all knew Sir Caldry was really in charge, and would be so long as he pleased the king. His trust in her was his own risk to take, and they knew it. Sir Mannering left with a glare on his face.

  He is going to be difficult after this, Bethany thought as she moved towards the unconscious prince and carefully began prying away the bits of cloth ground into his tattered back.

  Some areas looked like he’d lost no more than a layer or two of skin. Other sections appeared to be shredded through nearly every layer of muscle. All of it looked dirty.

  “What can we do?” Sir Caldry asked just as the door burst open.

  King Wolfric and Queen Arabelle entered, startled looks on their faces. Evidently Sir Mannering had found them in the corridor. Arabelle immediately went into hysterics while the king dropped into the nearest chair, his face turned as white as his beard. Sir Gregory and Sir Ward caught the queen before she could collapse on the ground and hurt herself.

  Bethany looked up and rolled her eyes without thinking about it. Her mother would have never allowed Bethany to fall apart around a patient, especially one as bad off as the prince. Despite the alcohol, Féderic began to stir at the sound of his mother’s panic. Bethany lunged forward, knowing any more commotion would wake the prince entirely.

  Forgetting that she was a slave in this household, she caught the queen by the shoulders and slapped her soundly. Silence descended on the room.

  “This isn’t helping your son,” Bethany stated in a calculating voice. “He’s hurt, but if you let me work, I can save him from any permanent damage.”

  Her statement seemed to bring the king around, who looked more lost than she’d ever seen him.

  “You mean he’s not dead?” he asked as though all his faith depended on her words.

  “Of course not! But he could be left crippled or disfigured if I can’t get to work. All this isn’t helping. I’ve sent for supplies, and I promise you, I will do everything in my power to help.”

  “Where’s the healer?” asked the king, looking a little more like himself.

  “He went to Dacfield. Lord Tuathail…”

  The king waved her off. He already knew the ancient lord was dying of a painful disease.

  “I’ve sent Sir Rían to fetch him,” informed Sir Caldry.

  “And where did you learn to heal?” asked the king.

  Bethany sighed. This was wasting time. And yet, if she hoped to hide her identity, she would have to take the time to create well-formed lies. “My mother taught me.”

  “I thought your mother was a seamstress?” demanded the scarred knight as he stepped forward. How had he remembered that?

  “She was. But she knew some healing. And the local healer taught me some, too.”

  “Where are you from?” Sir Caldry asked.

  “Garrul,” she lied, hoping they would buy the idea of her coming from the border town of her home country.

  Bethany knew a near truth was easier to sell than a complete lie. They would have many questions if she admitted to being form Dothan, which was hundreds of miles from the disputed border. She knew Garrul, her uncle’s city, well enough to answer any questions they may have.

  “Listen here, girl,” began the king as he rose from his seat and gripped her shoulder until her eyes watered. “If he dies, you die. Now, are you sure you’re willing to risk that?”

  “You have someone else in mind?” she asked before she could censure herself. She swallowed, ready for a blow from him or the knight, and then answered soberly, “Yes, my lord. He won’t die under my care.”

  “Sir Caldry, do you think she can handle it?”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Cal stared at the king for a long moment. No matter how he answered, his life would be tied to the prince and this slave girl. If he endorsed Ann, and the prince died, he would die with the slave girl. If he said she wasn’t capable, and the prince died, they would likely still be put to death out of spite.

  He wasn’t sure if the girl could do the job, but his gut told him she wasn’t lying. After all, she knew how to speak Bumi fluently. What else could she do? Cal chose to follow his instincts. They seldom led him wrong.

  With a deep sigh, he nodded.

  “I will vouch for her. Until the healer returns, I believe this slave is the best chance the prince has.”

  “Very well. Cal, I leave you in charge of the situation. Whatever she needs, get for her. And for the love of the Main Land, get that child cleaned up. If she is tending to my son’s welfare, she can bloody well bathe.”

  With this final admonition, Wolfric led his sniveling wife out of the room.

  “I’ll get some of the
prince’s clothing. You can clean yourself in his basin. Everyone else, out,” ordered Cal.

  The other knights began making their way out of the room just as two slaves arrived with the supplies he had sent Sir Mannering to get.

  “Put them on the table,” the slave girl ordered, “and go to the herbalist with this list,” she added as she moved to the table and scribbled a quick note with neat, delicate letters.

  Cal tried not to stare, but each moment brought a new surprise. She knew how to heal and write?

  Bethany didn’t realize she was the source of so much wonder.

  Once the slaves had left, she moved to the basin and began washing her hands and arms. She even used some of the prince’s expensive soap. With clean hands, she moved to the unconscious prince to begin the work.

  “What are you doing?” demanded the knight.

  “I have to clean the wounds before we bandage them,” Bethany stated without looking up.

  Before she could touch the prince, the knight grabbed her, and pulled her away. He pushed a wad of fabric into her arms.

  “Not in that filth you won’t. Go change and wash yourself more thoroughly. He’s not bleeding that badly. You can get properly clean beforehand. You don’t want more dirt falling into the wounds. I won’t even watch,” he said with a sneer when he noticed her darkening blush.

  Bethany swallowed the lump in her throat before moving to the corner near the fire. True to his word, the knight turned his back on her and crossed his arms. Bethany changed as quickly as she could from her dirty slave frock into the clothing provided. It turned out to be one of the prince’s plainer tunics and a pair of worn, knee-length trousers. Of course, on her they came halfway down her shins. When she began splashing in the large basin again, the knight turned around.

  Once she was clean enough for the knight, she began her work. It was long and back breaking. She spent hours using the needles to carefully dig out grit and gravel from the wound, before pouring water over his back. At some point during the long work, the slaves returned with the herbs.