The Dothan Chronicles: The Complete Trilogy

By Charissa Dufour

*This is a completed series*
King Wolfric Eberhand battles the last nation to stand against his raging armies. With help from the deadly knight, Sir Erin Caldry, he hopes to conquer the land of Dothan once and for all. Using his wealth and power, he has formulated the perfect plan to finally take their rich land. What he doesn't realize, is the youngest Dothan princess is currently a slave within his very own castle walls.
While out visiting the remote estate of a relative, Princess Bethany Kavadh is kidnapped by slavers. Bedraggled and weary, she finds herself sold into slavery. To her horror, she soon discovers that her new owner is none other than her family’s worst enemy, King Wolfric. To fight her rising despair and to keep what little sanity she possess, Princess Bethany begins to fight back, sabotaging the efficient running of the House and function of their Armies.
But what happens when they realize her true identity?
Will they ransom her for the wealth of her nation?
Will they keep her as a slave? Or will they inflict an even crueler punishment?
The only things for certain are: The war between two nations will escalate, and one young princess's life shall forever be TORN.

King Wolfric Eberhand is enraged. His secret weapon—the one that will win him this war once and for all—has escaped, nearly killing his eldest son in the process. Now he must find a new way to destroy the Dothans.
Princess Bethan Kavadh, youngest daughter of the royal family of Dothan, is finally free. After spending months as a slave in King Wolfric’s home, and then later as his son’s fiancé, Bethany has escaped. Now, with the help of her rescuer Sir Erin Caldry, all she has to do is cross the great peninsula to return to the safety of her family.
Sir Erin Caldry has spent his life groveling to King Wolfric in the hopes of saving his sister, but when he learns that she doesn’t want to be saved, he finds himself without a purpose. Through a series of unfortunate events, Sir Caldry finds himself on the chopping block. Rather than be executed, Sir Caldry escapes, taking the captured princess with him.
Little did they realize, their journey to Dothan will be fraught with danger. Will Bethany find her way home? Will Sir Caldry find a new purpose? Or will they both become forever Lost?

King Wolfric is at a loss. His secret weapon has fled, and reunited with her family, and his eldest son is pining for his lost love. If he doesn’t act soon, his entire nation will begin to work against him. He must plan the final, and ultimate attack on the Dothans.
Princess Bethany Kavadh, youngest daughter to Wolfric’s enemy, is no longer within his grasp. After more than a year away from home—living as a slave and fighting her way back to freedom—Princess Bethany is finally home. The only thing is, she is no longer content with home life.
It’s not that her home has changed, but that she has changed.
As Bethany settles into home life again, a sickness descends upon her family and her betrothal to a nearby lord is announced. She and her brother, the king, disagree on everything from care for the sick to the duties of a princess.
Princess Bethany Kavadh will have to act fast to save her nation from the illness and Wolfric alike. The only thing is, she cannot do it Alone.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Charissa Dufour
• Release date: Jul 2, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463175323

Charissa Dufour

My journey to become a writer began in 8th grade, when I was diagnosed with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome and pulled from school to recover. During this time, I was left alone for hours on end and it was then that I discovered new friends within the pages of books. I also learned the blessing of creating my own friends by writing down the stories that plagued my lonely mind—as demented as that sounds. Therefore at the ripe age of fourteen, I wrote my first novel. It sucked! But I kept going and now I am an Indie Author with numerous books out. I never imagined that first horrible novel about a man who crash landed on his long lost home world would turn into a lifelong passion.I now live in Chicago, IL with my amazing husband and two rambunctious kittens, Groot and Rocket.

Book preview

Chapter One

Bethany squatted in the tiny cell. It wasn't anything more than a small, stone box with a tiny drain, and an access point in the ceiling, which was securely fastened from the outside. The cell was too short for her to stand up and too narrow to lie down. She shifted to a new position, trying to stretch out her cold, aching body in small segments without causing any further pain to the throbbing mark on her thigh.

Solitary confinement wasn't enough for a runaway slave. She had been branded—discreetly of course. The wealthy didn't like ugly slaves. Granted, she knew if she were caught running again, she would be branded on the neck. A third offense would mean her death.

She leaned her head back against the wall and flinched away from the cold stones pressing against her bare flesh. Bethany had lost track of the hours since she'd been placed in the cell, though she suspected it had been about two days. Twice she had received a cup of water and a leftover scrap of food.

The first had been maggot infested bread, which she refused to eat. The lump still sat in the far corner, as far away from her as she could place it. The second offering had been some charred meat, which she'd eaten mostly out of desperation.

Bethany never said thank you when they dropped the food and lowered the cup of water. They didn't expect her to, and she hadn't been taught such manners. Then again, she hadn't been born a slave, either.

No one was. Slaves were people who either had been unable to pay their debts or unable to protect themselves from the dreaded slavers. Bethany was the latter. She tried not to think about her life before slavery, but it was difficult, nigh impossible. The two lives were so very different.

Bethany had been born the daughter of a king. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to remember the tall walls that surrounded her family's keep or the sprawling city encompassing it. The only thought that kept her calm was the knowledge that her home still existed, that her family continued to live. She knew because she'd often heard King Wolfric, the father of her new master, complaining about their continued defiance. Of course, he didn't know she was the youngest daughter of his enemy, Middin, King of Tokë.

She had been returning from Garrul, near the border of her family's shrinking land, when they were attacked. Her large caravan was traveling through the winding mountain pass. Bethany squeezed her eyes tighter, but the memory invaded her senses unbidden.

Are you comfortable, my lady? her lady-in-waiting, Nuala, had asked.

Bethany nodded, keeping her thoughts to herself. She hated traveling through the steep mountains, even in spring, when the forest was alive with new growth and noisy birds. The jostle of the large wagon gave her a pounding headache and a rolling stomach. Those were more than ample reason to not want to visit Uncle Lord Elias in Garrul. The fact that the old man was completely inept at entertaining a young woman was just salt in an open wound. He was gouty and lazy in general, but he was family and her father had insisted she make the visit. There had been peace between him and Wolfric for nearly two years, so there seemed little chance of an attack. Well, a lack of fighting, if not actual peace. Besides, her uncle was sickly and in need of encouragement—what better occupation for the youngest daughter of a king than lightening the heart of a war-weary man?

Finally, after a long and lonely month, Bethany was finally returning home.

The first hint of trouble came when the cumbersome wagon came to a stop. Such an event only happened at high noon or at the end of the day's traveling; it took too much time and energy to get the six enormous horses moving again. The men often rode ahead to clear fallen branches from the road or lay gravel on muddier portions, and sometimes the forerunners would even turn other travelers aside, forcing them to wait until her caravan had passed. Of course, seeing the wagon of a princess was a form of entertainment to the lowly bystanders. Occasionally, Bethany would even condescend to wave at them from the small window.

Bethany was just about to send one of her three maids out to see what the delay was when she heard shouts, followed by a piercing cry of pain. The clanking of swords and yelling of men quickly followed. Bethany shrank into the fur-lined bench. The other women in the wagon followed her example. All, but one. Her lady-in-waiting, Nuala, jumped to the tiny window and tweaked the thick drape aside to peer out. She quickly ducked back as something thudded against the wagon, jostling the heavy wooden frame. Nuala's eyes had grown in fright, but she kept her wits about her while Bethany quivered in her seat.

Nuala yanked the fur covering from the floor to reveal the tiny trap door. You have to run, she ordered, staring at the princess.

Bethany understood the words, but couldn't grasp their meaning. Fear deadened her limbs and slowed her mind to a crawl. More out of shock than obedience, she moved towards her lady-in-waiting and the small opening in the floor, which permitted the sounds of battle to fill their plush sanctuary.

Where do I go? she wailed, as though the other women would have some hidden insight.

Anywhere! Just run and hide. And don't come back until you know the battle is over, Nuala said before unceremoniously pushing the princess through the trap door. Bethany didn't fight her, though she barked her shins against the axel and smacked her forehead on the opening. Before she could respond, Nuala closed the hatch and locked it. For a fleeting moment, Bethany wondered if Nuala had sent the princess into the forest to save those still in the wagon. Would they spare the women if they didn't find royalty? It didn't make sense. Then again, the entire attack didn't make sense.

Bethany didn't wait to figure it out. She inched her way to the edge of the wagon closest to the lining forest, glanced in both directions to be sure no one was too close, and bolted for the surrounding trees. Three steps from the wagon she found herself dancing around a frantic horse's back end. Thankfully, the rider didn't notice her, his whole attention on his frantic mount. Just a few feet from the nearest tree, her soft leather slippers sank into the deep mud and disappeared. Bethany hesitated, wanting to stop to dig them free from the mire, but the screech of an injured horse sent her flying.

She tottered up the incline and into the forest. The trees were close together where large slabs of granite didn't interrupt their growth. Some even twisted around the protruding rocks, determined to grow despite nature’s obstruction. The rocks and pine needles defaced her feet as she scrambled through the forest. She stumbled a few times, adding new bruises to her legs and hands while the branches reached out, clutching at her dress and hair.

A few minutes into her headlong run, Bethany vaulted over a rock, right into a river. The water was slow, but icy cold. Her long gown quickly grew so heavy she could barely keep her head above water as she paddled towards the other side. At the opposite edge, she dragged herself out, using the thick branches of wild berry bushes to keep herself from slipping back into the water. The banks were covered in spring mud, and by the time she reached solid ground, Bethany's elegant, green dress was caked in black sludge. She almost wanted to jump back into the river to cleanse herself, but a gust of wind reminded her just how cold the water was. Another dip in the river would only make her colder; besides, she'd just have to climb through the mud again.

For the first time, Bethany stopped to take stock of her surroundings. She stood next to a wide river that came from a short waterfall a half dozen yards away. Enormous fir trees grew in splotches around the river. The ground was covered with last winter's pine needles that pricked her bare feet. Through a clearing, she thought she spotted a road. Had she doubled back on herself or was it a different road? She wasn't even sure which direction she'd run. As the princess forced herself to think about it, she had a sneaking suspicion she'd run in the general direction of King Wolfric's lands.

Bethany shivered, wrapping her arms around her chest in an effort to conserve body heat. She belatedly realized that her plush cloak had been torn off at some point. She reached up and touched her head; the simple ring of gold had fallen off, too. Bethany wanted to go back and search for it, but that would require another dunking in the river.

Not really worth it, she realized as she considered her predicament.

Another gust of wind set her teeth to rattling. From the distant clearing, she heard men's voices and horse's hooves.

Bethany forced herself to move and find some cover. The only thing she could find was a large bush, much closer to the road than wisdom promoted. Other than that one dead bush, every other piece of ground cover was too thin or small to hide her entire body. In retrospect, Bethany had one moment of wisdom that day; following a sudden instinct, she pulled her small gold signet ring from her pinky and slipped it into her mouth, hoping she wouldn't swallow it in her fright.

What's that? a man’s voice called out.

Thinking she'd been discovered, Bethany stepped out from her bush. P-please, h-help m-m-me, she asked, her teeth clattering together and making it difficult to speak. She felt the ring pressed between her gums and her cheek.

The man smiled, showing the many gaps in his teeth. Bethany glanced at the rest of his caravan and realized just what a mistake she had made. Trailing behind the smiling man was a row of men and women connected by a rope twined around their necks.

She had just asked for help from a slaver.

Bethany didn't think she had any energy left, but fear gave her strength and forced her legs to move again. She ran along the river, towards the small waterfall, hoping to find a fordable stretch farther upstream. Of course, the hope was fruitless. Faster than she thought possible, she heard the sound of hooves gaining on her. Bethany didn't waste time looking over her shoulder but turned to jump back into the icy water. Just as she did, two hands reached under her armpits and yanked her off her feet. She cried out as she tried to break free from his grasp, but before she could, he had her lying on her stomach across his lap.

The slaver turned the horse and pushed him into an excruciating trot, the saddle and his legs digging ruthlessly into her stomach. The horse took a sudden turn forcing her body into the saddle at an awkward angle. Her side erupted with fire. The slaver jerked his horse to a stop, and Bethany let out a gasp of pain.

Another man yanked her from her perch and dumped her on the ground near the end of the line of pathetic individuals. Without being told, Bethany scrambled to her feet with as much dignity as she could, which wasn't much, considering she tripped over her sodden dress twice. Once on her feet, Bethany tried to take a deep, calming breath. The movement sent a fresh stab of agony through her side. She clutched it as she bent forward, doubled over with the pain. It was nearly enough to make her forget the importance of the ring hidden in her mouth.

The man grabbed her by the hair and jerked her back into a standing position while quickly slipping a loop of rope over her head and tightening it around her neck. Despite the pain in her side and scalp, Bethany felt as though a large rock had been thrown at her stomach—the rope sliding into place around her neck felt very final.

There was no escape now.

The next four days, Bethany had walked behind the other slaves, her once beautiful gown slowly turning into rags. When they made their way out of the dense mountains and into the rolling valleys, Bethany knew without a doubt they were truly and completely in Wolfric's territory.

Though slavery was not something her father, King Middin, condoned, he did not actively battle the issue. He had worse enemies to fight. Bethany considered, time and again, telling the traders who she was and showing them her signet ring, but she had a strong suspicion that they would just laugh at her and take the gold. They would probably beat her too. She had already received a few harsh blows for small indiscretions such as talking or looking them in the eye. Bethany quickly learned to emulate the other slaves. As a child, she had learned the art of imitation in an effort to get the same treatment as her older siblings. She finally decided to bide her time, and only tell someone who might have the ability to help her return home.

But on the tenth day, when they met up with the rest of the larger slaving caravan, she lost hope of that ever happening. They had traveled so far and no rescue had arrived; how could she possibly hope to make it home again?

The other slavers had not been as successful, hauling only three miserable souls behind their horses. Bethany recognized one as a Lurran; her teak skin stood out in contrast to the pale people around her. The girl's cheeks were stained with rivers of tears. The Lurran people dwelled in the fiercest part of the tall mountains that lined the Narrow Sea. It wasn't really a sea, but rather an incredibly wide river. Even from the tops of the tall trees, a person could barely make out the distant shore. Nonetheless, it was freshwater.

Bethany eyed the foreign girl. She had heard of the Lurran from her tutors but had never actually met one. The girl did more than live up to her expectations. Though Bethany suspected her to be no more than eleven or twelve, she was just as tall as Bethany and far slimmer. Even the very structure of her bones appeared more inclined towards height than mass. Her eyes were an abnormal silvery color. Bethany wanted to hound her with the many questions about her reclusive culture, but couldn't remember if the Lurran people spoke her language. It didn't really matter; the slavers would have beaten her had she spoken anyway.

The next day, a third group of slavers met them in a small valley where they pushed and prodded the slaves into an enormous wagon with thick drapes to block out any light. And there they remained.

Bethany had lost count of the days and nights, marked by the slow change of temperature in the wagon.

Now, as Bethany sat in her cell, she realized she couldn't remember much of those horrible days. They were all blackness and putrid odor. The slaves quickly learned it did them no good to hold their bladders. They had no idea when they would be let out of the wagon. Bethany was one of the last to relieve themselves on that first miserable day in the wagon. When she had finally given in to her body's needs, she'd almost cried, but her body was too dehydrated to produce more than a few tears and a short stream of foul urine.

That day had been her twentieth birthday, Bethany remembered as she sat in her tiny cell, and did the same deed. At least in the cell there was a drain so that she didn't have to sit in it, but it still smelled. Now, after three months of slavery, she had little dignity left; there was too much reality in her life to remember the fairytale.

Of course, everything had changed abruptly when the slavers reached their destination, nearly a month later. The heavy wagon began to slow and take sharp turns. From within the wagon, they could hear the sounds of a prosperous city. She tried to remember how many lefts and rights they had taken, again hoping to escape, but it was pointless. Finally, when Bethany was fully turned around and confused, the wagon came to a stop. The tailgate dropped and harsh voices began urging them to climb out. Bethany crawled out after the others, too weak to stand. They had been given small portions each day, but often Bethany received her meager hunk of bread with a few bites already taken out by those who had passed it through the mob of starving slaves.

It was in those instances that her hatred had begun to burn. The fiery passion was all that helped her stand outside the wagon, while her weak muscles shook with the effort.

She was in a small court surrounded by high walls topped with spikes. The other captives were shaking in the heavy wind that whirled down among the walls. A gust of frigid air hit her from the side, causing her to tumble into the mud.

Get up, demanded one of the slavers while giving her a blow from some sort of staff, which forced her to scramble back to her feet. Evidently, the slaver had no desire to touch her. She couldn't blame him; she didn't want to touch herself, either.

Get them cleaned up, ordered the same man to a plump woman in a warm shawl and a heavy skirt that jerked around her thick ankles in the fierce wind.

Bethany was ushered into a small room with a long trough of water and thin towels. The women prodded them into position with her own staff.

Off wiff 'em rags, she ordered.

Bethany glanced around, seeing the others begin to pull their clothes off. She swallowed the lump in her throat. She had been raised to be a modest, private person, as all her siblings had. Even those not of royal blood in Tokë were modest. No one was permitted to see her naked, not even her maids. That honor was saved for her spouse.

What'd Ah jes say? slurred the woman as she jabbed Bethany in the back with her stick.

Please, ma'am, Bethany begged, trying to put as much deference into her voice as she could, desperation forcing her to be diplomatic. May I have some privacy?

Bethany glanced at the other slaves, hoping for their support. They had stopped in their efforts and were watching the confrontation. Their eyes grew wide, just as Bethany felt a blow to her side hard enough to knock the air from her lungs. She doubled over, wrapping her arms around her filthy stomach.

Ye'll git nak'd right here an' now, an' clean yerself good, ye hear, snapped the plump woman.

Bethany blinked the tears from her eyes and with shaking fingers began pulling at the laces of her gown. She forced her eyes to stay focused on her own task, refusing to be witness to other people's shame. She just hoped they'd do the same for her. The hum she heard from the man next to her suggested otherwise, but he was quickly silenced by a hard jab from the woman's staff.

She didn't try to wipe the tears from her cheeks as she pulled the sodden dress from her body. Though she had experienced horrors beyond her wildest dreams during the last month of captivity, this new degradation was a distinct breaking point. With her gown, she discarded the last hope of ever returning to the life she had known. No man would marry her now that this gift had been stolen by another. Not only would she never marry, but she would never fulfill the one role she had been raised to do: bring wealth and alliance to her family through marriage.

While they cleaned themselves with pungent smelling powder and filmy water, another woman entered and removed their discarded robes. When they were finished, thin unisex garments were slipped over their heads and bound to their waists by worn leather belts. The one given to Bethany was too long and she found herself tripping over its hem.

But that was then, she told herself, back again in the cold, damp pit.

Hey, you! Get up, a woman's voice commanded.

Bethany jerked, hitting her head against the cold stones of her cell.

You hear me? the voice repeated from the opened hatch.

Bethany blinked a few times before squinting up towards the soft glow of a torch.

It was time to get back to work.

Chapter Two

Bethany carefully climbed out of the pit, no longer concerned about her lack of clothing. This wasn't her first trip into the pits. Two guards stood alongside Flora, a female slave that had managed to rise to some level of authority. She held out a slave's frock—a simple gown with long sleeves and braided belt, tied at the waistline. Bethany took it and moved to the long trough, where she scrubbed the dirt from her body and hair. In some ways, she would have preferred to stay dirty. The filth helped keep her identity hidden. She had been noticing certain young men staring at her shapely figure or what was left of it.

Flora joined her at the trough to help her lace the back of the rough sewn dress. The older woman had been a slave since her father sold her and her siblings, to cover his debts. Unlike most people who hoped to gain their freedom, she seemed resigned to her life as a slave. After twenty years in the service of the king, it wasn't so surprising to Bethany; even after just two months, Bethany felt a certain level of resignation herself.

She had already given up her aversion to hard work and blisters; such things were simply a part of her life now. Bethany finished her bathing and followed Flora up to where the work waited. Bethany stopped in front of the door of the crown prince's room and shuddered as another memory crowded her mind.

Two months ago, Bethany stood on a sturdy platform with the other slaves. It was a few hours after their arrival in the compound, and the growing crowd was making bids on them when a sudden silence descended on the packed courtyard. The buyers parted as a man garbed in a long, leather tabard, and a heavy wool cloak lined with fur made his way towards the platform. Bethany shivered in the spring chill and felt a new wave of jealousy. Between the crest on his cloak, everyone's cautious yet deferential treatment of the man, and the gold ring resting on his head, Bethany had a pretty good notion of who he might be and therefore where she was—Tolad, the capital of Wolfric's land and the vast Aardê nation.

Bethany shied away from the approaching man, pressing herself against the wall and trying to position one of the other slaves in front of her. The sturdy wall was a comfort to her tired and shaking body. The prince, for that's who she assumed he was, dismounted and climbed up onto the platform to inspect each slave in minute detail.

Prince Féderic, groveled the head slaver, how may I serve you?

I'm looking for a maidservant—a pretty one, he added as his eyes ran across the mass of huddled bodies.

All women step forward, barked the slaver.

The other ladies did so immediately. Bethany spotted the Lurran girl at the other end and hesitated. She hoped the mass of male bodies would hide her. This proved to be a big mistake. The slaver noticed her and, shouting at the top of his lungs, drew her from the crowd while simultaneously beating her buttocks with the short stick he carried. The racket drew the prince's attention away from the other women. He sauntered over to where Bethany stood, occasionally pausing to look at one of the other women as he passed by. At one point, he even stopped long enough to pry a woman’s mouth open and inspect her teeth. From where Bethany stood five feet away, she could count at least three missing.

Prince Féderic dismissed the other woman with a wave of his hand and continued toward Bethany. The rejected women stepped back into the crowd of men. The prince, meanwhile, slowly stalked around Bethany, taking in every detail. He lifted Bethany's thick hair and ran a calloused hand down her neck and shoulders. Bethany stood tall, some semblance of pride still in her. Féderic stopped in front of her and motioned towards his mouth. Bethany knew what he wanted, but refused to oblige. His distant look turned into a glare as he pushed his strong finger into her mouth and pried it open; he tasted of salt, leather, and dirt. She was thankful she had managed to move her signet ring to her matted hair while stuck in the wagon. The prince took a firm hold of her chin and shifted her face until she was forced to look him in the eye.

To Bethany's surprise, the enemy prince smiled. I'll take her. Pay the man, he said to one of his attendants.

And so Bethany became Prince Féderic's slave.

Ann? Flora asked from her place by the door, using the name Bethany had given when purchased. You ‘kay?

Bethany nodded, blinking one last time to clear the remnants of the uncomfortable memory. Yes, sorry, the princess said.

Flora stared at her a moment before pushing the heavy wooden door open to reveal the large bedchamber of the crown prince. He wasn't present, but signs of his recent activity were spread across the room. One of the many tapestries was hanging at an angle. Clothing lay in a myriad of piles around his room, while his thick blankets rested three feet from the bed. The enormous stone fireplace was missing its essential quality—a fire. Food dishes were scattered around the room, some hidden under the piles of fabric while most of the food lay a fair distance from the plates. A puddle of something unrecognizable stained the wooden slats near the deep-set window.

Bethany clenched her jaw in an effort to keep herself from grinding her teeth—an action her mother would never have allowed. Then again, her elegant mother never expected her daughter to be faced with the task of cleaning up someone else's filth. Up until very recently, Bethany had lived a life of coddling by family and servants; they did everything for her from lacing her slippers to rubbing lavender oil on her temples if she had even the slightest headache.

But that was her old life, and this the new. The two were so vastly different from each other that Bethany struggled to call them both hers. Her existence had been torn in two; the tear so neat and clean, it felt as if the life she had lived as a princess did not belong to the hard, bitter slave standing on the threshold of a filthy prince’s room.

Bethany couldn't help but sigh at the work laid out before them. Flora mimicked her. The two women smiled at their mutual frustration before stepping into the room and beginning the chore. Flora moved to the bed and began arranging the blankets while Bethany began clearing away the food and dirty dishes.

What was he doing to make such a mess? Bethany wondered aloud.

Ha! Not for us to know. When we're told to clean, we clean. No more.

Bethany bit back a tart reply. She was continually learning the tough lesson that she was no one and barely worth the price Féderic had paid for her. She bent to her task.

An hour later, the two women were just finishing up when the door banged against the wall. Bethany looked up to see the prince stride in, his muddy boots leaving prints on the newly polished floor. Both women bowed at the waist until the prince entered.

Leave me. Not you, he added, pointing at Bethany.

Flora eyed the younger woman a second before scurrying away. Bethany tried to stay as far away from the prince as she could. He had used his fists on her more than once.

In her younger days, Bethany dreamed of meeting a prince. Though she had many variations on the scenario, her favorite included a flute, flower petals on the floor and a stolen kiss. Now that she’d met an actual prince, Bethany found herself disgusted by her own ignorance.

Growing up, the only princes she had ever come in contact with were her brothers, and they had never struck a woman. She never imagined that the royal character of her childhood dreams could turn out to be so awful.

Prince Féderic's cruelty came from his need to be respected, she realized. Being the eldest of a family with numerous other sons, Bethany could imagine his fear and insecurity. She knew the Aardê king, Wolfric, would choose his heir based primarily on age, but also on who was more capable and cunning. A younger prince would not be punished for destroying the life of an elder brother, but likely rewarded. Bethany had occasionally seen Féderic punish an impudent younger brother to keep him from getting any ideas. Féderic was not weak and he would prove it whenever the opportunity presented itself.

I need to dress for dinner, he said before hesitating.

Ann, Bethany mumbled, providing her name, again.

Ann, he said with an unnerving smirk. Mother insists on these ridiculous rituals.

Bethany didn't respond as she moved to untie the thick, mud-caked cloak, needed even in summer in the southern lands of the Aardê nation, where it was not a shock to see snowfall in May. Bethany didn't respond to the prince's complaints. She had learned during her first week or two of service that the prince spoke to hear his own voice, not to enjoy conversation. In retrospect, Bethany realized she had often done the same thing to her servants.

A gentle tap on the door interrupted her efforts.

Enter, ordered the prince.

One of the cook’s assistants, Malak, entered carrying a tray and mug of mulled wine. He silently set it on the table, winked at Bethany, and left.

Bethany hung the cloak on its hook near the door and returned to his side. Féderic had lowered himself to the bench near the fire, which now burned brightly, and removed his own dirty boots. The prince stood and waited for her to begin unlacing his leather jerkin. Bethany swallowed the lump forming in her throat and tried to keep as much distance from him as she could while still completing the task. Féderic smiled down at her.

Her discomfort was a running joke with him—one she did not enjoy. Bethany's people valued privacy, and though she had initially run from such chores, she knew better now. The first time he'd expected her to help him dress, she had flat out refused. Bethany bore the marks across her back from many blows with a lash. The next time she'd tried to get out of it, the slave master had caught her and added to the scars. Bethany now did it without complaint, though she tried to keep her eyes away from the prince's naked body.

She obeyed in body only. It was all they required, the appearance of obedience. Inside, though, Bethany railed against their strict rules and high expectations. In her life of freedom, the only rules she was expected to follow were those that would help her attain a husband—be demure, elegant, and not too terribly smart, and these she obeyed with her whole heart. It was her greatest desire to attract a husband, but with the continuation of a bloody war and men scarce, her chances had dwindled until it seemed almost ridiculous to keep up the act of ladyhood. It definitely was not needed in her new life.

Once she had the jerkin off, she went to work on the lacings of his trousers. She felt her face heating up with a deep blush. Thankfully, before Féderic could mock her, she heard a loud pounding on the door. Féderic swatted her away and took a firm hold of his trousers. The door swung open to reveal Sir Erin Caldry, the royal family's most trusted knight.

The man was all sturdy muscle, built from years of hard labor and hefting a large sword, both in the practice ring and on the battlefield. There were many legends from her youth that described a scarred warrior blazing the battlefield and defeating her people single-handedly. Bethany hadn't believed in the stories until she'd met Sir Caldry.

A long, nasty scar ran from his left temple, down his face and neck, and ended somewhere beneath his tunic, as though someone had taken a dull knife and dragged it down his face. His dull green eyes were deceptive as they scanned the room, momentarily taking notice of Bethany hunched in the corner. She lowered her own eyes before he could become offended. Like Féderic, the knight had a mean swing. Her cheek was still tender from the last time he had roughly punished her for an impudent remark.

Oh, it's just you, Féderic remarked as he motioned for Bethany to continue her task.

She returned to his trouser strings while he pulled his own tunic over his head.

Bethany's embarrassment increased with the knight present to witness her shame. Her fingers shook as she struggled to finish the last of the bindings. When she had finally completed the task and stepped back, she noticed Sir Caldry staring at her. Her blush deepened, and she forced her gaze to the floor.

What could he possibly mean, staring at her like that?

Chapter Three

The queen sent me to see if I could hurry you along, Sir Caldry said, tearing his eyes from the pretty little slave girl and her bright red face.

He didn't know many slaves who blushed so often. By the time they were her age, they were used to naked bodies and the rough handling of their Aardê masters. His instincts said there was something different about this woman. Caldry had learned to trust his instincts ever since his youth; they had saved him time and again.

The slave girl stood tall, despite her lowered head and downcast eyes. Occasionally, Caldry would see a flash of intuition in her stormy blue eyes that suggested she possessed a great deal more intellect than the average slave.

The mystery frustrated him.

Well, Ann here is dressing me as quickly as her clumsy fingers can manage, Féderic said, drawing his attention away from the young woman.

Ann rushed to the wardrobe and fetched a clean pair of boots. She did her best to dress the prince quickly, but she kept stealing glances at Caldry, causing her fingers to slip and get tangled. She became so agitated she managed to pinch the prince in an area no man wants to be pinched—not even in bed.

Damn wench, Féderic shrieked, striking her with the back of his hand.

She flew off her knees and landed hard against the stone hearth, where she remained still.

She dead? the prince asked after a silent moment.

Sir Caldry crossed the room and placed his hand in front of her nose, feeling a gentle whisper of air move. No. She's breathing.

Get her out of here. I'll finish dressing myself and meet you in the hall.

Caldry lifted the limp woman in his arms, but as he reached the hallway he felt her tense slightly before relaxing again into his grasp. In a sudden movement, Sir Caldry dropped her. Though the slave girl ended up landing on her face, one hand shot out in an attempt to catch herself, which confirmed his suspicions—she hadn't actually been knocked unconscious.

Caldry forced his mouth into a fierce frown, though he wanted to smile at her audacity. He'd never known a slave to have the fortitude or the ingenuity to think up such a trick. Granted, it had cost her. He could see another angry bruise forming across her cheek from the most recent collision with the floor. She probably also had a large lump where her head had hit the stone hearth.

Ann quickly schooled her features into a look of shock, though he had seen a fleeting glare.

Don't try those tricks on me, woman, Caldry snapped, forcing more anger into his tone than he felt while keeping his voice soft enough that it wouldn't carry back to the prince. He was just as happy to escape Féderic's presence as the slave.

Ann shrunk back against the wall, forcing her shoulders into a hunched position. Caldry recognized it as an unnatural stance for her.

Get down to the hall to serve dinner, he snapped.

She didn't wait for him to add another order. She turned and scurried away from him, in the general direction of the slave's stairwell.

Bethany forced herself to take slow, calming breaths as she descended the slave's winding stairwell. The knight had figured out her trick of pretending to be more hurt than she really was. This wasn't the first time she'd feigned long spells of unconsciousness to get out of hard work. But he knew, and she wouldn't get away with it again.

When she'd first seen the anger in his green eyes, she'd feared another blow, but like herself, Caldry knew that the prince didn't like wasting money by killing slaves with unnecessarily rough treatment. Besides, it was one thing for the prince to beat his slave; it was an entirely different matter if the knight did it. Despite having more wealth than she could imagine at his fingertips, the prince was frugal. It was just another way to impress his father, she realized. Still, his economy had kept her alive during the first two months of her residence in the castle; most slave owners would have killed her for refusing to do a task.

Bethany entered the bustling kitchen and had a platter of sliced roots thrust into her hands. She didn't wait for anyone else to add to her burden before heading up the short flight of stairs into the great hall where the royal family ate their meals. She nearly bumped into Sir Caldry as she rushed to unburden herself. He stared at her warningly and waited for her to move away before he took his seat at the far end of the high table.

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 leftovers. 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 anymore.

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 hesitation 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 chainmail 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 pickpockets. 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 besides the royal family and their numerous slaves, lived in the keep itself, this one kitchen provided the food not only for the residents of the 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 in the slave stairwell.

Bethany looked up to see Lady Lynette making her way down the corridor. The daughter of 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 offspring 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.

Bethany reached the prince's chambers, still wondering where she might find him when she heard his voice from within. She knocked quietly before stepping back from the door.

Come, Féderic commanded.

She entered, bowed, and handed him the slip of paper.

Got a secret lover? Lyolf asked from the corner.

Bethany jumped. She hadn't noticed the prince’s visitors. Prince Lyolf and Sir Aedan Mannering were lounging against the foot of Féderic’s bed, and her reaction brought forth a boisterous round of laughter from each of them.

Flighty little slave! Lyolf exclaimed when he had finished laughing.

Féderic finished reading the note and tossed it into the blazing fire.

Yeah, but she works hard when she's not getting into trouble, the prince replied.

Bethany glanced up at him before