

TORN

By Charissa Dufour

*This book has received a major re-edit as of 1/16/2019. Please make sure you have the latest edition on your device. *

© 2014 by Charissa Dufour

All rights reserved.

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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To my loving husband,

Mackay Dufour,

who lets me write while he earns the big bucks.

# 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 remembering to keep her eyes on the floor.

What had he meant by that?

"Ever wonder what's beneath all that dirt?" Sir Mannering mused.

Sir Mannering was one of Wolfric's prized knights. There were six, including Sir Caldry. Mannering, though one of the youngest was by far the richest. Being the second son of a nearby Aardê lord had given him opportunities unknown to the other knights; the result was a cocky, self-indulgent man of thirty-five.

"More dirt," griped the prince, his focus on the burning paper.

"You never answered my question... gotta lover?" asked Prince Lyolf.

Though it had never been stated in her presence, Bethany always thought the black sheep of the royal family looked like Lord Mandek. Could the king's advisor be the queen's past lover?

"That's none of your business."

"Ooo! Who is she?" asked Lyolf.

Féderic didn't answer, and Sir Mannering didn't throw kindling on the fire—he knew better than to enrage the heir apparent; Prince Lyolf wasn't so wise.

"Your silence is deafening," prodded Lyolf. "She must be quite forbidden."

"Leave off," snapped Féderic.

"Touchy," Lyolf said, raising his hands in a conciliatory manner. "I bet your little slave girl knows."

Lyolf took the three steps to Bethany's side and grabbed her arm; Bethany felt her stomach give a little jump of fear.

"I said, leave off!" shouted Féderic as he jerked Bethany from his brother's grasp.

Lyolf grew serious, the turning wheels in his head showing through his gleaming, black eyes. Mannering seemed only a short step behind the bastard prince.

"The only woman so forbidden that you would hide her from _me_ is Lynette... you're sleeping with Father's mistress?" the younger prince gasped, his cheeks flushing with anger.

Did he realize the possibility that this woman was his half-sister?

Féderic shoved Bethany away, suddenly realizing he was touching her dirty arm. She bowed and tried to escape to the door.

"Ann," the prince snapped. "Tell her... 'She better.'"

Bethany bowed again and scurried away to the sound of Lyolf's insistent voice.

Bethany was quickly distracted by the voices coming from slaves' stairwell.

"What do you mean they can't get into the larder?" asked a voice Bethany recognized as Hepner's, the castle's head steward.

The princess crept toward the staircase.

"The door has been locked from the inside. And we can hear barking coming from inside."

"What?" shrieked the steward over the sound of their feet pounding against the stone steps. "Break the door down if you have to."

Bethany stopped at the stairwell, letting them get farther away. She didn't want to be caught eavesdropping, much less grinning like a fool.

The plan had worked perfectly. Now to think up another.

# Chapter Five

"Wake up," barked the pudgy slave master as he kicked the nearest slave in the leg. Bethany wasn't the only person scrambling to their feet, hoping to avoid his wrathful foot. "You," he added, grabbing Bethany by the arm as she tried to slip past him unnoticed. "The king's bell is ringing. See what he wants."

Sure enough, Bethany could hear the low throb of the king's bell ringing from the narrow corridor running between the slave's quarters and the kitchen. Bethany glanced at the trough filled with cold water, where the other slaves were drinking and cleaning themselves. She would have to go without any form of a bath today, a blessing and a curse she realized, as Bainard shoved her towards the door, followed by a stout kick.

How did he manage to hit so hard with such fat legs?

Bethany ran as fast as she could to the king's quarters, hoping she could return in time for a scrap of bread from one of the kitchen assistants that seemed to like her.

At the large, engraved door leading into the king's expansive quarters, Bethany bowed to the guards while one of them turned to knock on the door.

"About time," mumbled the other as he eyed her.

Bethany kept her eyes on the floor. She had come to realize that those with little power had a tendency to abuse it faster than those with a lot of power. Slave Master Bainard, who was little more than a slave himself, was quick to wallop anyone who even appeared guilty; the castle guards were similar in nature.

"Get in here," snapped the king.

The guards opened the door just enough for her to enter. She slipped in and bowed low.

"We will need breakfast for two. And inform the stable master I will be late today to inspect the new foal."

Bethany glanced up at him, then out the narrow window to the pitch black morning. The cooks were barely up and yet he thought this late? Once again, she was reminded just how ridiculous it was for one man to rule this much land. Still, he had time for the simple pleasures, she realized as she spotted the auburn hair of a young woman. Lynette. Clearly, he didn't know his mistress also shared the bed of his eldest son.

Bethany bowed again to hide her shudder of disgust. She exited the large room, her pace more sedate as she realized there was no way she could get back to the lower levels in time for breakfast. Instead, she took the easiest route to the bailey. The summer morning was cold and she wondered just how cold it would become in winter. Bethany wrapped her arms around her middle to conserve heat and trudged across the wide yard to the large stables. The horses whinnied at her as she entered the stable. She ignored them as she made her way to the small alcove where the stable hands slept. Their fire was nearly out, so she stoked it and added another log before turning to the stable master.

Much like Bainard, Josiah was little more than a slave. As the stable master, he was in charge of two things—the horses and the few slaves used to tend them. Still, controlling one of Wolfric's primary weapons gave him an opportunity to manipulate the future. If the horses were healthy and trained for battle, the king could conquer more nations. If the horses were sickly and quick to tire, he would lose. With this power also came an increased chance of getting beheaded.

Bethany glanced down the long row of stalls, an idea forming in her head. It would take careful planning. For now, she tucked the idea away and gently shook Josiah. The middle-aged man groaned and rolled over to look up at her.

"What? What is it?" he asked in a voice roughened by years of breathing in hay dust and bellowing over the general sounds of a stable.

"The king says he will be late to inspect the new foal."

The man's brows furrowed as he contemplated her statement. He blinked a few times as he realized what the king meant by "late" and jumped from his bed.

"Wake up you lazy cows!" he snapped.

He roughly pushed Bethany out of the way, and she fell against the iron stove used to contain their fire, the hot metal burning her through her thin dress. Bethany cried out, but no one heard her over Josiah's shouts and his workers' moans.

Suddenly the day stretched out before her—too many hours of pain and hard labor on no food. Bethany sighed as she dodged past the flailing arms and made her way out of the stable. The cold morning air eased the worst of her burn which felt as though it ran from halfway down her thigh.

She glanced around, noticing the horizon's first signs of color. From within the next thatched building, she heard the waking sounds of carrier pigeons. Another idea sparked to life and her feet took off before it had finished forming, excitement replacing the pain.

Bethany had often heard her father declare carrier pigeons to be the key to any victory. Though she didn't fully understand how the system worked, Bethany knew that each pigeon had a mate and if released the bird would fly to its mate. It was a simple matter of keeping one bird in one city and the mate in another until one needed to send a message; they provided the means for quick communication over nearly any distance. She knew Wolfric used them to send orders to the front and to request supplies from neighboring cities. How great would their necessity be in a nation this size?

Bethany slipped into the small building, grateful to see no one slept inside. She didn't blame the bird master, for the interior of the thatched building was nearly as cold as the outside and could not contain a fire. Inside, seven different cages sat, packed full of cooing birds. In the dim light, she couldn't read the tags that indicated which birds would go to which cities, but she knew they were all important. Bethany assumed the best way to disrupt their communication was to release _all_ the birds. But how to do that without advertising human interference?

Carefully, she cracked the door open. Other than Josiah's muffled rants, she couldn't hear any other morning sounds. She would need to make it look as if the birds had pecked their way out of the cage. Bethany moved to the first cage and reached in to tear at the tiny leather bindings used to hold the cages together. She slowly managed to create a hole in the first cage, and eventually moved on to the next. After what felt like an eternity, she had small holes formed in each cage. But how would the birds escape? She couldn't just leave the door open, advertising that _someone_ helped them.

She glanced up and spotted a thinning spot in the thatched roof. Perfect. With the aid of a small step stool, Bethany parted the thatching, grabbed one of the birds that had discovered the opening in its cage, and shoved it through the hole. The animal let out a surprised squawk and took off. In no time at all, a few of his inmates began to follow his screeching example.

Bethany ducked out of the way, put the stool back where she found it, and slipped out, hoping the birds' natural instincts would do the rest. The sky was just beginning to grow pink and the castle was barely stirring. Bethany rushed to the small entrance leading down into the kitchen. The day cooks were awake and taking the place of the night shift. She was just about to leave when she remembered the other half of her orders.

Quickly, she spotted Malak, the cook's assistant who had been kind to her in the past. He spotted her and carefully cut off a small piece of crusty bread. She smiled at him, trying to appear inviting.

Before now, Bethany had never had to work at making friends. Her status had done that for her. Everyone wanted to be kind and agreeable to a princess. Now, she found it was hard work to make friends, but also more rewarding.

"Thank you," she said before biting into the bread. "The king says he'll be needing breakfast for two."

Malak smiled at her, a twinkle in his eye making her laugh. "No doubt."

Unlike herself, Malak was a free man. Wolfric didn't trust slaves to prepare his food; too many opportunities to poison him. He hired two cooks and many assistants. From what she could tell, they were well paid. Perhaps if Malak knew the truth, he would help her escape.

No. He may have shown interest in her, but that wasn't enough to risk his cozy position, nor did he possess the skills needed to get her home.

Malak called out, passing on the news. The other cooks chuckled and made a few jokes that Bethany didn't quite understand. Malak tapped her on the nose, leaving a dash of flour behind. She grinned and was about to wipe it off when someone bumped into her. The contact reminded her of the burn on her leg.

Bethany felt any happiness from her moment with Malak slip away as the pain caused tears to prick her eyes and roll down her cheeks. The cook noticed it and demanded to know what was wrong as she tried to hold the folds of her skirt away from her leg.

"What's happened?" he demanded, trying to pull the fabric up.

Bethany slapped his hands and held the fabric firmly down, though its rough nape hurt the tender skin.

"Did you hurt yourself?"

"I-I'm fine," Bethany stammered, trying to stop the tears from continuing down her face.

"How did you hurt yourself?" Malak asked, ignoring the murmurs coming from their growing audience. The other cooks had stopped their work and were watching the commotion. "We need to get you to a healer."

Bethany couldn't believe Malak's naivety. Did he really not understand what happened to slaves? Before she could respond, another voice brought the crowd to a standstill.

"What is going on in here?" Sir Caldry stepped into the kitchen.

The crowd parted for him as he marched forward. He spotted Bethany holding her dress down and Malak's hand trying to reveal her legs.

"You dare touch the prince's slave?" he demanded in a fierce voice.

He took Malak by the hair and flung him towards one of the central tables used for prepping. Malak hit his head and slumped to the floor, unconscious.

"No, sir... wait..." Bethany called out in an effort to keep the knight from kicking Malak, the tears still streaming down her red cheeks. "I-I'm hurt. He just wanted to know how bad it is."

Sir Caldry turned to her, taking in her expression for the first time. He glanced back at the unconscious man one last time before taking her by the arm and dragging her out of the kitchen.

"Back to work," he yelled over his shoulder as they rounded the corner.

Bethany heard the clatter of work as the cooks returned to their task, making more noise than progress. She wondered what would happen to Malak. At the far end of the deserted corridor, Sir Caldry stopped and stepped back, glaring at her.

"In the future, keep your woes to yourself. Maybe then that boy wouldn't be unconscious on the floor and about to lose his job."

"Lose his job?" she asked, not sure why that would happen.

"He touched one of the prince's slaves," spat the knight. "And all the cooks saw it. The rumors will have already started."

"But you've touched me... my lord," she added at the last minute.

"I'm _not_ a cook, and I'm _not_ a lord," Sir Caldry snapped, his anger turning his face a bright shade of red and causing the ugly scar to stand out. "Now get up to the prince before I give you a reason to quiver."

Bethany hadn't realized she was shaking in fear until she tried to scurry away. As quickly as she could, she ran to the prince's chambers.

While the guards were spouting a few nasty remarks about her appearance, Bethany slowed her breathing. She glanced back down the corridor, noticing the knight following her at a steadier pace.

He waited at the door with her while the guards knocked and ushered them in. To Bethany's astonishment, the prince's room was full with half the royal family, a few seamstresses, and many bolts of fabric. Sir Caldry nudged her through the door. Most of the room's occupants barely noticed her arrival. She kept her head low and skirted to one of the darker corners, but a seamstress noticed her.

"You there! Can you sew a straight seam?"

"Yes, ma'am," she said, her eyes still focused on the floor.

"Trim this cloak," ordered the older woman.

Bethany glanced around, unsure where to place herself.

The prince noticed her confusion and grinned.

"The little wench is lost," he commented from his perch on a box in the center of the room.

"Sit by the window," ordered the queen from her seat near the fire.

The window would provide more light, but it would also be colder. Bethany headed for the window, nearly forgetting to curtsy to the queen. Josric, the youngest son of three years old, sat in the queen's lap while Vyrabelle played near the fire.

"Now, Féderic, I have received confirmation that nearly all of the lords will be present with their daughters, of course."

"Dammit, Mother!" Féderic bellowed, "can't you leave off?"

Bethany cringed. Had either of her brothers spoken to their mother like that, they would have had their mouths washed out with goldenseal, a strong herb that left the mouth dry and bitter for hours. Even as an adult, they would have been forced to endure the punishment after such a rude exclamation. Bethany tried to close her ears to the conversation, as she focused on her sewing, but each curse from the prince brought her back.

The queen shrugged and forced a smile to her face.

"Dear, we need to find you a suitable match, and your father thinks you marrying a daughter of one of the locals will help strengthen the bonds he is trying to establish."

"What bonds?" snapped the prince as the seamstress helped him into a long, embroidered robe that reached his knees. "We came, we conquered, end of story."

"That's never the end of the story, dearest. Besides, it doesn't hurt to do our best to keep them from rebelling. And the longer _King_ Middin withstands our attacks," she added, saying Bethany's father's title as though it were a curse itself, "the more agitated the people get. A royal wedding, where the heir apparent marries an indigenous woman would be a great boon to their flagging spirits."

Féderic responded with an icy stare, which his mother pointedly ignored. Instead, she followed the movement of the seamstresses as she crossed the room to where Bethany sat, tying off the hem of the cloak in quick, practiced strokes.

"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 outranked 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 nothin' 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 an 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 soldiers 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 footlocker. Pelor stepped in, ducking his head to avoid the sloped ceiling. He dropped his saddlebags 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 are 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 nightshirt. She let out a tiny squeak of surprise before taking a quick step backward. 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 treetops.

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 footprints 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 that 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.

She returned to her stitching before anyone could notice her distraction. Bethany had just finished a short seam when one of the smaller side doors burst open to reveal Féderic, Lyolf, Rulfric, and the inner circle of knights, including Sir Caldry. Bethany wanted to inch her way into a dark corner away from their prying eyes. She didn't want to be noticed by the men.

The scarred knight glanced in her direction and caught her eye before taking up a stool near the fire. Josric toddled up to his leg, but the gruff man pushed him back into the arms of the nurse.

The older princes and Sir Mannering were still guffawing over some joke as they found seats around the fire, while Sir Caldry and the older knights didn't look amused. The only one without a decided appearance was Sir John Rían, the youngest of the inner circle. He had been captured in a skirmish as a young squire, and when his father refused to pay the ransom, Wolfric allowed Sir Olaf Gregory to take him as his own squire. Eventually, he rose to the rank of knight, or at least that was the story. He possessed little fat and his face showed nothing but hard lines. Despite his physical prowess, Bethany always thought he looked confused and nervous while in the company of the other men.

Sir Gregory, the man who had taught him everything he knew, was perhaps the only knight who ever spoke to Rían. Sir Gregory was one of the oldest knights with red hair pulled back into a flyaway ponytail, a red beard, and a face weathered and wrinkled from long exposure to the elements during the war. He took up a stool and sat next to Caldry.

Sir Caldry's firm jaw was clenched, making the muscles role and his scar stand out. Again, his green eyes wandered across the room to where Bethany sat in a puddle of light. She jerked her focus back to her sewing, not daring to look up again.

"Mother," wailed Mirabelle from her place at the table. "These are too hard!"

"Trouble with your numbers, Lil sis?" asked Féderic.

The other men chuckled softly, none of them wishing to incur the wrath of the queen who was making her way to Mirabelle's side.

"What is the problem?" the queen asked.

"Forty-nine plus sixteen," exclaimed the young woman as she threw down her goose-feather quill.

"Sixty-five," mumbled Bethany without thinking.

She glanced up worried that someone might have heard her. The royal family was still going about their activities, unaware of her existence, but the scarred knight was staring at her, his arms crossed and his strong fingers drumming idly against his bicep.

Bethany swallowed the lump in her throat and forced herself to continue sewing as though nothing had happened. Maybe he hadn't actually heard her. Maybe he just thought she'd spoken out of turn.

"What, Lil sis, still struggling with addition?" said Féderic as he followed his mother to her side.

Unlike his brothers, he was more than willing to risk his mother's ire. In many ways, the queen was powerless over him, and she knew it.

"Remember, two comes after one," Féderic added, just as Bethany finished the final seam on his tunic.

It was time for her to stand up to see how the fabric hung, but she knew it would draw unwanted attention. Then again, sitting in a ray of sunlight doing nothing was bound to attract the queen's notice. Bethany had often wondered if all mothers had eyes in the back of their heads. Like her own mother, Arabelle was able to spot idleness in both her slaves and her children, even if her back was turned to them.

Bethany heaved a soft sigh, climbed to her feet, and shook out the tunic. Unsurprisingly, it draped just as she intended it to. She hadn't dropped a stitch since she was twelve; her mother wouldn't stand for it. Bethany let her eyes flicker to where Sir Caldry was sitting. He looked away instantly, as though it was a matter of instinct. Surely he knew it didn't matter whether he spied on her or not. He was a knight and special friend to the king; she was nothing, but a slave. He could watch her all he wanted. Still, he looked away, his cheeks sprouting small red patches that caused his scar to stand out.

"Please, Féd, you're not helping," sighed the queen as she took a seat next to her eldest daughter.

Féderic moved away, his laughter undiminished.

Just when the queen had resigned herself to the idea of her daughter never truly grasping how one number could be added to another, a row of servants entered with buckets and lumpy sponges. They moved to the far end of the great hall and began scrubbing the enormous floor in preparation for the family's dinner. The floor was cleaned every night. Queen Arabelle could not stand the idea of eating near a fleck of dirt. Many times Bethany had been assigned to help in this task and felt grateful to be sewing instead. It took over an hour, even with ten slaves working together to clean the floor and the trestle table used by the castle inhabitants.

A few minutes later, King Wolfric stormed into the hall through the main gate, followed closely by Lord Mandek Payne, the king's trusted advisor, and Hepner, the castle steward. All three men left a thick swath of muddy footprints. Without saying a word, two of the slaves broke off from the group and began cleaning up the mud.

Payne and Hepner stopped at the outskirts of the group surrounding the fire while their King stormed around the room, each step leaving another mark on the floor. Sir Caldry and Sir Gregory rose and offered their seats to the newcomers. Payne and Hepner took them with a grateful nod.

Bethany forced her eyes back on her work, which proved to be a mistake. She suddenly felt two strong hands take her by the arm and drag her away. When she looked around she saw the king storming through the very spot she had been sitting, his large, muddy boots damaging the pile of frocks she had finished during the long day.

Bethany glanced up to see the scarred knight standing over her, a look of surprise making his cheeks redden and his eyes glow. If she was translating the expression on his face correctly, he hadn't intended to rescue her. It had just happened as if his arms and legs had acted of their own accord.

"That bloody Fowler has lost every single one of my birds!" barked the king after his second trek around the room, causing more damage to the garments that were now strewn across half the floor.

It was as though he didn't even see them.

Bethany began to climb to her feet, hoping to salvage them from another rampage, but a familiar pair of callused hands pushed her back down. She looked up, and the knight gave an impersonal shake of his head, his eyes never leaving the king.

"What?" shrieked the queen a second later as though she had just now figured out what the king meant.

Of course, Bethany knew. She had been the one to let them loose in the first place. But why had it taken them two days to realize it?

"Every single bird has flown the coup!"

"But won't they just fly to their mate?" asked Lyolf.

Bethany frowned, she hadn't thought of that.

"Yes!" growled Wolfric, rounding on his son-of-questionable-origin. "But that will take days or even weeks. And once they've arrived, they will all have to be sent back by land, many of them from such distances as Nava. Leagues upon leagues of land to travel over.

"And what happens if my officers at the front send out birds to me, not realizing the mate is somewhere in the wilds of Domhain or Bumi. Until we clean this mess up, which will take _months_ , we will be absolutely blind to the movement of King Middin. It's as if someone has cut my tongue out. Do. You. Understand?" he snapped, pronouncing each word carefully to make sure the younger man understand him.

Lyolf nodded once, his mouth pressed into a thin line. Bethany tried to keep her own mouth from turning up into a smile. Her plan had done more damage than she realized.

"What will you do?" asked the queen from the others side of the table as she picked up Josric, who was now crying.

Arabelle knew perfectly well the king would not strike her while holding his child. The Aardê people valued their offspring more than anything else. Husbands rarely assaulted their wives for fear they may fall and become barren. But that did not mean they didn't find other ways to punish them.

"First of all, I'm going to have that damn Fowler's head on a spike! And then I'm going to send to every nearby village with messenger pigeons, and get a new supply as quickly as I can. We'll have to be careful with how many messages we send out until we are completely restocked..."

The king droned on about his plans, but Bethany wasn't listening. The Fowler was going to be put to death. Her actions had directly resulted in someone's death. And he probably wasn't a bad man. How many of those working for Wolfric were just everyday people trying to live out their lives in peace? Were her actions making their existence worse? The answer was obviously yes in regards to the Fowler, but she had to fight back. Their lives would be better if Wolfric was destroyed!

_It was necessary_ , she told herself. _A worthy sacrifice for the greater good_.

Bethany tried to steel herself against a future attack of her conscience, but she was only minimally successful. Her heart beat rhythmically against her chest as if in protest of what she might try next.

A few minutes later the king stopped pacing and took a seat at the table. Bethany glanced at the slaves who were washing a section they had already cleaned twice. The water in their buckets was turning an extra dark shade of brown. Bethany's fingers worked mechanically at taking out a seam. She looked down at what she was doing, fully aware that the seam did not need to be replaced, but if she sat doing nothing, someone might notice. She frowned, glancing around at the ruined garments strewn across the floor, before glancing back up at the knight; she was sitting with her back resting against his leg, right where he had placed her. Did he notice her touch?

"Well perhaps we'd better wash for dinner," suggested the queen.

Like her floors, Arabelle expected her entire family to appear spotless for their evening meal. The children at the table rose, while their mother handed her youngest son to the nursery slave. The old woman took Josric and led Vyrabelle out of the room. The two youngest children would eat in the nursery.

"You there... Ann. Help me dress," ordered Féderic as he nodded his head towards the door leading to his room.

She threw the now unfinished tunic over her shoulders and hurried to scoop up the other clothing on her way towards the door.

_How would she ever repair them?_ she wondered as she followed the prince to his room.

# Chapter Eight

Bethany stooped down, the small knife gripped carefully in her hand, as she sliced another reed away from its roots. She hacked two more before tossing them toward the nearby bank. Though her back ached and her fingers were wrinkled, Bethany could not remember finding this much enjoyment in a chore since being sold as a slave.

Two days ago, she had been packed into a small wagon, along with ten other female slaves, and sent down the mountain to a narrow valley. The path winding down the mountainside was narrow and switched directions every thirty feet or so. On numerous occasions, Bethany and the others were forced to exit the wagon and walk through the rain as the large wheels continued to get stuck in the deepening mud. Near the end of the trail, the women were even required to push the wagon out of a particularly muddy section. Still, with each descending mile, the temperature climbed, as did her spirits.

Despite the difficulty of the long journey and the awkwardness of having to sleep in the back of a small tent with male guards watching their every move, Bethany found herself dreading the return. Though the sun rose late and set early due to the surrounding peaks, Bethany enjoyed the few hours when it beat down on her back, the flowing river water keeping her cool. Of course, the evenings spent in the river were frigid, and she often went to bed shivering. Nevertheless, it was all worth it.

After all, she wasn't in the castle.

Bethany stood up, arching her back in an attempt to relieve a particularly bad cramp when a voice cried out, "Back to work!"

The princess glanced at the man-at-arms who prowled along the bank of the river, keeping the women working. Bethany immediately returned to her work, not wanting to feel the wrath of his whip. She also wanted to avoid the piercing gaze of the scarred knight.

Sir Caldry and Sir Marcus Kerwin had been sent to oversee the excursion. Sir Kerwin was the oldest of the inner circle, with strawberry blond hair matted into long dreadlocks and a light beard that was quickly turning white. His face was wrinkled and his growing stomach showed signs of continual drinking. Unlike the other knights, Kerwin lived for the sordid brawl. Bethany had often heard of him being dragged back to the castle after destroying a pub and half its occupants.

Bethany slashed three more reeds free in quick succession in an effort to appear productive. Worse than the man-at-arms' whip was Sir Caldry's glare. Bethany wondered if the knight had been sent as a form of punishment. The knight's general bitterness had increased since arriving in the narrow valley. Twice, Bethany had received a blow for simply walking in front of him. He growled every response and ate his meals alone.

As Bethany twitched the knife in her hand she felt a searing pain shoot up her arm. The princess cried out and jumped towards the bank. One glance at the puncture wounds in her hand had her scrambling out of the river. Before she could make it to the bank, two hands grabbed her by the shoulders and dragged her to her feet.

"What are you doing?" Sir Caldry asked as he spun her around.

Bethany held up her mangled hand. The blood was oozing out and running down her arm, mixed with the river water.

"Do I look like I care?" he growled, slapping the injured hand away.

"My lord," mumbled Sir Kerwin; even the other knights feared Caldry.

"I'm not a lord and you know it," snapped the scarred knight.

"Isn't that the prince's special slave? If that is a snake bite, and she dies, it will be on our heads."

_What did he mean by '_ special' _slave?_ she wondered.

Sir Caldry glared at the older man for a moment before conceding. "Fine, deal with it."

"I know nothing of healing," said Kerwin.

Caldry glanced around at the guards; each one looked more confused than the last. Bethany forced her mouth shut. She knew how to handle a snake bite, but didn't want to say anything unless it became absolutely necessary to keep from dying.

"Fine," he sighed.

To her astonishment, the knight flung her up into his arms and marched away.

Bethany felt her heart begin to pound against her chest. She cringed at the proximity of the man's tattered face and desperately wanted him to let her walk, but she also knew why he carried her. They needed to keep her heart rate down. Sadly, his unnerving touch was doing the opposite.

Caldry set her on the ground in the entrance of the large canvas tent—the one rainproof structure in the valley—and knelt down in front of her. The knight gently pulled her bloodied hand away from her stomach, produced the dagger he kept in his boot and began slicing open the wound. Bethany flinched and convulsively tried to yank the hand out of his grasp, but he had been prepared for this reaction. His strong hand kept her from jerking away and he timed his second cut for after her initial flinch. The already throbbing wound blazed with a new fiery pain. A fresh flow of blood spurted from the open wound and began dripping to the dry earth.

The knight surprised her again when he bent forward and pressed his lips to her hand, as though he could kiss the wound to make it better like a mother would do for her child. This was a far different treatment than the one she had been taught.

Again, Bethany tried to pull away, but he was too strong. As it turned out, the knight was not kissing her at all. He removed his mouth and spit out a large glob of her blood.

Bethany swallowed the bile that rose to her throat as he returned his mouth to her hand. He spat out yet more blood before placed his warm lips on her hand yet again. As he sucked on the wound for the third time, Bethany felt her arm deaden and the edge of her vision begin to shimmer.

The knight spat a few times to clear the worst of the blood from his mouth before speaking, "You're blood tastes clean."

Bethany tried to nod, but her head felt as though it would roll off her shoulders. Was she falling?

The knight quickly began to clean and bandage the wound with deft, but gentle hands. By the time he was finished, the world had receded as her vision darkened. She slumped back against the pole of the tent and let him finish tying off the bandage.

Once again the knight picked her up. "I shoo get back t'erk," she mumbled against his chest, afraid someone might get angry with her.

"You've lost a lot of blood," he stated as though that was an excuse, but she knew better.

If the prince or queen saw her shirking her work, they'd have the knight whip her. Wait. The prince and queen weren't here, right? Bethany couldn't think straight.

Sir Caldry laid her on the pile of straw designated for the slaves to sleep on and covered her with the two long blankets shared by the ten slave women. Bethany was thankful for the extra covering. A shiver ran up her spine as she drifted into an uneasy sleep. Distantly, she felt the knight place her hand above her head, on an extra thick pile of straw

Bethany dreamed of snakes, whips, and angry princes; when she woke up, she found herself on a dry pile of straw, covered with a blanket, and being watched by a knight. Sir Caldry reclined on one of the few stools, his back against a tent pole, and his eyes half-lidded. She blinked a few times before gazing around the tent. The sun was shining into the tent, casting long shadows.

_It must be well into the afternoon_ , she thought. _Maybe even evening_.

A sudden burst of harsh laughter coming from outside the tent roused the knight. Before he could notice her open eyes, Bethany heard the sound of women's voices growing louder. Was it time for the evening meal? The princess felt her stomach growl at the thought of food.

"You're awake," stated the knight.

Bethany had no way to refute the fact. He climbed off the stool and knelt in the pile of straw. With surprisingly gentle fingers, the knight pulled her arm from its resting place above her head and began to unwind the stained bandaging.

Though the wound had bled through the cloth, the bleeding seemed to have slowed considerably. He dabbed some sticky, clear liquid on the wound that bubbled and fizzed before winding fresh bandaging around her hand. Just as he finished, Sir Kerwin entered with two steaming bowls.

He tossed one onto Bethany's stomach, half the contents sloshing over the sides and burning her skin through the blankets. The other he handed to Sir Caldry.

"I could watch her... iffen you'd like a break," offered Kerwin, his voice thick with some suppressed emotion as he fingered his wide, leather belt.

Bethany glanced up, her burning stomach suddenly forgotten. The ugly man's murky eyes were bright with excitement.

"You will go nowhere near the prince's slave," murmured Caldry, his voice soft, but deadly.

Bethany watched the older man's excitement cool into dread and fear. He nodded quickly and scurried away. Bethany fumbled with the bowl, trying to manage the task of eating with the wrong hand.

By the time the knight finished his serving, she had barely managed to take a few bites. With another sigh, he knelt down, took the bowl from her, and began spooning the thick stew into her mouth. Bethany stared at him with wide, frightened eyes as he fed her until her small serving was finished. He even went as far as scraping the bits of potato off the blanket and into her mouth.

"Why?" she asked after quickly swallowing.

She couldn't help but ask the burning question. The knight had spent a great deal of his time making her life a living hell. What had changed?

"Kerwin was right. Being a favorite of the prince's, if you were to die while under our care, the prince would have our heads. And I prefer my head attached to my body," he explained without humor.

The knight was dead serious. He did all this only to save his own neck.

"Tomorrow you will replace the cook so that she can go into the river and cut reeds. Surely you can cook one-handed."

"I don't know how to cook, one-handed or otherwise." Bethany bit down on her tongue.

Why had she said that? It sounded more like a princess than a slave. Sir Caldry glared down at her, his cheeks turning a dark shade of red which caused his scar to stand out.

"What do you mean you don't know how to cook? How can a woman not know how to cook?"

Bethany glanced around, racking her brain for a plausible excuse, but nothing came to her.

"Did your seamstress mother never teach you to cook?" he scoffed.

"I-uh... I had other sisters to cook. My mother always had me sewing."

The knight glared down at her for a moment before nodding.

"Fine. You'll help the cook and do anything else needed around the campsite."

# Chapter Nine

Cal watched the pretty slave girl as she drifted back to sleep under the two dirty blankets, now covered with drying soup. Though he did not want to return the prince's slave any more damaged, he didn't want her lying about all day. The sooner they got the withies and reeds collected for the queen's upcoming banquet, the sooner they could go home.

He and Sir Kerwin had been the unfortunate two to suffer the queen's wrath just before the trip and therefore sent to keep control over the rowdy guards. Without him, each female slave would have been returned carrying the seed of a guard. And this girl—Ann, was it?—would have been dead. The last thing the castle needed was ten pregnant slaves. He had already had to punish one of the men for an attempt at such behavior. The women, on the other hand, were behaving perfectly; all of them except the pretty one lying in the straw.

No, that wasn't fair. Though he knew her to be a wily and crafty sort, Cal knew there was no way for her to plan on getting bitten by a snake. Besides, the look of terror in her eyes when he began to suck the poison from her wound suggested that the idea of death was quite new to her.

Maybe her craftiness was the very reason Cal had seen the prince eyeing her. No, that was simply due to her pretty face, and Lynette's sudden absence. The king's—and prince's—mistress had suddenly found herself too busy to visit the youngest of her lovers. Cal had noticed a new rage-filled energy in his prince.

_Féderic needed a new mistress_ , the knight thought as he watched Ann sleep.

On rare occasions, Cal had seen Ann after a thorough cleaning. Her brown hair, when clean and combed, framed her face in gentle waves and made her stormy blue eyes stand out. However, he had only seen her to such advantage once or twice; the rest of the time her hair was dirty and matted, her face smeared with grime, and her dress fitting in awkward ways as though she wished to hide her figure, or what portion of her figure that had survived the starvation of slavery.

_Ann took secrecy to a whole new level,_ he thought as he shifted on the stool.

Each slave had their own views on sharing about their past. Most of them didn't share simply because they didn't want to think about better times, or at least that's how Cal had acted when he had been a slave. But something about this girl suggested more. Small things about her made her stand out. She walked with a unique grace, especially when she thought no one was watching, and occasionally spoke with an elegance much like the queen's cadence. Though she claimed to be the daughter of a seamstress, her sewing was of a quality that surprised even the ladies at court. And why couldn't she cook?

All in all, Cal was beginning to wonder exactly who she had once been. Was she the daughter of a lord, lost to the growing slave trade? Sir Caldry mulled it over as he waited for the others to complete their work and the sun to finish setting.

The next morning Bethany was set to helping the cook as best she could. After a few hours of tripping and spilling, she was summarily dismissed by the older woman, who had been hired from the village for the trip. Bethany glanced around the campsite, looking for something to do that would make her look busy. On a whim, she went into the tent and began dragging the guard's bedrolls out into the morning sun.

"What are you doing?" asked the knight in a mildly curious voice.

Bethany dropped her eyes to the ground as she said, "I thought you'd wish your bedding to be aired out."

"Why aren't you helping the cook?"

"She does not wish for my help."

"That drat girl'll be the death of me!" the cook barked, having heard their private exchange

"When you've finished, start gathering up the reeds thrown upon the banks by the others," ordered Sir Caldry

Bethany glanced toward the section of the river where the women were working and noticed the beginnings of piles forming near each worker. That would be easy work too. A few minutes later she had all the men's bedding rolled out onto the damp grass in spaces that would remain sunny for a few more hours. She walked to the river and began gathering the tossed reeds, which she added to their already large stock spread out to dry a few yards away from the tent.

By afternoon, Bethany had decided the snake bite was a blessing. She had never enjoyed such a relaxing day since being sold into slavery—the sun warm, the work easy, and her stomach only slightly empty. Though the other women glared at her as she passed, she quickly learned to ignore them, much as she had ignored her older brothers.

As evening drew on and she became more tired, a scheme began to form in her mind. The pile of gathered withies and reeds, quickly drying in the summer sun, would certainly burn easily. The lack of reeds to make baskets and the sweet-smelling withies for bedding would cause havoc for the queen's banquet.

But Bethany didn't want to burn the withies. No doubt such disruption would either bring the wrath of the knight and guards down upon them or send them home immediately. Most likely a combination of the two. Besides, how could she light it on fire without getting caught? Also, would it really be that problematic for the queen if she were to burn their stores?

Bethany stopped her slow tread back from the pile. She was making excuses, reasoning herself out of what she knew she ought to do. When she first arrived at the castle, Bethany had sworn to do anything in her power to cause problems for the king and queen, even if her efforts were no more than a pinprick.

But for the first time since her captivity began, Bethany was enjoying herself. It almost felt like the easy days of her previous life, when she'd had nothing to worry about beyond what dress to wear and how to please her strict mother. It would be so easy to simply to continue her assigned task and return to the castle in the good graces of the knight.

Bethany glanced up at the hard man, standing near the large tent. A few other Aardê guards stood near him, chatting about something that clearly didn't interest the knight.

No. The good graces of the knight were not worth the scant comfort she felt now, under the warm sun. She had made a promise to herself and for once in her life, she would keep her promise. At that moment, the princess resolved to burn the pile that very night.

When the sun finally set, Bethany was put to cleaning up the cooking area. It was slow work with only one fully functioning hand, and by the time she finished most of the camp was fast asleep. Bethany carefully lifted one of the partially burned logs from the fire and snuck towards the wide, flat pile of reeds and withies. Once there, she quickly stuffed the glowing log under the pile and darted away.

Bethany rounded the edge of the tent, her eyes still darting over her shoulder in an effort to see the withies catch fire when she collided with a solid chest. She didn't need to look up to know that it was the scarred knight. She smelled the specific scent that was Sir Caldry—leather, horse, steel, and chilies, oddly enough.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"I needed to relieve myself," she said without thinking.

The knight's eyes darted towards the area designated for such activity—in the opposite direction from where she had emerged.

Before he could call her on the obvious lie, a cry rang out across the camp. Bethany cringed as it was echoed by others. "Fire! Fire!" they were shouting.

Sir Caldry frowned down at her, his brow creasing and his scar puckering as the realization hit.

"What have you done?" he hissed. "Foolish girl! Get that put out," he added to the men and women passing them.

Her plan had only half worked. _It's not much good destroying the queen's withies if you get caught._ Bethany swallowed a growing lump in her throat while her stomach began to turn with worry. What would the scarred knight do to her?

# Chapter Ten

While the others dealt with the blazing pile of reeds, Sir Caldry dragged Bethany to the banks of the river.

"Get to work," he ordered as he tossed her one of the dull knives the slaves used.

"But my hand," Bethany whined before she could stop herself.

The knight struck her with the back of his hand, the cuff of his chain mail shirt cutting into her cheek. She fell backward into the water, her bandaged hand sinking into the mud. Bethany knew the cut would become infected by the grime.

"You will work until you have replaced the damage you've done."

Bethany stared at him, shocked that this was his chosen form of punishment. In some ways, it was far worse than a beating or a whipping which only lasted a few minutes. She didn't think she had the strength to stay up all night. She had never gone without sleep before, much less in a river full of poisonous snakes. She stared at him until he stepped forward, his hand raised for another strike.

The princess quickly bent to the work and began whacking off reeds as quickly as she could. How could she possibly replace all the supplies she'd burned? Did he mean to have her do it all by herself, or would the other women return to work in the morning? When would he let her rest?

The knight sent one of the guards for a whip, a stool, and his blanket. He settled down, wrapped in the warmth of his wool blanket, and watched her work, never showing the slightest sign of exhaustion.

Slowly, but surely, her injured hand began to throb. The small of her back started to ache, but each time she stopped to stretch it out, the knight would rise to his feet and threaten her with the whip. A few hours into the ordeal, Bethany felt hot liquid run down her cheeks without even realizing she was crying.

Later, as the night grew colder, she became numb, not just in body, but in mind also. The rhythmic swishing of her blade against the reeds, occasionally interrupted when she tossed a handful onto the bank, had dulled her mind until she couldn't think or regret.

Eventually, when she thought she would fall over and drown, too tired to battle the shallow water, the sky began to grow pink and the rest of the camp began to stir. Bethany glanced at the knight. He looked tired but alert enough to notice her hesitation. She resumed her work, hoping soon he would let her rest. She had learned her lesson—don't get caught!

A short time later, the guards and slaves emerged from the tent, consumed their breakfast of crusty bread and hard cheese, and descended on the river. One of the guards approached Sir Caldry, while the others herded the women back into the river. The other slaves were glaring at her, their eyes throwing poisonous darts in her direction. Bethany took a few steps away from where they worked, wanting to keep as much distance between them as she could.

Sir Caldry stood, stretched, and tossed his blanket on the stool.

"Sir, should we feed her?" asked the guard.

Sir Kerwin joined their small conference. Caldry glanced in her direction, and Bethany forced her aching body to speed up.

"No. She can eat dinner with the rest. Until then, she continues to work. I'm going to sleep. Don't wake me unless you have to."

With that, the knight gathered up his blanket and left. Sir Kerwin took up his position on the vacated stool and watched her with laughter in his eyes. No doubt the old trouble maker enjoyed her current predicament.

Bethany took this moment to glance around the valley. She had cleared nearly ten feet of river bank. Though not a record, no one could say she had slacked off during the night. Still, to replace all she had burned before returning home on the scheduled day, they would all have to work extra hours each day.

When the light began to fade that evening, Bethany could barely stand. She had tripped more times than she could count, and only the fear of drowning kept her on her feet. At the sound of the dinner gong—which came nearly four hours after their usual breaking time—Bethany crawled out of the river and climbed to her feet. Her back screamed and cramped as she stood up straight. Bethany bit down on her lower lip to keep from crying, the injudicious movement reopening the cut on her lip. She followed the others to the campfire, too tired to notice their caustic mutterings.

Bethany collapsed by the fire, her bowl of stew in her hands. She inhaled her food, flopped over onto her side, and fell asleep.

It could have been a lifetime or maybe just a few minutes before she was roughly woken by a swift jab in the back. She groaned and swatted at the offending boot without thinking about the consequences. The jab turned into a firm kick. Bethany sat up, blinking the tears from her eyes. Sir Caldry stood over her, his eyes bright with rest and anger.

"Back to work," he ordered.

Bethany glanced around the fire. The others were making their way back into the tent, looking exhausted from their extra-long day of work. When Bethany continued to sit on the ground, staring at the others, the knight brought the heavy whip down upon her shoulder. She cried out in pain and scrambled to her feet before he could repeat the blow.

She re-entered the cold river and warmed her face with fresh tears.

The next morning Bethany was blistered from the knife handle, frozen from the frigid river water, and bleeding from the numerous lash marks she had received when she failed to maintain a decent pace. In the end, though, the stores had been restocked, perhaps not as generously as they might have been, but enough to keep the queen happy.

Bethany dragged herself out of the river to help the others load their supplies into the wagon. Of course, with the addition of all the reeds and withies, the slaves would be required to walk back to the castle. Bethany thought walking sounded both wonderful and horrible: Wonderful because it wasn't bending over, horrible because she couldn't remember how.

Shortly after the sun had climbed high enough to be visible over the tall peaks, they began the uphill climb back to the castle. Though the going was slower on the return journey, Bethany trailed behind the others. Near the end of the day, when she was beginning to trip over her own feet, the knight turned his large steed around and trotted to the back of the line.

"What's the holdup?" he asked the two guards, who were walking behind Bethany.

"Sir, this one. She can barely walk."

"I'm about to break my arm with checking my horse," added Kerwin, who had remained in the back with the trailing guards; his large warhorse tossed his head and sidestepped in anticipation of a faster pace.

Bethany wasn't listening to them. It took all her concentration just to navigate a course over the roots of a particularly large tree. In the end, she tripped over the last one, stumbled, and landed in a pile of dust. She didn't try to move.

Bethany had once seen a messenger horse pushed to the point of collapsing. It had been covered in white, foaming sweat and struggled to breathe. No matter how the messenger beat it, it wouldn't move. Bethany imagined she knew how that horse felt.

"Get her up here," snapped the scarred knight.

Before she knew what was happening, the two guards hoisted her to her feet and dragged her to where the knight's mighty destrier stood, stomping the ground in its impatience to be off. Sir Caldry reached down, took her arm and pulled her up onto his saddle. Bethany moaned as she melted against his warm chest. The knight wrapped a strong arm around her back and kicked his horse into a trot. The process sped up.

A short while later, the knight bent his head low and whispered, "You're a fool."

"I know," the princess whispered back before sinking into comforting blackness.

# Chapter Eleven

Shortly after the knight had lifted her onto his horse, she had fallen asleep—not because she felt safe in his arms, but because she was incapable of anything else. Therefore, it came as a surprise when she was unceremoniously dumped from the knight's saddle. She woke just before colliding with the packed earth of the bailey. Through nothing more than sheer luck, she managed to keep her head from making contact with the ground. Still, she felt the muscles in her wrist scream as she landed on it awkwardly. No doubt her hip and shoulder would be bruised before the day was over.

"What is this?" asked the queen.

Bethany glanced up. The royal family was descending the vast steps of the inner keep followed by the other knights.

"Do I want to know why you are carrying a slave on your horse, Sir Caldry?"

"Probably not," he grunted as he swung a leg over the horse and landed on the ground near Bethany's feet. "This one was caught burning the withies."

The queen glanced at the wagon where the other slaves were unloading unburned reeds and withies.

"Ann, you scoundrel..." chortled the prince, evidently unaware of the danger his slave was in.

"She's worked through the last two nights to replace your stocks." Sir Caldry reached down and yanked Bethany to her feet.

Arabelle's eyes flashed as she took in her laughing son, the working slaves, and Bethany still trapped by Sir Caldry's firm grasp.

"I still don't see why that thing was riding with you."

Bethany could hear the cold rage in the queen's voice. Suddenly, she realized her punishment was far from over.

Surprisingly, the knight laughed.

"I wanted to get home sometime today. If I'd left her to walk, it would have been dawn before we'd arrive. Hardly seemed fair to everyone else to suffer for her misdeeds."

The queen glowered down at him, annoyed at his logical answer. Bethany felt her stiff, sore legs begin to shake. It seemed an extraordinary length of time before the queen spoke again.

"You are grace itself, Sir Caldry. Still, we cannot leave her unpunished. Give her a good whipping and throw her into the pits."

"I hope you don't intend to punish my slave too long, mother," chuckled Féderic as the royal family returned to the warmth of the keep.

Sir Caldry took her by the wrist and dragged her towards one of the small side entrances used by the slaves. They descended the steps, Bethany tripping over her own unstable feet. Sir Caldry stormed down the narrow corridor, slaves and guards pressing themselves into the doorways in an effort to stay clear of the angry man.

Bethany felt hot tears of dread and fear well in her eyes. She knew the price of her small rebellion, but that didn't mean she looked forward to paying it. Bainard met them at the entrance to the enormous slave dormitory, which took up half this level of the basement. The portly slave master backed out of the way as his mouth gaped open.

"What has she done now?" he asked around the wad of stale bread he had just shoved in his mouth.

"None of your business," barked the knight.

He dragged her straight to the entrance of the pits, where the trap door lay propped open.

"Shall I take care of her for you, sir," Bainard asked.

"No. Leave her to me. You are dismissed."

The slave master hesitated for a brief second before scurrying out of the room as quickly as his thick legs could manage. Bethany felt the already scarred skin on her back tingle in anticipation. Sir Caldry picked up the heavy whip while ignoring the fact she was still on the floor rather than hanging from the ceiling. He reached down and undid the bindings of her gown. It fell open, revealing her back. The knight lifted the whip over his head and brought it down hard upon her back.

Bethany felt the skin on her back break as she bit her lower lip in an effort to stay silent. Despite her efforts, a small grunt escaped. To her surprise, she heard the whip clatter to the floor and felt, rather than saw, Sir Caldry crouch beside her. Bethany let the tears flow freely as she considered the possibility that the knight wouldn't beat her anymore.

"I don't know what game you're playing at, but it's not worth it."

He paused.

"Now get down there and toss your frock up."

Bethany nodded feebly before climbing down into the tiny, dark pit. She felt an unusual sense of thankfulness towards the knight as she slipped the rough gown off and tossed it through the small opening. He seemed to know how much she detested showing her naked body to anyone. Or maybe he just didn't want to see her battered flesh.

He caught the fabric without seeming to look down, closed the hatch, and marched away. Bethany listened to his footsteps pound on the floor as she settled against the icy stones of her pit while trying to keep the gash on her back from touching anything. It wasn't easy and she finally drifted into a merciful sleep lying on her side with her arms wrapped around her legs in an effort to conserve heat.

# Chapter Twelve

Cal sat at the large table with King Wolfric, Prince Féderic, Lord Mandek Payne, a few other selected counselors, and the other knights. They were discussing future strikes against King Middin, the last resistance to Wolfric's domination of the entire peninsula. There were many kings across the Great Sea, but thankfully Wolfric had shown little interest in expanding his control over those distant lands, at least not until he had destroyed Middin. The Great Sea was turbulent at the best of times; the small strip of land that connected their peninsula to the mainland was narrow and fraught with quicksand, poisonous animals, and monthly flooding. More men would die during the journey, via either route, than during the actual fighting. Of course, that which deterred them from attacking their enemies also kept their enemies at bay.

To King Wolfric's growing frustration, Middin continued to elude his deadly reach. The Tokë nation was small but resilient. It helped that the entire kingdom was blocked by either the Narrow Sea or the White Cap mountains, which included some of the highest peaks on the peninsula. Like the mainland, the Tokë people were well protected through natural geography. Unlike the mainland, Wolfric was determined to conquer their northern lands.

One of the king's lesser counselors had been droning on for the last half hour. Most of the knights, who only had a head for swinging a sword, were whispering to each other or twiddling their fingers. Cal slouched in his chair absently picking at a loose thread on the sleeve of his padded gambeson. No doubt the rest of it was equally frayed from the heavy chainmail he often wore.

Cal absently wondered if Féderic would allow him the use of one of his slaves. Cal didn't own any slaves himself; as a guest of the castle, he found it unnecessary. Besides, he'd been a slave once himself, and couldn't stomach the idea of owning one.

During his tenure as the king's slave, he had accidentally saved the king's life and thereby earned his freedom and the opportunity to become a knight. Despite the long scar that now marred his good looks and his continuing hatred for the king, Cal found himself glad that he had acted the part of the hero all those years ago. After all, his life now was a far cry from what it had been during his time as a slave, and the scar was a small price to pay for his freedom. After all, he never intended on attracting a mate.

Even though his freedom came at a small price, he continued to feel a deep loathing toward the greedy king, and in his mind, the faults of the king extended to all people with royal blood. They were all selfish, brutal bastards, and they had taught him to be cruel just like them.

But then, his hatred was due to a great deal more than his own personality shift. When his small village had been captured, Wolfric's men had killed his parents and burned his village to the ground. Unlike the more populated areas, his village had not been worth establishing a lord to keep the locals in check, so the soldiers had killed anyone over sixty and enslaved the rest. His parents, though not yet sixty, had looked older and more worn, and were murdered with the others.

His sister—well, that was a different story.

The men had taken a liking to her. The officers took her into their tent. Cal could still hear her screams. Somehow she lived through the night. She was strong, like her brother. They were brought to the castle and put to work. Though Cal had earned his freedom, he could not procure hers. He had done everything from offering to buy her, to attempting to steal her away.

The king looked on Cal's efforts, legal or otherwise, as a sort of game to entertain himself during the long winter months. Wolfric took pleasure in forcing her owner to sell her at random occasions, to random people, and then see if Cal could track her down again. Cal played his game because he had no other options.

It had been six months since the last time Wolfric had moved her, and Cal was at a complete loss as to her whereabouts.

Cal's anger over the loss of his family had dulled into an echoing ache that lived in the pit of his stomach. It was a constant reminder of the life he had lost, and the _glories_ he had gained. Now he slept on silk sheets, drank wine with every meal, and had his pick of busty wenches, but it was not the life he was born to and his sister paid the cost. Had nature been left to its devices, Cal would have inherited his father's sheep farm, married a local girl, and raised a horde of small children. His sister would have been the wife of a neighboring farmer. She would have been happy. She would have been safe.

Thankfully, Féderic's chipmunk laugh pulled Cal away from his sobering thoughts. He glanced around, noticing the other mens' looks of consternation and disgust. Evidently, the prince had interrupted their conversation, though what was being said was a complete mystery to the knight. Lord Payne coughed gently before turning back to the speaker.

Before the balding man could resume his statement, Féderic's voice pulled the attention back to his end of the table.

"And how, my dear Lord Godfrey, do you intend on transporting an entire army across the Central Wastelands in the height of summer?"

"Do you offer a better suggestion?" asked the king, his voice cold as steel.

"We should move the army to the edge of the wastelands, and then during the winter move it north. That way, come spring, it will be on Middin's very doorstep."

"The cost of keeping an army in one place over so many months would be astronomical," wailed the elderly man who had guided the king's finances for the last half-century.

"I never said it would be cheap," spat the prince, "but it is the safest way to move the army to the White Caps without losing men to ridiculous things, like thirst."

"And would you allow Middin's spies to see the army sitting on his doorstep for all those months?" asked Cal from his place, his interest in the conversation only minimally increased.

"If they camp on the banks of the Narrow Sea it is unlikely anyone will notice them. And archers positioned a mile out from the camp, hidden in trees could eliminate anyone who gets too close."

"You forget the Lurran, my prince," offered Cal, trying his hardest not to smirk.

The Lurran people were an odd race, with their long features, teak color skin, and silver eyes. They lived in the White Cap Mountains, though not officially a part of the Tokë nation. Their population was small enough that neither Middin nor Wolfric bothered conquering them. Still, they were known to be some of the best wood crafters in the world, able to blend in with any surroundings and survive any terrain. They would be great allies or deadly enemies.

Féderic barked another grating laugh. Cal saw the others flinch slightly at the sound.

"The Lurran people hold no allegiance to anyone, but themselves. Besides, our archers could pick off their entire population before one of them even noticed our army."

Cal didn't agree with the prince's assessment but kept his own counsel. It was the king's decision, and he honestly didn't care if the plan worked or not. Cal returned to the examination of his tattered gambeson, while the others debated the problem. Yes, he needed to have it mended. Perhaps the pretty slave girl could do it. Like so many things, she sewed extremely well.

Of course, that would require her to be released from the pits. Cal felt his stomach squirm at the thought of those filthy stone holes—not large enough to stand up or lie down. Cal had spent a large part of his first year of slavery in similar pits. He had not been an obedient slave. Somewhere under his scar, he bore the mark of a runaway slave. Of course, he bore the same mark on his leg, from his first attempt. The second attempt had warranted a brand on the neck. Eventually, like all slaves, he learned nothing was worth such punishment. It was better to just obey.

_Why then, did Ann burn the_ reed _stock? Had she done other things?_

Cal thought back to the missing carrier pigeons and a few other odd incidents. Were these all the results of one slave girl? Most of the king's slaves were from conquered nations, each one with their own hatred towards the man that had destroyed their lives, but never before had Cal seen a single slave put up such a fight.

A piece of him couldn't help but hope for her success.

Still, the _why_ was only one part of the puzzle. Who was she, exactly, was a far more interesting question. Perhaps a lady-in-waiting to one of the Domhain lords? There were a few of them that had not immediately capitulated to Wolfric's rule. No doubt their households would now be in slavery.

Cal felt his face grow hot with embarrassment. He hated to think about how the nobility of his people had given in so easily to King Wolfric's army. True, there had been no hope for the small Domhain nation lasting for long; nevertheless, Cal thought it cowardly to give in without the slightest resistance. Surely someone else was equally sickened by their cowardly surrender.

But Ann? Could she really be one of his own?

She looked the part, but then again, the Domhain, Tokë, and Ardê people all looked alike, with pale skin, a variety of hair colors, and stocky builds. Over the centuries, the three nations had peacefully intermarried enough that it was hard to tell them apart. With Wolfric's war, that had all changed.

When Cal thought he might erupt with frenzied energy, the meeting was called to an end. Cal positioned himself to follow the young prince out. Féderic grinned at him as they made their way toward the great hall, where the midday meal waited.

"I was curious, my lord, when would you be returning that slave girl to her duties."

"What?" came Féderic's distracted reply. "Who are you talking about?"

"The girl who burned the withies a few days ago," prompted Cal.

"Oh. Ann," snorted the prince. "I'd forgotten about her. Why? You takin' a liking to her?"

Cal clenched his jaw shut. Unlike the prince, he was not interested in forcing himself upon any woman with a figure.

"No. I have some garments that need repairing, but if it is inconvenient..." he trailed off, knowing that he had said enough.

"No, no. Take her," said the prince with a wave of his hand.

Cal bowed and took his seat at the table in the great hall. He had to work at staying in his place until the queen had dismissed them. He wanted to watch the slave girl, study her movements and dialect. Perhaps, with enough observation, he could discern which part of the Domhain nation she was from.

With a relief that was almost painful, the queen dismissed them. Cal rose and exited the room before any of them could call upon him. On his way to the slave dormitory, he spotted Flora, a female slave who had become a sort of assistant to Bainard, the slave master.

"You, there. I need to get that girl out of the pits," he said as the brown woman turned towards him.

"Ann? M'lord."

Cal followed her into the empty dormitory. She flipped open the hatch and called down to Ann before moving to a hook where Ann's dress hung. Cal averted his eyes as the naked slave crawled out of the hole and into the dress waiting for her. Despite his efforts, he couldn't help but notice the infected gash running down her back as Flora laced up the dress. He had struck her hard, but only once.

_It was a kindness_ , he told himself over and over again, trying to make himself believe it.

# Chapter Thirteen

Pelor shuddered as he slowly slid off the aged courser given to him by Tethys, the man who'd hired him to track down the slave. The mission was proving more challenging than he had expected. Now, he was killing wolves in an effort to gain the confidence of a man who might know something of the runaway. Sadly, he couldn't think of another way to track the slave, especially now that he was weeks behind, and the trail had gone cold.

_Perhaps he should just give up_ , he thought as his feet hit the packed earth in the village square.

He slammed his jaw shut in an effort to not scream. Gavius and his pretty daughter, Dana, emerged from the village inn. Gavius caught him as he staggered away from the old horse.

"He's bleeding," shrieked Dana.

Pelor heard another pair of soft footsteps beat against the earth through the pounding of his own heartbeat. Pelor felt, rather than saw, someone lead his old horse away. Where was it going? No doubt the animal had once been a valiant aid to some soldier, but now, in the twilight years of its life, it was fit for little more than carting vegetables to the market. Still, it was all he had and he didn't care to have some unknown person take it from him.

"Help me get him inside," ordered Gavius, his controlled voice providing a sense of calm to the frantic people spilling out of their homes.

Pelor felt two people sling his arms over their shoulders and support his weight. He lifted his injured foot and allowed them to help him into the inn, where he collapsed on a bench.

"And the wolves?" asked a worried voice.

"Never mind that," snapped Dana as she gently pressed a swath of cloth to his boot.

Pelor reflexively jerked it out of her grasp, nearly hitting her in the face.

"So'eeee," he slurred.

She ignored him, quickly barking orders to the gawkers. Dana's mother emerged from the kitchens at the sound of her daughter's high-pitched voice. One look at the scene and she turned on her heels, scurrying back into the kitchen. Pelor hoped she had left for supplies and not as a result of a weak stomach. Despite Dana's willingness, she didn't seem to know what she was doing. Pelor took control, laying himself down, and hoisted his injured foot and hand onto the table, well above his heart.

As he suspected, Dana's mother returned, her arms loaded with supplies, and took control of the situation. With careful fingers, despite their callouses, she cut away his worn boot to reveal a gruesome sight.

"What happened?" demanded the mother.

"The wolf that escaped my traps tracked me and attacked."

From the looks of it, the animal's long canines had missed the bones in his foot but had still managed to puncture nearly all the way through. His hand was far worse, though, thankfully, it was not his sword hand. From the looks of it, he expected to lose two fingers. His pinky and ring finger on his left hand were barely attached. The bleeding was slowed by a swath of cloth tied around his wrist.

"Gavius, get the spirits," ordered his wife, as she continued to minister to his foot. "I need you to hold as still as you can," she said to Pelor.

"I can do that," he said calmly.

This wasn't the first time he'd been wounded. First time mauled by a wolf, true, but not his first injury. Wounds were a natural result of being a knight, and his body showed it.

What was one more?

Gavius returned with a dark bottle. He pulled the stopper and handed it to Pelor. The ex-knight took it gratefully and chugged half the bottle. The liquid burned his throat on the way down and sent a warm feeling across his chest and down his limbs. The sensation helped him ignore the pain emanating from his foot and hand. He took a few more sips before handing it back. It was more than enough to make him thoroughly drunk, especially on an empty stomach and with half his blood supply staining the forest floor.

Gavius' wife began stitching up the small holes on his foot with quick, practiced movements. She finished in record time and moved to his hand. By this time, the room was beginning to spin, and he couldn't make himself care what happened to his fingers. Pelor slumped back, grateful to find a soft lap waiting to prop him up. He glanced up and saw Dana's pretty face. He wanted to reach up and stroke the burn mark on her right cheek but couldn't find his arm. Even with the imperfection, she was a very pretty woman. He liked her.

As the alcohol took hold of his brain, her face swam before his eyes, shimmering as though hidden behind a mirage, or a thin waterfall. When his eyes focused again, it wasn't Dana staring down at him with love and concern.

"Bethany?" he whispered, his healthy arm stretching out to touch her of its own accord.

He gently touched her cheek, feeling something rough under his calloused fingers. The face staring down at him frowned while slender fingers took his hand. "You came?"

"Shshsh," she said, a small smile playing at her lips.

He wanted to pull her down and kiss her soundly, but he couldn't seem to disentangle either hand.

"What's wrong with him, mother?"

"He's drunk. He clearly thinks you're someone else, now hold him still."

Pelor felt a searing pain from the direction of his maimed hand. He jerked, trying to free himself from the pain. A sudden weight pinned his body to the bench. He wanted to struggle more but couldn't find the strength. Finally, when the pain began to subside, the hands released him.

"Pelor," said a man's voice. "How many wolves are left?"

The ex-knight tried to focus on the man's face that had come into his line of sight while he thought through the question.

"None. All 'ut one 'ere caught wiff ma traps. The last kills myself. You send... men to retrieve... c'rsass. Goo' furrr..." but Pelor couldn't finish his statement.

The last of his strength slipped out from his cold fingertips, and he collapsed against someone's chest, happy to be unconscious.

# Chapter Fourteen

Bethany stared down at the two pieces of parchment clutched in both her hands. One was a note for Lady Lynette, the other a note for the herbalist. She wasn't sure if this would work, but it was the best chance she had. The note for the herbalist contained a long list of herbs to be sent back with her. Bethany had been trained since childhood to have some understanding of herbs and healing. After reading through the list several times, a hot blush rose to her cheeks. The only possible reason to take such a bizarre combination of herbs would be to improve one's sexual performance. Though her mother never taught her such a concoction, she had heard women in the castle whisper their needs to the herbalist if they were having trouble getting pregnant. Combined with a note to the prince's mistress, it all made sense.

Bethany scurried to a small alcove where the steward kept a tiny desk. She glanced up and down the corridor before pulling the one drawer open. Inside were a few scrap pieces of parchment, a stoppered bottle of ink, and a tiny, well-worn quill. Bethany quickly pulled the stopper from the ink bottle, dipped the quill in the black liquid, and scratched the herb 'oleander' and the amount she wanted to the end of the prince's list before returning the desk to its original state. Hopefully, the herbalist wouldn't notice the addition of a herb that was used in moderation to fight infectious illnesses and incidentally to be unhealthy for horses.

With this one change, Bethany refolded the note and scurried towards Lady Lynette's quarters, where she found her lady-in-waiting, who agreed to deliver the message. After a quick nod of thanks, Bethany raced towards the nearest servant's staircase and descended to the main level, where she pelted across the bailey. In the far corner sat a small hut, built of sturdy stone and with a newly thatched roof. It was one of the better-kept buildings. Bethany knew, as did the king, that the herbs had to be kept dry otherwise they would be destroyed by mold and mildew; therefore he replaced the roof each summer. It had just been completed.

Bethany slid to a stop at the door, ignoring the mud that she had kicked up. She didn't care anymore how dirty she got. The dirt was a good way to stay clear of men's notice. Even Sir Caldry seemed to be suddenly aware that she was a woman. His interest in her had increased greatly since she burned the withies. Granted, it wasn't sexual interest. He watched her to make sure she didn't step out of line. It was a very inconvenient side effect of being caught.

She knocked carefully on the sturdy door and entered. Inside, the herbalist sat at a long table placed near the small fire. The entire hut was one room, lined with tall shelves; each shelf was packed with small bottles of medicines, large jugs of water, wooden boxes filled with dried herbs, and tools used for measuring. Bethany took an appreciative sniff at the familiar smells. Lemongrass, thyme, and lavender pervaded over the more subtle smells. It reminded her of home.

For a brief moment, Bethany couldn't move or talk. A lump lodged itself in her throat. She fought to swallow the mass while the herbalist and his young apprentice stared at her. When she was sure she could speak normally, she stepped forward and thrust the note into the herbalist's hand.

The herbalist was a wizened old man, with little hair on his head, but plenty poking out his drooping ears; in contrast, his apprentice was a towering lad of at least six feet with startling red hair. The herbalist's bushy, white brows came together in the center of his forehead as he read through the list a second time. Bethany felt her heart stop for a moment before it picked up double time. Had he noticed the oleander she had added to the list? She had done her best to match the prince's rough letters.

Finally, the old man let forth a grunt of laughter before waving to the young apprentice.

"Shall I get it?" asked the nervous boy.

"No. I need you to go out and pick another batch of lavender," ordered the herbalist. "We're running low."

Like the apprentice, Bethany's eyes wandered to an overflowing box of lavender. Bethany was relieved to see the boy leave without a word of protest, for she knew the fewer people to know that oleander had left the herbalists hut, the better. The old man groaned as he climbed to his feet and began gathering the requested supplies. He moved slowly and Bethany struggled to remain where she was. She wanted to do the job for him to speed up the process, but it would look strange if a lowly slave knew too much about herbs or proved they were able to read. So she kept to the corner and waited patiently.

When the old man had finished, he handed her a heavy basket but kept the piece of parchment. Bethany didn't want such evidence to linger in his care.

"Um..." she said before she could stop herself. "Can I have the note back?"

"What for?" demanded the herbalist, looking confused and affronted.

"Well... I... I think the prince... I mean, he just asked for it back," she stammered, remembering at the last moment that she wasn't supposed to know why the prince wanted the herbs.

The old man gave her a knowing smile before handing her the parchment back. She returned the smile timidly and left. As expected, the apprentice was knee deep in the herb garden carefully cutting off stems of lavender for the full box. She ignored him and rushed towards the keep.

As she weaved her way through the kitchen, she carefully dropped the note into an open stove. Now there was little proof of the extra herb she had requested. In the empty stairwell, she stopped, rummaged through the basket, and retrieved the oleander. After making sure no one was coming up the stairs, she carefully pried a previously discovered loose stone out of the wall and stowed the bushel of long stocks. She replaced the rock and brushed some dirt over it to hide the wide cracks.

Finally, feeling a sense of security, Bethany hoisted the basket to her shoulder and took off toward the prince's room. It had taken her far longer than normal to complete the task, and she didn't want to incur the prince's wrath. While the guards knocked on the door, Bethany worked to catch her breath. She didn't want to appear flustered; out of breath perhaps, but not flustered.

"Come in," snapped the prince.

The guards opened the door and nudged her into the large room. Féderic was pacing the length of the room, his strong hands balling into fists with every third step. Bethany tried to bow but risked spilling the basket. Féderic snatched it from her hands and took it to the table pushed up against the interior wall, where utensils used for grounding herbs waited. Bethany wasn't sure if she was dismissed, so she waited silently by the door, eyes on the floor.

The prince glanced up and noticed her waiting. "Come here."

Bethany carefully sidled up to his side, wanting desperately to keep as much space between them as possible.

"You're going to help me. Ever made an herbal tea before?"

Bethany shook her head mutely, afraid he'd see through her lie if she spoke out loud. The prince's large fingers were roughly breaking off dried horny goat weed from its delicate stalks and tossing them into a pile.

"Put those in that bowl, and crush them with that. I'll give you more stuff to add," he ordered.

She picked up the pestle and began to carefully crush the leaves, specifically using the wrong gesture. Féderic opened the small pouch containing flax seed and poured a small amount into the mortar. After some time, he had added all the ingredients for the tea. Bethany wisely chose not to point out that he had mixed up two of the herbs, adding the one for women into this concoction, which was clearly designed for him and the herb for a man into the concoction designed for a woman. When they finished, she poured the contents into a small pot and placed it on a hook over the fire, before returning to help him make the second batch—one intended for Lady Lynette, no doubt.

Bethany had just placed the second tiny pot on its hook, well within the reaches of the large fire, when a knock on the door broke the silence. She scurried to the door and opened it. The guard held a note out for her. Before turning away, Bethany spotted Lynette's lady-in-waiting scurrying away. Bethany felt her stomach tie into knots as she took the note to Féderic. He snatched it from her hand, opened it, and read it in one quick glance.

The change was instantaneous.

Until that moment, Bethany had noticed an electric energy pouring off him, as though he had been kept in bed for a day and was now bursting to do something. It was almost contagious. Even she, who loathed him, began to feel energized. Now it appeared as though all his infectious energy had been trapped inside his quivering body. His muscular arms trembled as he clutched his fists and crumpled the small piece of paper.

The prince glanced around the room. Bethany waited until his head was turned away from her before carefully taking a step towards a shadowy corner. Sadly, he continued his angry perusal of the room and turned back towards her just as she took a second step. Her movement was enough to release the powerful energy held tight within his body.

Féderic lunged at her. Bethany let out a cry of surprise as he pushed her towards the fireplace. She tried to pull her arms free of his grasp, a sudden realization made escape essential, but her struggling was pointless against such a large, strong man. His grip tightened around her arm until she felt his fingers press tendon to bone.

With their momentum, the prince slammed her against the stone hearth. Bethany wasn't sure which portion of her body hurt worse: Her shoulder throbbed where it had been smashed against the stone supports, her wrist blazed with an internal fire, and her head felt disconnected from the rest of her body. Bethany felt hot blood run down the side of her face, but before she could reach up to wipe it away, the prince pressed a blisteringly hot pot against her lips.

She reflexively jerked her head away from the heat. Féderic growled incoherently, unaware of the hot cup burning his fingers, and grabbed a fist full of her matted hair. With a jerk, he tipped her head back. For a brief moment, Bethany worried he would feel the small signet ring she had knotted in her matted hair, but one look at the prince's blazing eyes told her he was far beyond noticing small details.

With her head completely in his control, she couldn't pull away when he returned the hot cup to her lips and poured the steaming liquid down her throat. Once the contents were in her mouth, he dropped the cup and placed his hand over her mouth and nose. Bethany jerked her aching head from side to side, feeling the prince's controlling fingers pull strands of hair from her scalp. She didn't want to swallow the concoction. Despite the prince's mistakes, it would be a powerful aphrodisiac.

When black dots began to cloud the edge of her vision, she swallowed.

"Again," commanded the prince.

She swallowed again, anything to get him to release her face. He stepped away, taking his own cup and downing it in one large gulp.

Bethany opened her mouth and sucked air into her burning lungs. She trembled next to the fire, petrified of what he was about to do and yet more fearful of the fabricated urgings beginning to run through her body. Her blood boiled in her veins, and her heart beat a quick staccato against her ribs.

Did her heart beat from fear or arousal? She wasn't sure.

The captive princess had never been in a position to feel true desire for a man. At the age of twenty, she was considered well past the marrying age, and her younger years had not involved a beau or courting of any kind. Her nation was waging a losing war, and marrying off a youngest daughter was not on the king's list of priorities.

She had no idea what it was supposed to feel like to want a man in that way.

Bethany swallowed again, trying to remove the bitter taste from her mouth. She watched as the prince's face grew flush with a new kind of excitement. Féderic stepped towards her and hesitated, his caramel eyes glowing as they scanned her face.

"Go wash yourself," he growled, nodding towards his enormous washing basin.

Bethany shook her head instinctively. Despite a desire for something she couldn't name, she refused to make this easy for him. Though she was resigned to her new life, she was not ready to give herself over to him. Sullied in such a fashion would mean no welcoming hug from her mother. She would be a blotch on their family's history—the relative no one spoke of.

Prince Féderic's face flushed darker, slowly turning the shade of a ripe plum. Bethany swallowed again, more out of a sudden increase in fear than anything else. He pounced on her, clutching her by the shoulders. After giving her a quick, rough shake, the prince threw her over his shoulders, stomped across the room, and plopped her into the large basin. It was more of a small tub than anything else. The enormous tin bowl was too small for the prince to do more than dunk his head in, but Bethany was considerably smaller. The water nearly came to her waist as she sat where he had placed her, half fearful the delicate stand would either break or tip over under her slight weight.

The prince kept one hand on her shoulder, to keep her from bolting, while the other hand poured the pitcher of water over her head. Bethany noticed the water turn pink with the blood from the cut on her head.

With rough fingers, the prince rubbed at the dirt on her face. His blazing eyes had lost none of their fire as he continued to rub the dirt off; they traveled over her shivering form, as though drinking in the very sight of her. Belatedly, Bethany realized he not only wanted to remove the stench that clung to her, but he also wanted to see what she looked like under her careful layer of dirt.

Evidently, he had seen enough. With a suddenness that left her breathless, he dragged her out of the basin of murky water and pressed her wet body against him. She heard the basin's stand crash to the floor and felt the water splash over their feet. The prince's fingers returned to the base of her neck, twining into her damp hair. He tipped her head back and applied himself to her mouth.

Bethany had never been kissed, and this was a far cry from the lazy dreams of her childhood. The prince forced his tongue into her mouth while he ran his free hand against her bony hip. Her burned lips felt bruised and spongy by the time he released her. Though fear dominated her emotions, Bethany felt the artificial arousal begin to return. She felt lonely, as though a large piece of her body—just below her navel—had been forcibly removed. A small piece of her, that wasn't clouded by fear, wanted to press her body against him and beg him to fill her, make her whole again.

The prince seemed willing enough to comply. He wrapped his free arm around her waist and crushed her against his chest before attacking her mouth again. Something in Bethany's brain seemed to snap. The fear took over, masking the electricity coursing through her veins. Bethany jerked away, remembering her vow to fight to the very end. The prince was too surprised by her sudden change of response to keep his grip and she managed to free herself.

Bethany dashed towards the door, but she wasn't fast enough. He looped his arm around her waist, drawing her away just as her fingers brushed against the door's metal handle. Bethany screamed, hoping aid would come to her from outside. Of course, if her brain had not been muddled with panic, she would have remembered that the guards would never come to her aid. Not when the prince was in control of the situation.

Using his hips, he pinned her against one of the tall posts of his bed that held up the heavy drapery. Its polished corner dug into her half-healed back. With a quick yank, the prince tore the bodice of her dress in half and allowed it to fall off her shoulders to reveal her dirty torso. Like all her curves, her breast had disappeared due to continual starvation. Bethany quivered as she frantically tried to pull the pieces of fabric over her chest, but the prince was having none of it. He yanked her hands away, the grip on her injured wrist causing her to scream out in pain.

The prince didn't notice. He pressed himself against her, one hand at the back of her neck again, while the other began to fumble with the folds of her skirt. This was it, she realized.

Before he could do anything else, a knock on the door interrupted him.

"What?" growled Féderic deep in his chest.

Bethany could feel it vibrate against her body.

# Chapter Fifteen

Sir Caldry pushed the door open. He had heard a scream from down the hall and couldn't decide if he was thankful to have an excuse to interrupt. The pretty slave girl stood cowering against the bed, her dress lying on the floor, while the prince pressed himself against her. After a moment's hesitation, during which he panted heavily, Féderic glanced over his shoulder to look at the knight.

"What is it?" growled the prince.

"The king wants to see you."

"Later."

"He says now," replied Sir Caldry.

Féderic glowered around the room for a moment before stomping his way through the door.

"Clean this up," Cal ordered the slave.

She nodded mutely, her stormy blue eyes shining with unshed tears while her hands absently went to cover her breasts. Cal slammed the door shut in the face of the ogling guards and jogged to catch up with the prince, doing everything he could to not think about the scene he had just witnessed. He didn't want to feel for her. Such emotions would only get him into trouble. A few minutes later they stopped at the king's room. Cal could hear Wolfric's voice boom, even through the heavy wooden door, drowning out the sound of their entrance.

One of the nervous looking guards opened the door and stepped aside, allowing them to enter.

The king's bedroom looked as though a war had been waged within its walls. Lady Lynette sat in a huddle on the floor, wedged between the bed and an overturned chair. Her cheek showed signs of an assault, her eyes were puffy with crying, and the dyes she used around her eyes ran down her cheeks. She shuddered as Wolfric went into another long, inarticulate rampage.

Though the king would never hit his wife—the bearer of his heirs—his mistress was of no such importance. He didn't care if she could produce children. In fact, it would be better for everyone if a king's mistress was barren.

The king stopped in his tirade, turned, and gave his son a dark, withering glare. Cal felt glad he was not on the receiving end of such a look. He glanced at the prince, who was still staring at Lady Lynette and unaware of his father's scrutiny.

"You!" screeched the king as he stepped forward, grabbing his son by the shirt and dragging him forcefully into the room to get his attention. "Of all people! You think you can steal from me?"

Féderic was not a dumb person, and yet he seemed intent on looking naive. Did he really think the king wouldn't see right through him? The prince shook his head, letting his firm jaw relax into an open-mouthed grimace. Cal admitted, he looked confused and ignorant, but half the castle knew Lady Lynette visited his room. It was not hard to guess what was happening behind closed doors. In fact, Sir Caldry was surprised the king was just now finding out.

"Don't play dumb, Féd. That act stopped working on me the first time you maimed your horse," snarled the king as he grasped his son by the jaw and forced Féderic to look at him. "Look me in the eye, and tell me you've never slept with Lynette."

The prince gulped, his eyes darting towards the weeping woman and back at his father.

"Or are you telling me you _love_ her?" he sneered.

Cal glanced at Lynette. She had stopped crying momentarily, a fleeting look of hope crossing her face. Now, who was naïve? All three men knew love was not involved; the woman was the only one to think either of her lovers cared for her. After all, Cal had just walked in on the prince forcing himself on a slave.

"I uh... I didn't realize you'd... care..." stuttered the shocked young man.

"Have I ever allowed someone to have what was _mine_? Haven't I taught you from your cradle to guard against those who would steal from you? And here, you—my own flesh and blood—taking what is mine, and mine alone. How dare you?" demanded the king, as he shoved his son towards a pile of broken furniture.

"Forgive me, father! It will never happen again," cried the prince, having given up all hope of saving face.

Cal tried not to smirk at the sudden change of approach.

"Damn right it won't happen again!" howled Wolfric, as he crouched down in front of his cowering son.

Cal glimpsed the look on Lynette's face. She was crying again, but in a sadder, more desolate manner. It was no longer in an effort to save herself from further punishment; it was with resignation that she cried for her own lost hopes and dreams.

Cal wondered just how she felt about the two men in her life. He expected she thought Féderic the best route to power, being unmarried, but kept with the king as a backup plan. Mistress to the king may not be as good as wife to the crown prince, but it was better than the whoring daughter of the king's advisor.

"You listen to me boy. I may live for years yet, and in no way have I decided on you for my heir." The king paused dramatically while Féderic's eyes grew wide enough for the white to show all around his irises. "Now, here is what you are going to do. You will marry a girl of respectable parentage within the next four months. You will not take a mistress until after you have produced an heir of your own. And you will do the duties I set before you without complaint. Do you understand?"

"I do, Sire," simpered the prince. "I'll not even look at Lynette," he added for good measure.

" _That_ won't be a problem," snapped the king.

"What? My gracious lord and master! Please! I'm sorry. Please forgive me..." but before Lynette could grovel anymore, the king had climbed to his feet, crossed the room, and struck her across her already bruised cheeks.

She fell heavily against the nearby chair and collapsed in an unconscious heap.

"W-what's gonna happen to her?" asked the prince from his place amongst the broken furniture.

"Though it is none of your business, she and her brats will be sent away. We will never see the cheating whore again. Now get out of here."

Féderic hesitated for only a short second before nodding and scurrying from the room. Cal absently wondered if the slave girl had left Féd's room yet. He hoped so. Considering what just happened, the prince would be looking for a way to demonstrate his power and authority. Even he, a valued member of the castle, didn't want to be in Féderic's company. He couldn't imagine what would happen to any slave who had the misfortune of crossing his path.

"Take the woman back to her quarters," commanded the king, his eyes locking on Cal. "She's to leave before the next sunset. Inform Hepner."

Cal nodded once, hoisted Lynette's limp body over his shoulder, and marched out of the room.

# Chapter Sixteen

Bethany cleaned the prince's room in record time before slipping away. She had just descended the nearest servant's stairwell when she heard angry steps pounding down the upper corridor. A sense of relief flooded over her. No doubt, whatever had just happened hadn't improved his mood.

Without waiting to eavesdrop, as other slaves might have, she scurried down the steps, stopped at the loose stone, and removed the bundle of oleander. Night had descended on the castle, bringing most of the weary slaves to their own piles of straw. Bethany slipped passed the deserted hall leading between the slave dormitory and the kitchen, then through the kitchen where one unlucky cook's assistant sat numbly stirring a pot. The young man's eyes were closed and he appeared more asleep than awake.

Bethany tiptoed through the warm room and out the door, still sitting open to allow in the cold night air. She dashed across the bailey—still clinging to the scraps of her dress—and into the stables, where a few horses poked their heads out of their stable doors and made welcoming sputtering noises. Bethany ignored them, paying more attention to Josiah's irregular snoring. Once it sounded as though he had drifted into a deeper sleep, Bethany moved towards the large, open barrel full of a mixture of oats, bran, and beans. Bethany quietly crunched up the pile of oleander and mixed it into the top portion of the barrel.

Though Bethany didn't really want any of the horses to be permanently injured, all of them being sick would make retrieving the lost messenger pigeons nearly impossible.

With this finished, Bethany silently returned to the slave's dormitory, where she stayed up half the night trying to repair her torn frock.

Bethany was set to the task of scrubbing the paving stones in the slave dormitory, specifically those covered in blood from a recent whipping. The mortar crevices were stained a deep red where the blood had pooled. Bethany began her task with complete willingness—it was nowhere near the desperate prince—but as her day unfolded, her feelings changed.

The first commotion was little more than annoying. Another slave passed her and, with a look of disgust, ran into her bucket. The water spilled, spreading a few feet before running into the crevices, much like the blood had done. He sneered at her before marching off. Bethany quickly sponged up the water before going to fetch more.

The second episode occurred when a woman came through burdened by a large sack of what smelled like old food waste from the kitchen. The worn bag conveniently tore at that moment, dropping the garbage all across the portion of stone flooring Bethany had finished cleaning.

Bethany tried to be patient as she moved to help the other woman clear away the mess, but patience wasn't in her nature. The other woman's slow, lethargic movements didn't help either. She was leaving the mess for Bethany to clean up. Before Bethany could finish cleaning up this new mess, a man came traipsing through with a load of firewood, which he accidentally dropped as he passed them. Half the wood landed on Bethany's back causing her to slip and bark her chin against the dirty, wet stones. He apologized profusely, but a gleam in his eye and the laughter of those nearby made Bethany wonder. As he moved to pick up the firewood, he accidentally slammed a piece of kindling against Bethany's head.

She received a few more blows as they cleaned up their messes, each crack producing another spurt of chuckles from their audience. Before she knew what was happening, the accidental knocks turned into decisive kicks. Bethany hunched over and wrapped her arms around her stomach out of instinct. A few minutes passed, though they felt like hours before an authoritative voice brought the crowd to order.

"I says stop!" snapped Flora when someone snuck in another kick to Bethany's shoulder. "How dare you damage the prince's thing? All of you, to work. Half rations for three days," she added when they hesitated.

As the crowd dispersed, they managed to trip over Bethany's hunched body and generally give her a few more blows.

Once they were gone Flora approached Bethany, who was just beginning to unfold her throbbing body. '

"You clean the mess up," she said, waving towards the littered floor.

"But I didn't make the mess," whined Bethany, the movement causing her split lip to blaze with fresh pain.

"I don't care. Clean it up."

"What did I do to them?"

Flora knelt down. "When you burn them reeds in the valley, makin' all those women work more, you become the enemy. You work against them, not for them."

"But I did it to ruin the queen," whispered Bethany as softly as she could.

A hard look came over Flora's features as she spoke: "It don't matter none. They don't see it us versus them. It's everyone versus them. Don't matter none who you tried to ruin. You hurt them. You the enemy now."

Bethany frowned. She couldn't understand their thinking. If all the slaves worked together against their masters, they might have a chance.

"I can't just give into them."

"Then your life will be very short," whispered Flora back; she opened her mouth as if to say more, but they were interrupted.

"What is going on here?" demanded the scarred knight from the doorway.

They looked up. His brows were furrowed as he scanned the pile of filth, wood, and blood.

Bethany wiped hot liquid off the side of her face, only to discover she was bleeding from a shallow cut near her hairline. No wonder the garbage had a red tint to it. She bowed her head and left Flora to do the speaking.

"Some bullying."

"Huh," he grunted. "That'll teach her."

Bethany felt a fresh wave of hatred toward the knight fill her gut as she began to clean the floor, again.

# Chapter Seventeen

Bethany ducked as two men pelted headlong down the length of the great hall, hunched under the burden of a rolled up tapestry. It had been commissioned specifically for this banquet. Though the queen was a frugal woman by nature, for this one occasion she spared no expense. Along with the new tapestry, she had ordered new linens for half the bedrooms, a batch of the most enormous candles, food from all over her husband's great empire, and entertainers heralding from every conquered land. Bethany was proud to know none of her people would come to entertain them. They were not slaves to the king's will, though she might be.

For the last two days, Bethany had been kept on her feet from before dawn to well after midnight. In fact, she hadn't eaten in over two days. It was not due to a lack of food flowing from the kitchens. She simply couldn't find the time. The minute the slaves' dinner gong sounded, the steward or slave master would send for her. Bethany began to wonder if they were doing it on purpose. She thought about sneaking into the kitchen and begging one of the assistants for a crust of bread, but every time she drew near it, she lost her nerve. It did not seem worth risking more bodily harm for one measly scrap of bread, especially after everything that had happened recently.

The prince was sending her to work for the slave master more and more. In fact, he seemed to be avoiding her, and she began to wonder if he would sell her. Bethany got the impression he was ashamed of his attempt to rape her. Bethany wasn't sure if the shame stemmed from his failure to achieve it or the act itself. Either way, she was glad to not be in his presence.

Based on the gossip flowing through the castle, Lady Lynnette's duplicity had become known to the king and Féderic was without a mistress. Overall, it seemed like a good time to keep her head down. She didn't want to draw attention to herself while everyone was stressed and angry, and for this reason, she refrained from visiting the kitchens for food.

The kitchen had been in a tumult of barely controlled chaos for the past week. It had begun with the arrival of the many animals the guests would be eating—most of them very much alive. The slaves quickly made room in their sleeping dormitory for some of the more rare and delicate animals. The only ones arriving at the castle pre-slaughtered were the fish, thank goodness. Bethany tried imagining what their dormitory would be like if they were required to keep the fish alive too.

Those that were too fragile for the harsh, mountain climate resided with the slaves, including a large swarm of suckling pigs, three enormous peacocks, two broody swans, and a large cage of tiny quails. Bethany had woken numerous times to pigs and birds trying to share her pile of straw. Though a far cry from being whipped and nearly raped, it did feel like a new low.

Still, Bethany couldn't help but lick her lips in anticipation. All these delicacies were common to her, though now she expected little more than to scrape the dishes after the feast. Perhaps she could get a taste of the fine quail meat before it got thrown to the dogs.

Until then, though, she had to work. The first two days were spent polishing the royal family's best dishes. Here was another sign of the queen's frugality. For their common family dinners, she never used more than well sanded wooden plates, but now the vaults were thrown open and every piece of silver was polished for the guests.

This excess of economy had helped her husband achieve his many ambitions.

Bethany was sitting with the other slaves, furiously polishing silver when Flora entered. The woman was often used to assist Bainard and Hepner with the managing of the vast workforce. She looked just as tired and frazzled as Bethany felt. Her short curly hair was frizzy and standing out in all directions, and her usually tidy frock was stained and torn. She stopped in the narrow doorway, her hands resting on her bony hips.

"Ann. The queen wants you in the main hall," she said in a tone surprisingly harsh for the soft-spoken woman.

"Everything all right?" Bethany asked as she set a silver platter on the work table and scrambled off her rickety stool.

"No, everything's not all right! How I supposed to get anything done iffen they keep taking my help?"

Bethany tried to nod in agreement but her legs wobbled under her, forcing her to grab the doorframe to steady herself. Bethany's stumbling steps forced Flora to jump out of her way.

"Now what's wrong with you?"

"N-nothing," Bethany stammered.

She tried to think up an excuse for her behavior, but her food-starved brain worked too slowly.

Flora's eyes narrowed as she stared her. "When's last time you eatin' something?"

"Um..." Again, Bethany couldn't think straight.

"C'mon" Flora huffed as she slipped her arm through Bethany's and supported her out of the room.

They shuffled through a few corridors before reaching the slave dormitory. There, Flora left her on the floor near the doorway. A large swan strutted to her side and delicately picked at her dress. Bethany tried to swat the annoying bird away, but her feeble efforts only made it angry. It hissed at her, raising its wings and stomping its webbed feet against the stone floor. The beastly thing was just about to attack when Flora returned and gave it a swift kick to the chest. The angry swan scooted away but continued to hiss.

"Eat this," the older woman ordered before going to the tubs used for the rare occasions when they expected the slaves to bathe.

A chunk of burned meat dropped into Bethany's lap. She scooped it up and began gnawing away. Even burned, it was the best thing she'd ever tasted.

By the time she had consumed the whole thing, Flora had a lukewarm bath prepared for her.

"What's all this about?" Bethany asked, feeling more like herself now that she'd eaten.

"Do you really 'spect the queen to allow you to sew on her gowns while covered in tarnish?" asked Flora in another huff of exhausted indignation.

Bethany glanced down at her tattered clothing—the same dress she had clumsily repaired with scraps after the prince's attack. It was indeed covered with grayish paste while her hands were black with the stuff.

"Anyway, they'll likely have you serve at dinner, so I might as well get you ready for that, too."

Bethany shrugged out of her poorly mended garment and climbed into the tepid water. To both their astonishments, the tarnish and cleaning soaps had soaked through her dress. From head to foot, her skin had turned an odd shade of greenish gray. Both women attacked her skin with the rough, cheap soap reserved for slaves, but Bethany insisted on washing her own hair. By the time they had her clean, her skin was a bright shade of pink from scrubbing.

Once out of the tub and in a special black dress with a red over tunic, reserved for special occasions, Bethany braided her clean hair in quick, practiced strokes. Again, she refused to let Flora touch her hair for fear she would find the signet ring still matted at the base of her skull. She felt thankful that in her younger days, she had asked her servants to teach her how to braid hair. She liked the feeling of it running through her fingers and spent many an evening braiding and rebraiding her mother's hair.

The piece of charred meat had renewed her strength, if not her energy. Bethany raced up the steps as fast as she could and scurried to the great hall, where the family was preparing last minute details before their guests began to arrive over the next couple of days. The large room was in its own form of disorder.

She watched the men with the tapestry blow through the crowd before turning back to the frightening din of the great hall.

A small mob of slaves was working furiously to clean the enormous fire pit used to heat the tall room. Bethany had never known someone to scrub a fireplace, and based on the thick layer of soot, she doubted it had ever been done here, either.

_It just proves how important this banquet was_ , Bethany thought as she ducked passed another group working to set up trestle tables.

Féderic was required to marry within four months, or so the castle gossip stated. Bethany knew the queen hoped he'd find a wife at this special event. Bethany felt a smidge of sympathy towards the queen considering the task that lay before her. Marrying off Féderic would not be an easy goal.

As a princess, Bethany knew the value of a suitable marriage. She also knew that such a future was closed to her forever. In a life filled with privilege and fortune, it had been Bethany's one dream, one purpose. She saw her mother as a shining beacon—an example of what every lady should be. Her mother was kind to everyone, loving and respectful to her husband, strict with her children, and generous to the poor. Bethany wanted to be just like her mother.

But how could she be, trapped as a slave?

Bethany bowed low before the queen.

"Ahh, there you are Ann," Arabelle said from her place in the corner.

"Oooh, it's that little seamstress," stated the fat seamstress.

Mirabelle stood on a small platform with a nearly-finished gown hanging from her shoulders. The indignant princess looked down at Bethany from her perch with a glower. Lyolf and Sir Kerwin sat next to the queen, both looking bored to tears. Vyrabelle and Josric were running around the area designated for sewing, followed closely by the nursery slave who was doing her best to keep them out of everyone's way, but generally failing.

"Get this hem finished for me while I sort out the next gown," added the seamstress.

Bethany struggled to keep her face neutral. How many dresses did Mirabelle need? Then again, Bethany remembered the number of gowns made for her for a three-day tournament. She felt her face flush at the thought of the wasteful extravagance of her younger days.

She now knew the difference between need and want.

Before she could finish the hem, the doors to the great hall burst open, revealing an outraged king. Hepner ran to his side, barely avoiding a blow to the head by the king's flailing fists. Josiah, one of the other stable hands, and Sir Caldry followed him, each keeping a safe distance from the king. Evidently, Féderic, Rulfric, Cedric, and the other knights had managed to make themselves scarce.

"What do you mean the horses are sick? Horses don't get sick," added the king as he rounded on the other men.

Bethany felt this to be a rather uninformed statement. She bit her lip, trying not to smile. The oleander had finally taken effect. After two days of waiting, she had begun to wonder if her attempts at poisoning the horses had been discovered too soon, or if she hadn't mixed enough oleander into the feed.

"They can be poisoned," stated the knight in a droll voice.

"Poisoned?" snapped the king. "You think this was deliberate?"

Bethany watched as Sir Caldry rolled his eyes towards the stable master.

"Well, Sire... you see... I-I've found oleander mixed in with their feed," stammered the unfortunate man.

"And what, exactly, is oleander?" asked Wolfric, pronouncing each word carefully.

"It's a herb used for many human medicines... but is quite unhealthy for horses."

"And how, may I ask, did such a herb get into my horses' feed?"

An innocent bystander may think the king was calming down, but anyone who had served in his household for more than a month knew this soft, steely voice was the king at his most dangerous. Evidently, the stable master was quite aware of the king's growing wrath.

"I don't know your majesty," he said, his voice immediately turning into a begging whine as he dropped to his knees. "I've removed the affected feed and have begun flushing their systems."

Bethany quickly pulled her attention back to her sewing. Sir Caldry had begun to sweep the room with his piercing gaze, clearly annoyed by the conversation. She didn't want to get caught watching too closely. In an effort to keep her face free of emotion, she began counting her stitches, but even this exercise could not keep the loud conversation from penetrating her thoughts.

"Can they be saved?" demanded the king.

Two-three-four, she counted

"Oh, yes, my lord, but it will be a week or so before they will be able to be used."

"What?" squawked the queen from her place in the corner.

Bethany glanced up.

"But we need them... we have orders from the valley to be brought up for the banquet. They _have_ to work," wailed the queen.

Josiah shook his head, clearly at a loss for words as the group made their way to where the queen sat.

Bethany forced her eyes back on the hem before the knight could notice her.

Five-six-seven-eight, she continued to count.

"May I suggest, my lady," began Sir Caldry, "we ask the townspeople to lend their beasts to us. It is but a minor inconvenience," he added, his green eyes drifting over towards the stand where Mirabelle stood.

Bethany couldn't help but wonder if he knew she had put the oleander in the horses' feed. After all, he had caught her burning the reeds, and somehow, he just seemed to know everything. Was he aware of who she was and the mission she had given herself? She cringed and redoubled her efforts, making a staunch vow to avoid the knight at all costs.

Bethany stitched furiously, if not accurately, trying to pour her anger and frustration into her work. She had planned on the horses' illness to be a major crisis. Instead, the knight had quickly produced an alternative to the problem. What more could she do? Bethany racked her brain, trying to think up a way to increase the damage, but she failed to come up with a new plan that would have any effect on the banquet.

By the time she had finished the hem, the debate about the horses was over.

# Chapter Eighteen

Bethany was sent up to Féderic's room. She hesitated in front of the door, not wanting to be near the man who had tried to rape her. Would he try to do it again? Bethany fought an image of herself returning to the banquet, her hair and dress rumpled, her body bruised from another attack. To her disgust, she felt her body begin to tremble and her breath come out in desperate gasps.

Finally, when the guards began to laugh at her, she straightened her scrawny shoulders and pounded her fist against the wooden door until her knuckles smarted. They would not get the best of her, try as they might, laugh as they would.

"Enter," came the prince's voice.

Bethany ignored the shivers running up and down her spine, and the pounding of her heart as she marched into the dreaded room.

Prince Féderic stood in the center of his room, with nothing but a small cloth wrapped around his waist. Bethany averted her eyes to the wooden floor and bowed low.

"Is that you Ann? Who knew you could clean up so pretty?"

Bethany felt her heart give an extra beat before settling into a frantic race through her ribcage. She swallowed again, trying to bring moisture to her suddenly dry mouth. Bethany noticed a pile of elegant clothing draped across the foot of his bed, but the prince made no movement towards them. Instead, he stared at her from his place by the warm fire. She tried to hold still as an extra violent shiver ran up her spine.

"Look at me," commanded Prince Féderic.

Bethany raised her face but kept her eyes on his chin. They stood like that for a long moment. Finally, when she was about to say something, anything, the prince prowled to her side and took hold her cheeks.

He leaned forward and whispered, "I could make you wealthy."

Bethany's breath caught in her chest, but she chose to ignore his taunt. She knew what he was offering; most female slaves would have given their right arm for the opportunity to be a crown prince's mistress, but it was not in her to accept such degradation.

"You are young and beautiful. I could free you..." he left the rest unsaid.

"And when you are done with me?" Bethany asked, remembering to lower her eyes at the last moment. "My people do not believe in multiple partners. If I were to... do as you say, I would be an outcast for the rest of my days, never accepted back into their society. The freedom you offer would be the beginning of a new kind of bondage."

"And what people are these?" growled the prince as he let go of her face and took a step back to better see her.

Bethany panicked. She couldn't think of another nation with such guarded principles. If she lied, he would know, but if she claimed Dothan as her home, she would be in far greater peril. Féderic didn't give her a chance to answer.

"You refuse a prince, simply because you fear the judgment of people you may never see again?" he growled.

Bethany could see his cheeks beginning to turn red with suppressed anger. It was not very often that a prince was refused anything, especially by a slave.

"You're a coward."

"No, I am not," she said before she could censor herself.

"What?" he snapped, grabbing her by the shoulders and dragging her to the center of the room; he didn't want her trying to run away when he was not dressed to chase after her.

Bethany's heart sped up again, beating against her chest so that she was sure the prince could hear it.

_I'm in for it now_ , she thought _. I might as well say what I think_.

"In the face of those more powerful than me, I stand for what I believe. That makes me brave. I choose what I know to be right over immediate reward. That makes me strong."

To her surprise, she spotted the corner of Féderic's lips twitch towards a smile. He released her shoulders.

"Perhaps you're right. Don't worry, little Ann. I won't force myself upon you... But nor will I give up," he added in a whisper as he leaned down. "I want you. And I want you to want me. A time will come when you realize that my offer is the best you will ever get."

With this final statement, he kissed her gently on the cheek.

Bethany swallowed a large knot in her throat and stepped away. "I want to be loved."

"Then you're living in a dream world, slave girl."

She lowered her head, staring at the floor. "My life once was a dream world," she whispered, more to herself than to the naked man before her.

"What?" he asked.

Bethany was saved from answering by a knock on the prince's door. Féderic took two more steps away as he checked the towel wrapped around his waist.

"Yes?" he asked in a husky voice.

Bethany carefully wiped the moisture from her eyes as the door swung open to reveal Sir Caldry.

The tall, broad-chested knight was dressed in his best—a beautifully embroidered tabard that reached past his knees over a shirt of highly polished chainmail. From his shoulders hung a matching cloak, lined with soft fur. Across his chest, the rearing black horse of the king's livery was emblazoned with delicate stitching. At his hip hung the knight's heavy long sword. He stopped in the doorway and glanced between the prince and his slave. His soft green eyes stared with penetration.

The knight saw things in a way others didn't. Bethany was beginning to believe that nothing happened within his gaze without the knight being fully aware of any hidden layers or meaning.

"Am I interrupting?" Sir Caldry asked, his eyes flicking to the prince's cloth.

"Nothing that can't be resumed later," answered Féderic, his own eyes remaining fixed on Bethany. "Now, girl, help me dress. What is it you wanted, Cal?" he asked as he moved back to the warm fire.

Bethany erupted into action, happy to have something to do.

"Your mother sent me to see if you were nearly ready. The guests have arrived, and she wants the family to enter together."

"It won't take me long now," the prince replied as he climbed into his black, leather trousers. "Have you seen the guests?"

"Some, my lord."

"Any of the ladies pretty? Are they as pretty as our Ann here?" the prince asked as Bethany was coming forward with his undershirt.

Bethany froze for a second before lifting the undershirt over the prince's head.

Sir Caldry stared at her a moment longer than strictly necessary before responding: "I will leave that to your better judgment."

Féderic laughed as Bethany fetched his new, black tunic. It had been sewn for the occasion, with Bethany doing many of the finer details surrounding the neck. She slipped it over the prince's head and tied up the front lacing, while he stomped into his tall, black boots. Finally, Bethany attached a long, black cloak, lined with gold and placed his delicate, gold crown upon his head. With nothing but gold to accent his black outfit, even Bethany had to admit, the prince looked very striking.

As she finished adjusting the gold belt, Cal said, "Ann, you better go. Hepner wants all those serving at table downstairs."

Bethany scurried out of the room, where she breathed the free air. Well, the less repressive air. She didn't dally. Hepner might have been less violent than any other master in the house, but he still wouldn't look kindly on her late arrival. With her feet flying, Bethany scurried towards the special room just off the great hall, where the food received its last minute touches before being delivered.

Despite her efforts, Bethany was the last slave to arrive. The other slaves glared at her as they stepped away, giving her a clear space, as though her very touch could infect them. Ever since the reed incident, she had become despised, if not downright, hated by the others. Hepner seemed inclined to ignore the situation. If it didn't cause direct problems to the efficiency of his staff, it wasn't worth his attention. He quickly took control of the situation, explaining the plan and expectations.

From their place within the antechamber, Bethany could hear the herald announce the royal family's entrance. A piece of her wished to see the grand entrance. On many occasions, she had been in their shoes. Of course, as the youngest daughter, she entered last, but it was still a boost to the ego each time her name was announced over a hushed audience. Bethany felt as though she would have given anything to hear it again, though the sensation was now marred with a peculiar feeling of guilt.

Bethany stuffed the sensations into her gut, determined to get through the evening without getting into trouble. Of course, she would welcome punishment if she could manage to do something destructive, but since being caught by the knight, she couldn't cause mayhem without being suspected again. It wouldn't do any long-term good if they sold her or cut her head off, especially the latter. The other slaves already watched her like a hawk, and Sir Caldry was always where he wasn't wanted.

Hepner continued to drone on. Bethany noticed that other slaves were losing interest in his speech. Evidently, he realized it, too. With an abruptness that startled them, the steward ended his dictation on respect and family pride. He motioned each one to grab a pitcher and begin filling the guests' mugs. Bethany was the last to enter the great hall, meaning the other slaves had already taken up their positions around the guests' tables, leaving the royal family for her to deal with. No doubt they wanted to avoid their masters as much as she did.

Bethany took a deep, steadying breath and marched forward. She noticed the prince eyeing her until the pretty, foreign girl sitting next to him said something. Bethany felt a surge of pity for the girl well up inside her as she stopped at the bottom of the steps leading to the raised dais, where she bowed and waited.

If the rumors were accurate, and they usually were, her name was Gia, the niece of the Bumi king killed by Wolfric's raging army. Gia had changed a great deal since Bethany last saw her. She had been short and plump, but time had taken her round body and stretched it. Gia now stood tall and slim, with a narrow face and high, defined cheekbones. Bethany's memory of their one and only meeting was faded with time. She doubted Gia would recognize her.

They had met when they were both very young. Bethany's father had been holding a peace gathering on the border of his land, and many of the other kings—excepting for Wolfric—had been their guests. Of course, at that age, Bethany had only seen it as an opportunity to compare herself with other girls of similar rank. It was a rare treat, as the Tokë people did not have many high ranking families with daughters her age.

Now Bethany understood it to be a sign of her father's forward thinking. He foresaw the need for peace treaties and strong relations with the other nations. Even then, years before Wolfric had attacked his neighbors, Bethany's father knew their relations would be tried and tested by the power-hungry king. He was wiser than she had ever realized.

Bethany blinked, realizing the queen had motioned for her to ascend the dais. She blushed and hurried to her place at the queen's elbow. After bowing one last time, Bethany began to fill their mugs in silence. Gia had turned to talk to Prince Lyolf as Bethany reached Féderic's side.

"Don't forget my offer," he whispered as he lifted his mug to his lips.

His eyes smiled up at her while she tried to hide her deepening blush. How could she forget?

The portion of her mind most damaged by her time as a slave said it was a good idea. How else could she expect to improve her situation? She was tired of hard, crusty bread, exhausting work, and nothing but straw to sleep on. Bethany wanted to be a princess again.

_That's just it, he's not offering you your old life back_ , the voice in the back of her head chided. _He's offering nothing but a small shadow of what you once were; a shadow filled with terrors._

Bethany turned away, forcing her focus back on the task at hand. It would not do to spill on a prince. She moved to Gia's side and carefully filled her cup. Just as she was setting it back in its place, Gia caught her eye. Bethany held her breath as the other woman seemed to recognize her.

_No, it can't be possible_. Bethany felt the flutters of terror build.

But then, just when panic was setting in fully, Gia turned away.

Bethany moved on, determined to finish her task without further incident.

An hour later, the entire meal had been served. With each new dish, Prince Féderic made a whispered comment to her, which she ignored. It was stressful, but she managed to maintain her composure.

From her place at the back of the dais, Bethany watched the slow dissolve into chaos. Gia, who was clearly designed for Féderic, seemed more comfortable with Lyolf. The bastard prince was very happy to entertain her, despite Queen Arabelle's efforts to avoid the connection. Lady Amiria, a friend of the queen's, was boring Princess Mirabelle to the point of rudeness.

Orlaith, Amiria's daughter was deeply offended by young Cedric's inability to discuss anything beyond hunting and war, not to mention her designs towards the heir apparent being checked by her place at the table—the opposite end from where Féderic sat. The conversation between Cedric and herself was strained and forced. Cedric, a growing sixteen-year-old boy, was more interested in swords than women.

At the same time, the queen was being ignored by her husband—who had eyes only for his food—and annoyed with her own companion. On the other side of the queen sat Lapo, Gia's father and the brother of the dead Bumi king. Lapo was a stark contrast to his beautiful daughter. His stomach jutted out so far he had trouble reaching is plate. His wide cheeks sagged until he looked like he had no neck, while his hair hung in a greasy sheet across his face. Like Wolfric, Lapo seemed more interested in eating than conversation.

The overall result was something of a farce. Bethany felt a group of actors could not have entertained her so thoroughly. She felt more relaxed in the safety of her dark corner. It helped that Sir Caldry was not sitting with the royal family; due to the number of important guests, the scarred man had been demoted to the lesser tables and was sitting with the other knights. Bethany felt a sense of release without his knowing gaze watching her.

Only once was Bethany forced to leave her station, and she didn't waste the opportunity. Near the end of the long banquet, the high table ran out of wine. Hepner sent her to refill the two large pitchers, saying he'd wait on the high table himself in her absence. Bethany scurried down the many flights of stairs into the lowest basement where the earth kept it icy cold year round. The enormous room was supported by wide masterfully-built arches every ten feet, and the room was sectioned off into neat rows of food; barrels of salted fish, sacks of potatoes, beans, and flour, and kegs filled with different drinks sat ready for use. From the ceiling, smaller kegs with intense spirits hung from hemp bindings. For this special occasion, numerous different spirits had been imported, and the entire back wall was covered with hanging kegs. Along a different wall sat the large kegs of wine.

In a stroke of unexpected ingenuity, Bethany jumped forward. She left the two large pitchers near the wine kegs and ran to the small table where the records and tools were kept. She found a small, serrated knife and moved to the wall lined with smaller kegs. With the use of a nearby stool, Bethany hoisted herself to the top of the hanging kegs. She used the knife to weaken the primary hemp supports by stroking the knife along the grain of the rope. After plenty of strokes, the rope began to stretch, a few of the strands snapping. Bethany quickly jumped down, tossed the stool away and dashed towards the other end of the cellar, fearful it would give way before she could move out from under it. She refilled her pitchers as quickly as the flow of wine would allow, wishing she had done this before making mischief and darted out of the cellar.

The weight of the heavy pitchers slowed her climb up the steps, but she finally reached the great hall, completely out of breath, and switched places with the steward. Bethany spent the rest of the meal refilling the cups for those at the high table.

Just before the honored visitors lost their tempers with each other, the meal ended and the guests began milling around. Queen Arabelle quickly dispatched her children to mingle and be sociable. Féderic made to argue, but one glare from his father sent him scurrying down the steps, not even taking time to speak to Bethany.

The room was quickly transformed, despite the ever-shifting crowd of chatting guests. The slaves hastily cleared the tables and moved them up against the walls to make space for dancing. A group of musicians took over the dais and struck a lively tune.

While the crowd danced, Bethany continued to fill the mugs of the guests. Despite the numerous pinches and slaps on the backside received by the rowdy drinkers, Bethany was glad to have this job rather than being forced to run up and down the stairs to fetch fresh pitchers of wine—partly because she didn't want to deal with the stairs, but mostly because she didn't want to be anywhere near the cellar when the hemp rope finally gave way to the weight of the kegs. If she was up here, surrounded by guests, they couldn't blame her.

At least, she hoped they couldn't.

# Chapter Nineteen

Cal sat on one of the few benches left upright, watching the guests dance the night away. He spotted the king sitting in a high-backed chair, carefully placed in a corner away from the revelers, sipping his own mug of spirits. In the midst of the crowd, Cal could see the queen dancing with Tethys, a local lord. Féderic was doing his duty and dancing with as many women as he could, though the knight noticed the prince's eyes following his slave girl wherever she meandered with her wine pitcher.

It was easy to see trouble coming from that quadrant. Cal began to watch her too; he felt certain she would try to cause more trouble. Again, Cal began to wonder what secrets she possessed, and why she risked her very life to cause petty destruction. How could it possibly be worth the effort she went to and the punishment she received?

When Cal finished his mug of wine, he rose and began to search her out. It was a perfect excuse to check on her, or at least that's what he told himself. Cal was just nearing the narrow door, where the slaves disappeared with empty pitchers and returned with full ones when he heard a frantic cry. A slave burst from the door, looking frantically about and darting toward Hepner, the steward. The two of them returned to the small antechamber, while Cal slipped in behind them.

A female slave he did not recognize was collapsed on the floor, her ankle visibly swelling. Tears streaked down her puffy cheeks as she gasped for breath. The stewards skidded to a halt and stared at the woman.

"What is the meaning of this?" snapped the steward, the stress of the evening showing on his wrinkled face.

A typically calm and patient man, Hepner had been growing more waspish with each passing day of preparation. Now, with the castle overrun by strangers, Hepner looked ready to collapse.

"Da spirits... all o' dem fell!" wailed the slave.

"What do you mean fell?"

"Dem ropes jes snapped in twain. Des jes felt. All of dem. Dey smashed. And der's liquor all over de place. Sacks done soaked."

Unlike other masters, Hepner didn't waste his time giving the slave a kick. He knew when to punish, which made his reprimands all the more powerful, and Cal respected the steward for his discretion. Hepner ignored the crying woman and dashed down the narrow staircase towards the cellar. Cal followed.

What they found was far worse than either had imagined. The floor of the entire cellar was covered in two inches of liquor, and the sacks and barrels on the bottom of the piles were gradually soaking up the liquid. Cal could see the moisture line slowly rising above the level of the alcohol.

"Get every servant that can be spared and start hauling out all the supplies," Hepner barked to the man-slave who had followed them. "Start with the sacks."

The slave nodded once and ran up the stairs, his voice echoing off the walls as he called for help. Meanwhile, the steward stomped into the liquid and made his way to the back of the cellar where the remains of the broken kegs lay. The ropes that had been holding them hung in shredded disarray. The two men removed enough wreckage to get near them. Carefully, they sifted through the hanging ropes, looking for any signs of sabotage. Though the steward was likely investigating out of routine, Cal's mind strayed to the slave girl. Was she at it again?

Before they could finish their inspection, a hoard of slaves descended on the cellar and began forming a line to transport the salvageable goods to the upper levels. Cal glanced at Hepner. The steward's face had drained of all color.

"What will I say to the queen?" he asked in a whisper, glancing around at the ruined cellar.

The lost liquor was the least of their concerns. With this many guests, the loss of even a small portion of their present victuals was a major setback. They would likely have to purchase second rate supplies from any locals who would sell and pay exorbitant rates.

"Go tell her now. Better than waiting. I have something I need to see to," added Cal before the steward could ask for his support.

He turned and marched out of the cellar, squeezing past the working slaves who did their best to stay out of his way. Still, it was a tight fit, between them, the sacks they carried, and his armored body.

He was often teased for coming to formal events in chainmail, but he had been at a wedding when Wolfric's men attacked his village. Had they been armored and armed, they might have stood a chance. Now, he never went anywhere without his sword.

_Call it obsessive_ , he thought as he entered the great hall and squeezed his way through the revelers, _but_ someday _it would save a life_.

Sir Caldry scanned the bobbing heads but couldn't see the short slave girl. Careful to avoid the attention of the royal family, he weaved through the crowd. Finally, he found the girl near one of the back entrances, her empty pitcher propped on her bony hip. He approached, ready to call her on the recent event when he stopped dead in his tracks.

Her recognizable voice carried back to him, but she wasn't speaking their native tongue. She was speaking Bumi, with the delicate dialect of one well-educated. What little he knew of the language suggested she was giving the foreign person directions to their guest quarters. How could she, a supposed daughter of a seamstress, know this language, much less speak it more fluently than he did?

All thought of the ruined supplies left his mind. A new piece to the puzzle was before him, only to leave him with more questions.

# Chapter Twenty

Bethany squirmed against the large tree trunk, her wrist chaffing against the ropes that bound her hands. The bark of the tree rubbed painfully against her back. Bethany felt herself droop, the ropes wound around her stomach and chest digging into her plump flesh. Before she could get around to fainting, a clanking noise drew her attention away from her own discomfort.

A knight in gleaming armor, astride a mighty, white stallion trotted up to the opposite side of the stream. He pulled off his helmet to reveal a handsome face covered in a thick, close-trimmed beard. The stranger dismounted his steed and smiled at her. Bethany's heart sped up as she leaned towards him, the ropes digging further into her flesh.

Leaving the horse behind, the stranger began to tread across the shallow stream, but halfway through, the mighty beast emerged from its hiding places and prowled around the tree. It stopped in front of her, crouching low. With only the slightest moment's hesitation, the beast jumped forwards, lunging at the knight, but the knight was faster. He jerked his blade from its scabbard and jumped to the side. He spun quickly, bringing the blade down on the beast's arched back.

The beast bellowed out in pain as it trundled around, its stubby legs making it difficult to pivot sideways. As it made the turn, it swung its large head towards the knight, snapping with its wide jaw, its pointy teeth gleaming in the setting sun, but the knight wasn't alarmed by the beast's ferocious maw. He jumped back, bringing his sword up in a clean stroke that slashed the beast's thick neck until bone could be seen through the gaping wound. The beast took two lumbering steps forward before collapsing into the pink water. The knight returned his long blade to his scabbard before coming to her side. With the aid of a small knife, he sliced the ropes. Her bindings fell away and she collapsed into his strong arms.

"Too distracted to work?" he asked.

It seemed an odd question to ask at such a time.

Bethany blinked a few times and looked up at the scarred knight. He was a far cry from the man that had been holding her a moment ago. In fact, Sir Erin Caldry was nothing like the knights Bethany preferred to daydream about. Much like Prince Féderic, Caldry fell short of all her expectations. Rather than being brave and chivalrous, the knight had used his strength to dominate her into submission time and again. Not sexually, but his brutal whip kept her working when she would rather give up.

Bethany blinked again, glancing around the large room.

She had been leaning against the wall near the door leading into the slave's antechamber, waiting for the king's guest to finish this course. Thankfully, the others in the room had failed to notice her daydreaming as they ate their dinner two days after the queen's banquet.

Of those to remain, Lapo and Gia were the principal guests. Lapo had entered into negotiations with the king concerning his daughter's union to Prince Féderic, and those negotiations took time. Bethany spotted Gia staring at her. To her disgust, Féderic noticed his guest's preoccupation with his slave.

"Like her? I'll warn you, she's not for sale."

"I wouldn't dream of it, my lord," Gia answered absently. "She simply reminds me of someone I knew long ago."

"If your old friend is anything like my slave, I pity you."

Bethany felt a blush burn her cheeks and did her best to hide it, but she could feel the knight's eyes on her. Of course, like the prince, he couldn't know that Gia was actually speaking of her. Bethany did her best to press herself into the shadows while the other slaves finished serving the present course. Though the knight had reprimanded her for her absent-mindedness, she would receive further retribution if she tried to slip into the serving process.

Bethany often found herself crying in her straw bedding at night when she thought of Gia's fate. As a child, she would have given anything to wed a prince. Her older sister had been considered fortunate to marry a landed lord, with an independent fortune. Now that she had met a real prince, the idea of spending a lifetime with one had become the stuff of nightmares.

There was nothing she could do about Gia's future life. The best she could hope for was one day confiding in the other woman—but not until Gia's position was established. Maybe with her help, Bethany could rise to some level of respectability. Of course, there was always Féderic's offer to be his mistress. Bethany shuddered at the thought. Still, she had to be pragmatic, or at least that's what she told herself.

Gia and Féderic acted unlike any engaged couple she'd ever seen. They barely spoke to each other beyond the basic pleasantries. They would be spending a lifetime together, but they didn't seem too concerned about knowing their partner. Bethany had a strange feeling they were both content to ignore the other's existence except when absolutely necessary.

When the course was served, the knight returned to his seat at the lower table, leaving Bethany to hide in the shadows and hope no one else noticed her absent-mindedness.

Cal left the slave girl in the shadows as he returned to the table with the other knights and courtiers. Whatever she'd been daydreaming about had been far better than her reality. Cal had seen an innocent smile playing at her lips. The expression had softened the wary mistrust he often saw on her face that made her features look hard and unnatural. She was a genuinely beautiful woman, even if she was nothing but skin and bones. When her brown hair was down, it framed her face and softened the gauntness of her cheekbones. Cal could imagine her with enough flesh, and it was a pretty picture, especially with the relaxed look he had just seen.

He hated to interrupt her, but if she continued to miss her cues, she would receive a whipping. Though he cared little about her experiencing the necessary punishment, he didn't want to have to give it himself. He'd miss the rest of his meal. At least, that's what he told himself as he retook his seat next to Sir Rían.

Of the other knights who resided in the castle, Rían was his favorite. The young man's history was similar to his own, and the shy knight didn't babble like many of the others. It produced a comfortable sort of silence.

"Did you hear the rumor, Sir Caldry?" asked the king from his place at the upper table. Cal glanced up to look at the king on his dais. "King Middin's youngest daughter has supposedly gone missing."

"His youngest?" asked Arabelle. "She would be, what? Sixteen or seventeen?"

"If I remember correctly, my lady, she would be about twenty," replied Sir Marcus as he took another long pull of his wine.

"Ah well. If she has no husband now, it's not likely to happen, is it?" responded the queen.

No one responded. The queen had a fairly emphatic view of a woman's sole mission in life— to get married. Cal understood her perspective, but that didn't mean it made for great conversation.

"My lord, do you have any notion of these rumors' validity?" he asked, hoping to guide the conversation away from marriage.

Sir Caldry noticed more than one person sigh with relief when the queen turned to her husband to hear his response.

The king chewed quickly before answering, "I have no reason to doubt them."

"Are they doing anything to recover her?" asked the queen.

"I've heard nothing from the border to indicate that any effort is being made. Though I could be wrong. I must say, I would make an effort to recover her if she were my child," stated Wolfric in a tone of voice that demanded complete belief from his listeners.

The other diners nodded their heads in agreement.

"I can't imagine a father who wouldn't risk any danger to retrieve his daughter," stated Arabelle stiffly.

Cal chose not to respond to this. He thought any lack of action quite honorable in its own way. It showed the king did not value his own family over the well-being of his subjects. Wolfric would risk his entire army to retrieve his child, but was one life worth hundreds? No. At least, not the lives of most of Wolfric's children.

_Perhaps King Middin was simply a lazy ass_ , the knight amended, his eyes wandering back to Ann of their own accord. He jerked his attention back to the high table.

"Of course, the Tokë people may not value their children as we do," commented the king in a magnanimous voice. "Especially the youngest child. I know nothing of this Bethany."

"I met her once," said Gia in a quiet voice.

"Did you?" asked the queen, her voice bright with surprise and interest. "Is she very pretty?"

"We were very young and she had promising looks, though, what has become of her since, I do not know."

The queen asked a few more questions about the lost princess' skills with harp and needle, and Cal and the other men quickly lost interest. The knight's eyes wandered around the room, finally resting on Ann. A strange new look had brought her eyebrows together as she stared intently at the stone floor. She had the countenance of one doing complicated sums in her head. Slowly, a deep blush rose to her cheeks and eventually covered her entire face. Whatever she was thinking, it was bringing forth strong emotions.

Was she daydreaming again?

# Chapter Twenty-One

Bethany knew the knight was watching her, but she didn't care. She had to get away before the tears broke through her barriers and began streaming down her cheeks. During her months of captivity, Bethany had forced herself not to think about her family and home, or the life she had once led. She occasionally slipped up, but overall she tried to avoid the memories; they made the here and now harder.

But how could she escape her past while listening to her enemy discuss her family? She couldn't, and the result would be hot tears. Bethany bolted down the narrow staircase, while those she bumped into cried out in protest. She ignored them, focused on nothing but getting to a place where she could safely release the moisture pressing against her eyes. Bethany rounded a corner, her left hand holding onto the doorframe to keep herself from sliding into the opposite wall. The seldom-used passage led to an old storeroom, now too small to be of much use for the growing population. The kitchen staff used it to store broken tools that waited to be repaired. Bethany rounded the corner, ducked behind a pile of broken crates and slid to the floor, safe in the shadows.

She felt as though Wolfric's critical speech had driven a rod into her stomach. She hoped with every fiber of her being that her father was searching for her, but after five months it was hard to maintain hope. He was likely worrying about the war. Bethany knew in her head that her father would do the right thing for his people, but her heart wanted him to raise his army for her and fight to the very last man. She wanted to be home, where princes wouldn't proposition her, slaves wouldn't hate her, and knights wouldn't beat her.

She wanted to be home where she was loved, cherished, and praised. Where she wore pretty clothes. Where she had hordes of servants to do her bidding and meet her slightest whim.

Could her father really just forget about her? Would he let her rot in captivity without exerting any effort towards her salvation?

Bethany couldn't believe it, and yet she had five months of proof to the contrary.

The tears that had been sliding silently down her cheeks were no longer enough. A choked cry burst from her mouth, tearing at the flesh of her throat, and making her chest heave with exertion. Bethany wrapped her arms around her knees and buried her face in her arms. She sat there and cried her heart out in great, wrenching sobs.

Often she had suffered the tears to leak out as she fought to find the peace of sleep but never before had the princess allowed herself to be so completely crushed by the hopelessness of her situation. It was a relief and a torture, all at the same time.

Cal watched the slave girl run from the room and down the narrow hallway leading to the lower levels. The royal family was too busy eating and drinking to notice her hurried exit, but Cal seemed attuned to her every movement. After all, he had to be to keep her from doing more damage.

He noticed when she irritably brushed her dirty hair out of her face, only to have it fall back across her forehead, or when she slouched into the shadows to avoid the notice of the slave master. He couldn't help but notice her actions.

Now, he wasn't the only one to see her rebellion; Hepner, the steward, had seen her hasty retreat. Before the steward could pursue her, Sir Caldry rose from his seat and reached the door hidden in the shadows where he met Hepner.

"I'll deal with her, Hepner. You have enough problems with the king's guests."

The steward hesitated a moment before nodding and returning to his post. Cal followed the sounds of annoyed voices until he stopped outside the small storeroom, where the kitchen staff kept those items that had no other home. From within its walls, Cal heard the sound of muffled crying.

In the few months he had known the slave girl, he had never seen her cry, not even when she received fierce beatings for her misdeeds. She didn't even voice her discomfort when he kept her up for days on end to cut reeds, but now, for some reason, she wept as though her whole world was coming to an end.

For a moment, the knight wondered if this slave girl could be the lost princess recently discussed by Wolfric and Arabelle. It would certainly explain many things, but how could a princess become the slave of her enemy? It was ludicrous. Cal fiercely pushed the idea away.

If she were a princess, the recent sympathies he felt for her would mean nothing. No, it couldn't be true. Perhaps she was a Tokë, but not a princess. She certainly had the coloring of a Tokë. She was likely upset at the idea of her princess being in captivity, or maybe the conversation simply made her homesick.

Cal quietly stepped away from the doorway. He no longer felt the need to punish her.

_Surely this is punishment enough_.

The knight shuddered, realizing just how soft he was becoming. It didn't change his mind.

# Chapter Twenty-Two

In a burst of frustration, Bethany rose to her feet and marched out of her hiding place. She wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve, stormed through the corridor and burst out into the bailey. Bethany knew her face would be splotchy from crying, but she didn't care. No one would be able to see her tear-streaked face that well, as it was already dark. The royal family had eaten late due to the present festivities. For their guests' entertainment, they had hosted a large horse race, which Féderic won due to a great deal of fixing. The bailey was crowded with soldiers, slaves, and workers all scurrying about their tasks in an effort to return the castle to some semblance of normalcy. The race itself had finished just before the family's dinner. In fact, most of the local horses used by the racers were still in the process of being watered and returned to their stalls.

Bethany weaved her way through the crowd, using the practice of walking with purpose to keep people from giving her a new chore. Halfway across the bailey, Bethany felt a sharp stone dig into the thin soles of her battered shoes. Absently, she bent down and retrieved the offending stone. Just as she suspected, she felt a sharpish edge. It gave her the desire to destroy something, anything, in protest to her situation.

She knew it wasn't a healthy response to her problems. Bethany remembered her father reprimanding her for smashing an elaborate rocking horse after being told she was too big to use it anymore. The memory flooded her mind.

"Violence should never be our first response to our problems. It seldom solves them."

Bethany had pouted at her father, her young lips sinking into a grimace. She wasn't sure what the big deal was. If she wasn't allowed to play with the rocking horse any longer, why not have the joy of smashing it into splinters?

"How could you have handled the situation better?" her father had asked.

Bethany racked her brain, trying to think of an answer that would satisfy her father. Though demolishing the toy obviously wasn't the right response, she wasn't sure what a better one was. Finally, in an effort to end the confrontation, she shrugged her tiny shoulders and glanced at the door of her father's office, a pathetic pout reforming on her young lips.

"No, you can't go yet. Not 'till you answer the question," said her father, knowing his daughter's train of thought.

"I could have asked for a bigger rocking horse," she said, certain that such a request would be denied her now that she had acted out.

"Yes, though rather greedy sounding, that would have been better than destroying something so valuable. Do you think it would have been better to voice your frustration at the situation with words, rather than violence?"

Bethany shrugged again, determined not to see the wisdom of her father's words.

"A shrug is not an answer. You know that. Answer the question."

"Yes," Bethany mumbled.

The whole situation was getting annoying. She wanted to return to the nursery and play. Bethany kept her eyes focused on the floor in protest.

"As it happens, part of the reason you are no longer allowed to play with the rocking horse is because we have purchased you your own pony. But now that you have proven yourself so unprepared for such a responsibility, you will wait three months before learning to ride."

Bethany's small mouth had dropped into a wide look of astonishment. Her father couldn't have been serious. There was a new pony in the stables, just for her, and she wasn't allowed to ride it.

"Can I at least see it?" she asked, thinking this was the best she could get until she'd spent a few days proving herself reformed.

"No. You are not allowed to see it, or even ride with me or your brothers until three months have passed."

Of course, Bethany hadn't obeyed the injunction. That very night she had snuck away from the nurse and run straight to the stables. She was caught halfway across the bailey and another week of punishment was added. It happened three more times before she learned her lesson. She had never been a quick learner of life lessons. In the end, she had been forced to wait over four months before getting to meet her new pony.

Despite the rough lesson, Bethany felt justified in her need for violence as she stood in the cold bailey of Wolfric's castle. With the rock in her hand, she made her way towards the stable. After a few close shaves, she made it to the large stables, where Josiah was barking orders at his stable hands. The number of beasts tied to the rings was nearly double the castle's usual capacity. Of course, the prince's stallion was already watered, groomed, and stabled.

Bethany slipped into the corner where the saddles were stored, took up an oiled rag, and moved to the prince's saddle—an elaborate thing with gilded nails and accented with a lighter shade of leather. Bethany began to rub the oiled rag in circles, hoping she was doing it correctly. While her left hand made careful circles on the fine leather, her right hand slid up under the skirt, found the cinch, and began sliding the sharpened edge of the rock against the leather. If she could weaken it enough, it would give way while the prince rode—assuming no one checked it too thoroughly.

After twenty minutes of carefully rubbing, Bethany flipped the skirt up and checked her work. Sure enough, the leather was thinner than it should be for hard use. Now all she could do was hope no one would notice it until it was too late.

Bethany carefully left the stable, still acting as though she was on a mission, and returned to the slave dormitory. That night, she slept with the rock in her closed fist.

# Chapter Twenty-Three

Pelor carefully lowered himself onto the bench and rested his injured foot on the stool provided. It had been nearly a month since the wolf attack—or rather since he attacked the wolves. His foot was still sore and prone to swelling, but he was able to walk short distances on it. His left hand was another matter. Gavius' wife was determined to save the fingers. She had reattached them, but the healing process required that he didn't use the hand. It was bandaged around a thin board. The bandaging itched, and he was continually being reprimanded for taking it off. Pelor was all for just removing the stupid fingers, but the women were determined to "preserve his good looks."

The sellsword tried to focus on his dinner while his hand itched. Gavius came to his seat and slumped down, while his wife placed a steaming bowl of stew in front of him.

_This family seems to really like stew,_ he thought sullenly to himself.

The men ate in silence, while the women fetched their own food. Once the others were seated, Gavius swallowed his bite and spoke:

"So, I suppose you want to know where that slave boy is. Jos is it?"

Pelor grunted before swallowing his own, half-chewed food. "What's the point?" he asked after clearing his throat with a large gulp of beer. "The trail's gone cold."

Gavius shook his head. "You only think it's gone cold, lad."

"What's that supposed to mean?" asked Pelor.

"Jos has been here, in the village, the whole time."

"He what?" snapped Pelor as he tried to climb to his feet in outrage.

The end result was a bashed toe, a spilled drink, and Pelor reseated, trying his best not to black out. Overall, it was not his most impressive moment. Dana and her mother crowded around him, trying to ease his pain. Mostly, though, their efforts only annoyed him. He brushed Dana aside, who was trying to mop his clammy head with a dirty rag.

"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 from 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' hometown, 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.

Afterward, 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 plaything 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 from 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 censor 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.

"We're not going to bandage it?" asked the knight from his place beside her tools.

He had been a perfect aid throughout their work, silently handing her whatever she asked for, sometimes even anticipating her needs.

"We'll have to wait until he wakes up. I need to know if he has any broken ribs before I proceed further. For now, we can work on his leg," she added as she stretched out the cramping muscles in her back.

With the aid of the knight's sharp dagger, she cut away the prince's trouser leg. The thick leather of his riding pants had prevented the flesh from being shredded by the ground, but his leg was swollen up to the knee. Bethany bit her lip, thinking through the options.

"Problem?" asked the knight, his green eyes keeping a close watch over her.

"Just deciding how to proceed. We'll need to get the swelling down before I can figure out what is wrong with his ankle. I just hope it isn't broken."

"What would that mean?"

"A long, tedious, and painful recovery, with the chance of never regaining full mobility in the limb. Which probably means a lot of pain and annoyance for us," she added before she could clamp her mouth shut.

To her surprise, the knight didn't look angry. In fact, he looked as though he was trying not to laugh.

"Let's get some supplies ready for when he wakes up."

A half hour later, they had a pain reducing tea brewing, a healing poultice applied to his mangled back and face, and rags soaked in yarrow and cold water draped over his swollen ankle. They had just finished the last of their preparation when the prince began to stir. He groaned a few times before seeming to fall into a deeper sleep. Sir Caldry was just about to sit down again when Féderic jerked and tried to climb to his hands and knees. The movement pulled on his wounded back and jostled his ankle. He grunted as he collapsed back onto his stomach.

Bethany and Sir Caldry jumped forward to hold him down until Féderic could calm down. After a short struggle, he lay limp on the bed, breathing deeply, and listening to Bethany's calm voice. Bethany knelt beside his bed, bring her head to his level and staring him in the eye as he once again tried to roll over.

"You've been hurt, my lord, but you're going to be okay. I need you to calm down. Listen to my voice. Focus on the sound of my voice. Féderic, look at me," she ordered when he looked ready to struggle against her grasp on his shoulders.

The very fact she used his given name seemed to shock him into a form of order.

"The more you struggle, the more damage you do, and the longer it will be before you recover. Stop it."

The patient and the healer stared at each other for a few, tense minutes before the prince relaxed in her grip and lowered his head over the edge of his bed.

"What happened?" he asked, his voice muffled by his blankets.

"Your cinch broke, my lord," informed the knight as he moved around the bed to come within the prince's line of sight. "You were dragged a few paces before your foot slipped out of the stirrup."

"How bad is it?" asked the prince through gritted teeth.

Bethany could tell he was in immense pain, but she couldn't relieve it yet. She needed to know where it hurt.

"The flesh on your back has sustained some damage, but it will heal with time. The rest we need to assess. Can you tell me where you hurt?"

"Everywhere," he snapped.

"I know, my lord," said Bethany, thinking it wise to be deferential again.

After all, she wasn't an actual healer, but the patient's slave. Things were going to get awkward.

"I need you to be more specific. What hurts the worst?"

"My ankle."

"Describe it to me."

"It throbs."

"But nothing sharp?" Bethany hated using leading questions, but sometimes they were necessary.

"No."

"Okay," she said, patting his shoulder where there was still skin. "Sounds like you've sprained your ankle. We'll wrap it and keep it elevated once we get you sitting up."

It was a long, slow process, with a great deal of cursing from the prince, but they finally got him upright. He sat straight up, taking small, shallow breaths. Bethany took the time to check his back. She climbed onto the bed and knelt behind him. The deepest lacerations were packed with the poultice, keeping them from bleeding too freely.

"How do you feel now?"

"Really... sharp pains... in my side," Féderic panted.

"Probably just a couple broken ribs. We'll bind your chest when we bandage your back."

Another hour later they had him bandaged and resting against a pile of pillows, with his ankle wrapped and propped up on another pile of pillows, half of which had been taken out of his brothers' nearby rooms. Bethany helped him drink the rich tea that had been simmering for the last couple of hours.

"Gah! What is this shit?" he demanded after the first gulp.

"I know it's nasty, but it will help with the pain." Bethany lifted it to his lips again, but he pushed it away.

"I can't drink this!"

"It's the only thing I have to help with the pain." She pushed it back toward his face as he turned his head away, just like an angry toddler.

"If you don't drink it, my lord... Sir Caldry and I will walk away and leave you to fend for yourself."

Prince Féderic turned back to glare at her, but she could out glare him on her worst day. Finally, an idea came to him.

"If you do, my father would have you both beheaded."

Bethany glanced at the silent knight. He had continued to be the ideal aid, saying only what was necessary, doing everything she asked, and generally staying out of the way. Now, though, he looked livid. Her threat had put him at risk, too.

"Fine," she snapped as she went back to the work table, uncorked his bottle of spirits, and poured a large portion into the tea. "Now try it," she added, handing it back to him.

She didn't want to use alcohol on him, but if it got him to drink the tea it would be worth it. As she expected, he downed the tea in two large gulps. Within minutes, he was relaxed against the pillows, his eyelids drooping slightly.

"Now, my prince. Would you like for us to send for your parents? I'm sure they'd love to see you up and awake," suggested the knight from his place at the foot of the bed.

Bethany was thankful he had been the one to bring up the uncomfortable topic.

Féderic groaned.

"I suppose I have to see them sooner or later. Yeah, go get them, Cal," he added as he eyed his slave.

Bethany's stomach did a little flip while she made herself busy. Once the knight had shut the door behind him, Féderic let out another groan.

"That tea shit isn't helping. And my head hurts."

Bethany stopped what she was doing. She hadn't thought to worry about a head injury, and yet it now seemed so obvious. What would her mother say to such a huge mistake?

"My lord, may I check your skull? I want to make sure you didn't damage it in the fall."

"Sure, why not."

To reach his head, she had to climb onto the bed once more, bringing her far closer to him than she liked.

_I'll just have to be professional_ , she thought to herself as she gently ran her fingers through his hair.

"I knew I'd get you into my bed one way another," he joked though his voice was slurred with alcohol and fatigue.

Bethany ignored him. Near the back of his skull, she found a large lump. Her touch made him wince.

"Good," she said as she climbed off the high bed.

"Good?" he snapped.

"Yes. A bump means that the swelling is on the outside, not on the inside. It is very good. Also, I don't feel any fractures in your skull."

Bethany tried to move back to the work table, but he grabbed her arm and held her still. He was surprisingly strong for someone who had endured so much physical trauma.

"Now, Ann, tell me how you became my healer? Where's Fenrir?"

"He is in Dacfield with Lord Tuathail. But we have sent for him."

"The old man finally dying," chuckled the prince.

Between the herbs and the alcohol, he was visibly improving. Bethany chose not to respond to his rude remark.

"Have you thought about my offer?"

Thankfully, Bethany was saved from answering by the entrance of Sir Caldry.

# Chapter Twenty-Six

Cal marched out of the room in search of the king and queen. He had spent the entire day in the slave's presence, watching her closely. It hadn't helped. During the hours of crisis, Cal had found himself even more drawn to the mysterious woman. She was in her element, and her commanding nature, so often smothered, gave a glow to her cheeks and light to her eyes. For the first time, she looked genuinely alive. With clean hair and a fresh garment, even if they were for a man and too big for her, she looked like a whole new creature. Cal was having a hard time not staring. But now that the prince was awake, Cal wasn't the only man aware of her beauty.

The knight felt a fist tighten around his gut. He wanted to grab her and run away, but what would be the use of that? He had no land of his own and, though he had saved a great deal of gold, he was far from rich. If she was interested in becoming anyone's mistress, she would undoubtedly choose the prince. He could offer her a world she'd never known.

Cal ground his teeth as he forced his thoughts back into a state of control and marched down the hallway.

Bethany slipped her arm out of the prince's relaxed hold and scooted to the work table where she bowed as the king and queen entered. Behind them came all but the youngest of their children. Bethany began to worry for her patient as the bedchamber grew more crowded, the young people elbowing each other for space.

The whole family began talking at once: congratulating Féderic on escaping death, chiding the saddle-maker, ranting against the prince's stallion, and generally debasing the healer for not being present during such a crisis. Bethany glanced between the prince and the knight, desperately wanting them to send some people away, but she didn't know how to interrupt without having her head chopped off.

The prince was glancing from one speaker to another as his eyes began to glaze over. His juggled brain struggled to keep track of the numerous topics bouncing about the room. Sir Caldry, on the other hand, was hiding in the shadows. Finally, as the volume increased and Bethany noticed the prince wincing, Bethany spoke.

"Please, my lord..." she began softly, hoping someone would hear her and begin shushing the others, but each family member was too focused on what he or she was saying to hear her whispers, or what the others were saying for that matter.

"My lord, please," she repeated a little louder.

Though Cedric glanced in her direction, they continued talking at the top of their voices.

"Silence," she bellowed, using the voice she had gained from growing up with two older brothers.

The entire royal family turned and stared at her, their expressions quickly turning from shock to anger in a few short seconds.

"Forgive me," she said quickly, keeping her head tilted downwards. "But His Majesty has endured many severe injuries and this noise, I fear, is causing him unnecessary pain."

Bethany stopped not sure what to say next. She spotted Lyolf, the dark-haired prince, smiling from his place near the back. Despite the order of birth, Lyolf nearly always found himself pushed to the sidelines. Bethany had often noticed the second eldest son giving way to his younger brothers.

"She's right," said Sir Caldry, before the family could begin to argue. "If we could keep the group down to no more than three visitors?"

Bethany nodded eagerly, glad that the knight had formed his demand into a question. She had only hoped to get them to temper their voices. Having people actually leave the room would be even better. She didn't dare speak again, having already risked her neck once. The royal family would have to make up their own minds.

"Yes! Dammit, guys. You could out noise the blacksmith. Get the hell outta here," demanded the pain-ridden prince.

"Oh yes... yes... of course," stammered the queen in an overly soft voice as she motioned for the others to leave.

Lyolf was the first to go, after giving his brother a quick wink. Mirabelle stayed where she was near the window while Cedric and Isabelle followed Lyolf out.

The queen glanced over the remaining bodies and seemed inclined to ignore the extra visitor when Féderic spoke up.

"Out Mirabelle," demanded the prince.

"I have every right as Rulfric to stay. More even, for I am a woman. We women are inclined towards the healing arts."

Bethany kept her eyes cast downward, giving her a clear view of the prince, who cast her an anxious look. Bethany knew she would pay for what she was about to do. Still, she plunged forward.

"Yes, of course, my lady," she said, sounding as though she agreed with the princess. Bethany caught Féderic's shocked expression and allowed a corner of her mouth to tweak up into a small smile. "If you would be willing, my lady, I will need to change his bandages soon. Perhaps you could help me?"

"How dare you!" snapped the princess, in a tone loud enough to be heard throughout the castle.

Bethany instinctually dropped to her knees and pressed her face against the rough wooden floor.

"Forgive me, my lady. I misunderstood," she said before biting her tongue to keep from saying anything more.

She had quickly learned that babbling seldom endeared slave to master. Simple acceptance of one's supposed failure was enough. Though Bethany could not see the princess, she hoped she looked awkward and uncomfortable.

"Well, that'll teach ya," spat the prince from his place on the bed. "Now get out, Mirabelle. I don't want you in here when she has to change the bandages."

Bethany kept to her knees as the seconds ticked by. Finally, she heard the princess stomp out of the room and the door slam shut behind her. Still, she remained on the floor until invited to rise.

"Oh, for the love of Main Land, get up, Ann," groaned the prince.

She rose and quickly began busying herself by preparing another cup of tea; meanwhile, Wolfric, Arabelle, and Rulfric crowded around the bed.

"Now," began the king in a commanding, but soft voice. "I think we'd best send word to Lapo and inform him and Gia of your accident. It is only fair... since we don't know exactly how long your recovery will take."

"Like hell, we need to tell them. The wedding isn't for months. Who knows what could happen before then. Besides, if I do marry that bitch you've pushed onto me, I don't want her knowing I fell off my damn horse."

Wolfric hesitated for a moment, his wheels turning visibly through his expressive eyes. Finally, he nodded slowly.

"As you wish. But your mother will continue to make arrangements for the ceremony."

"Why do all these awful things keep happening to us?" asked the queen, in an unnecessarily soft voice. "I mean, the horses getting sick, the liquor being ruined during the festival, and now this. Are we cursed?"

Bethany coughed into her hand in an effort to hide her humor. She coughed a few extra times, to be sure no one suspected her as she moved around the work table, preparing another poultice and fresh bandages. The others seemed to take no notice of her as they stared at the queen.

"Cursed?" chuckled the king in his own low, gravelly voice. "Arabelle, we are not the Bumi to believe in ghosts and goblins. Or the Lurran to fear the spirits of the trees. We are thinking people."

The queen bowed her head slightly, accepting the admonition in silence. They never returned to the subject of curses, for which Bethany was eternally grateful.

# Chapter Twenty-Seven

The rest of the day was long and tiring. Prince Féderic was anything but an easy patient. He didn't want to remain in bed, though the very act of sitting up left him in so much pain he could barely catch his breath, and, despite the pain, he didn't want to drink the tea Bethany prepared. Each time he broke out into an impressive list of curses—some of which Bethany had never heard before. Despite the queen's uselessness, she visited so often that the prince eventually forbade her from entering his room. Bethany assumed the queen took it as a good sign that her son was well enough to bark orders at her, though she did blush a little as she left the room for the last time.

When night began to fall, and Bethany started to hope for the healer's return, the prince took a turn for the worse. His cursing subsided, and slowly, but surely, Bethany began to notice a new flush come into the cheek not covered with bandages. Bethany felt his head. It was searing hot.

"What's wrong?" asked Sir Caldry as he noticed the prince's growing stupor.

"He's burning up. We need to cool him down, quickly. Send for cold water. And I mean as cold as they can get it."

The knight nodded once and marched out of the room.

One of the few things she liked about the knight was his ability to take orders.

_Perhaps it comes from all his years in the army_ , she thought, as she pulled the blankets back and began peeling off the bandages.

The prince had returned to his stomach earlier in the evening when the pain in his back became too great to sit up.

_Is there an infection causing the fever_? she wondered.

As she peeled away the large bandage covering Féderic's back, she noticed green puss seeping from one of the more shallow grazes. From it came a noxious smell that quickly filled the room. Bethany cleaned away the puss and began searching for the hidden grime. Though the prince was trying to toss and turn, she thought it was due more to the fever than to any pain he was feeling around the infected area. Bethany continued to dig out missed dirt.

Before she could finish, the knight returned with two buckets of water, one of which he sat near the narrow window where it would stay cool longer, and the other he placed next to her.

"I need a clean cloth," she said, waving in the general direction of the work table.

Without a word, he retrieved it and handed it to her.

"I missed some of the dirt. It's become infected," Bethany explained, her voice sounding frantic even to her ears.

What would happen to them if she wasn't able to heal him properly?

"I thought the herbs would keep that from happening," said Sir Caldry.

"They're herbs, not magic," she said, quoting a saying her mother had often used.

Her mother had frequently reminded her that healing was an art form that didn't always work out the way the healer intended. Now was a perfect example of what her mother meant.

An hour later, she stepped back from the open wound and stretched her sore back. She couldn't find any more dirt in it and had cleaned away all the puss.

"Shall we re-bandage it?" the knight asked from her side.

She flinched, taken by surprise at his silent steps. He was simply too quiet.

Bethany shook her head. "No. Let's leave it open for the night. The fresh air will help with the infection. We'll have to keep a very close watch on him tonight," she added as she stepped forward and changed the cold compress draped over the back of his neck.

It proved to be a very long night. Though they tried to trade places, it often took both of them to keep the prince calm and quiet—one replacing the cold compresses on his neck and hurt ankle, and the other to fetch fresh water, prepare new herbs, or brew more tea. When morning came, they both had dark circles under their eyes and were too tired to even talk. Thankfully, though, due to their diligence, the prince no longer burned with a fever and the wound remained clear of puss.

Bethany and the knight were slouched near the fire, more asleep than awake, when the door burst open. The king entered with a very tired-looking elderly man. Bethany recognized Fenrir, the castle's healer, though she had never spoken with him. His once tall stature, though now slightly stooped, was striking and hard to forget. The flesh of his expressive face sagged and his hair came in white wisps. Bethany couldn't imagine how many years of experience this healer possessed. She gulped, trying to swallow the fear rising up from her gut. If she had made a mistake, Fenrir wouldn't miss it.

She stepped back into the shadows to await the verdict. Would she live to see the sunrise? The healer trundled up to the bed, his legs moving stiffly from hard riding. Dacfield was over a hundred miles from Tolad and most of those miles uphill. The healer must have been riding hard since the moment he received word of the prince's accident.

"You say a slave had the care of him?" asked Fenrir, his voice grave and deep.

He sounded as though he had spent his life yelling at inept apprentices. After all, in this field, an apprentice's mistake could cost a man his life.

"Yes, sir," said the king, giving the healer all courtesy.

Nearly every culture throughout the peninsula considered healers beyond the structure of hierarchy. They held life in their hands. They would always hold a certain power over even the wealthiest king.

"We seemed out of options. And the girl had already proven herself capable."

Fenrir nodded. "Indeed, indeed. Where is the slave?"

"Here," announced Sir Caldry as he pushed Bethany out of their corner.

Bethany clasped her hands in front of her to keep from fidgeting and stared at the healer's feet.

"Well, come here, girl."

Bethany obeyed.

"Why did you leave this wound open?"

Bethany hesitated until she was sure she could speak without stuttering.

"Because the wound was infected. He was running a fever and there was pus. I cleaned the wound a second time, kept it open, and tried to cool his body."

Bethany forced herself to stop. She had given him more information than he had asked for, but it was important.

The old man stared at her for a moment before nodding slowly. "And who taught you to do that?"

"My mother and the local healer."

"Your mother?"

Bethany nodded. "In Tokë, women often learn the basics from a healer."

This was only a partial lie. It was usually just the higher ranking women who learned how to heal. Farm wives and the like didn't have time to take lessons. They learned through trial and error. Bethany hoped no one present knew enough about the Tokë culture to shine light on her lie.

"My lord," said the healer, turning to the king. "Due to the fact I have no apprentice of my own, I would like to borrow your slave until we can get the prince back on his feet, so to speak."

"She belongs to Féderic, so it seems only natural that she should aid you in his recovery," responded the king. "You think she did well then?"

"Oh, yes. I have no doubt that she would pull him through without me, though it is still good I came. Lord Tuathail will not suffer from my absence. I left him with enough pain killing herbs to last him until the end and instructions for his serving man to tend to him. Now, let's see what we can do for the prince."

With this final statement, the healer dismissed the king and moved closer to the bed.

The next couple hours were spent examining the patient and answering the healer's detailed questions. He often challenged her decisions. At first, Bethany wondered whether she had made a horrible mess of the whole situation. Eventually, though, she realized the healer was questioning her decisions as a test: Did she really trust her own judgment, and could she defend her reasoning? Bethany tried to make a game of it, as her older brother had taught her to do with her mathematics lessons. This would have been easier if the scarred knight hadn't hovered over their shoulders, asking his own questions on occasion.

"Oh, Cal," chuckled Fenrir, after his first spattering of questions. "Always thirsty for more information."

Bethany stared at the knight. She had never thought of him as a learned man, nor a man eager for knowledge. He seemed too brutal for that. Before she could make up her mind on the subject, Fenrir called her back to the issue at hand.

The following two days were the longest of Bethany's captivity. The healer kept her working throughout the night with only the briefest chances to sleep, and in the end, these exhaustive days only showed her just how little she knew about the healing arts.

Sir Caldry had excused himself from the sick chamber as soon as the healer finished his first barrage of questions. Unlike the healers at home, Fenrir believed in physical punishment when she made a mistake, or maybe the healers back home knew better than to hit a princess. Fenrir often struck her across the shoulders with a thin reed that left welts on her back.

This didn't stop until Fenrir made the mistake of striking her while the prince was awake. Though the healer was not within the prince's authority, his use of Féderic's slave was. The prince insisted he stopped beating his slave. There was a small argument, but the healer was wise enough to concede the point.

This didn't mean Fenrir didn't beat her when the prince was asleep. In spite of Féderic's injunction, she usually received at least one blow a day.

Despite the pain of these beatings, Féderic's long periods of sleep were the only bright side to the situation. It, along with Fenrir's constant presence, kept the prince from making further sexual comments. Whenever the healer did leave them alone, he was sure to proposition her. Finally, after three days of bed rest, the prince woke looking more like himself.

Bethany trundled up to the bed with his tea, which she discreetly laced with spirits—something strictly forbidden by the healer. It was her task to get him to drink it, which he refused to do without the addition of alcohol, and she did what she had to to get the job done. He chugged it down as quickly as he could and winked at her as he handed the cup back.

"Where's the healer? Finally leaving us in peace?" inquired the prince.

"He left last night after you fell asleep."

"Left me to your tender hands?"

"He checked on you every three hours," she stated, ignoring the prince's remarks.

"And you expect him back soon?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Pity. I think I feel up to a little exercise... if you know what I mean."

Thankfully the healer arrived at that moment, along with a slave bearing the prince's breakfast. Fenrir gave the prince a quick inspection before instructing Bethany to begin the prince's leg exercises. Fenrir left to do his rounds. Much to Féderic's surprise and consternation, there were other hurt and sick people in the castle.

Before she began his exercises, Bethany gave him a sponge bath, which Féderic enjoyed immensely. He came up with a few new comparisons of his body to a work of art and how much better it would be with her on it. Again, Bethany called on all her experience ignoring her brothers as she suffered blush after blush. The prince would have lost a great deal of his enjoyment, had she not looked so uncomfortable.

Finally, the bath and exercises were over, and she was left with the task of keeping him calm and quiet. She had hoped he would go back to sleep so that she too could rest, but he looked more awake than he had since the accident.

She was at her wit's end to entertain him. Finally, out of desperation, she said, "I could read to you?"

"You can read?" Féderic asked.

Bethany nodded, knowing it was too late to backtrack. Besides, at this rate, they would know who she was in no time. She had given away too many precious secrets already to be worried about her identity. After a long, frightening silence, the prince chuckled.

"You should have told me. I would have used your skills quite differently. As you wish. Go fetch a book."

After a couple of hours of reading, her eyes were beginning to water with strain and fatigue. Thankfully, she was interrupted by a soft knock on the door, quickly followed by the entrance of Sir Caldry. He started at the sight of the prince awake and Bethany sitting with a book.

# Chapter Twenty-Eight

Cal hesitated in the doorway. He had expected the prince to be asleep and wanted to talk with Ann alone. What was more surprising was the book open in the slave girl's hand. She had clearly been reading, and by the redness of her eyes, she had been reading for some time. Did she really read well enough to entertain the prince? Parsing out a list of herbs and reading a story with feeling and enthusiasm were two very different things.

"Ah, Cal, I was wondering when I would be seeing you!"

Cal bowed to the prince, forcing his gaze off the pretty girl. He took a seat on the other stool next to the prince's bed and began to talk with Féderic about anything he could think of, all the while watching Ann. After a few minutes, he decided her red eyes were not just due to long reading. She was clearly exhausted. Her shoulders sagged and her eyes had even darker circles under them. The one good thing about her time with the patient was an increase in body fat. They had been feeding her better than most slaves, half her food coming from the prince's own plate. She looked a little softer around her cheekbones.

"Ann, why don't you go sleep," suggested the prince when he noticed Cal's distractedness. "Cal can sit with me for an hour or two."

She nodded mutely and began to rise.

"I've been meaning to ask you, Ann," began Cal without even thinking. "What with you knowing so much about the healing arts, why didn't you deal with your own hand when the snake bit you?"

"Um... It all happened so fast. And my hand really hurt," she mumbled awkwardly.

Cal didn't believe it for a minute, but then again he was realizing there was little truth to the façade she had created.

_I will figure it out eventually_ , he swore to himself as he watched her settle on the fur rug near the fireplace. She was asleep before he could finish making the resolution.

Five days after the accident, Bethany was no longer needed in constant attention to the prince, and therefore she partially returned to her regular duties. As she headed towards the basement laundry room, where she hoped to retrieve fresh sheets for the prince's bed, her mind deep in conniving thought, she bumped into a plump chest.

"Steady on," said a chipper voice as two soft hands grabbed her by the arms to keep her from tumbling to the floor.

Bethany looked up to see a trusting face covered in powder that was supposed to make her look youthful, but the effort made her look scary rather than young. The woman's wrinkles showed through the powder, giving her a rather monster-like appearance. Bethany recognized her as one of the queen's ladies-in-waiting.

"Now there, that's better," she said as she released Bethany and wiped imaginary dirt off her long, flowing skirt. "A little lost in thought are we? I say, aren't you that slave girl helping the healer with the prince?"

Bethany nodded while trying to keep her eyes from meeting the other woman's gaze, partly because the sight of the woman's powdered face was rather frightening, but also because Bethany had found many ladies and lords-in-waiting to be power hungry. Like the guards, they had no real authority and therefore exerted as much as they could over those beneath them.

"Would you be able to suggest something, well, I mean, a herb to put in the queen's bath to make her skin smooth? The queen has been complaining, that is, commenting about her dry skin."

"Of course, would you like me to fetch something for you?" Bethany asked out of reflex.

She knew of many plant extracts and pedals that would promote healthy skin and had little doubt that the herbalist would carry some of them.

"Oh, that would be wonderful, that is, I would greatly appreciate it," beamed the older woman as she clapped her hands together, sending up a delicate cloud of white powder.

"I'll bring it to the queen's chambers," Bethany said as she bowed and trundled off.

With quick steps, Bethany made her way down to the ground level and across the bailey to the small herbalist hut. The herbalist knew her by name now that she had made so many trips for supplies over the past couple of days.

"Ah, Ann, what does Fenrir need?"

"A couple things. He needs chamomile, calendula, lavender... and sweet alyssum," she added as an afterthought.

Sweet alyssum would not promote smooth skin. In fact, for those with sensitive skin, it would cause a horrible rash. Bethany worked to keep her face relaxed as she realized what she was about to do.

"Sweet alyssum?" asked the herbalist as he glanced back at her.

"Yes. I thought it might help Féderic relax if he ate some. I can hide it in his food."

"That will make it spicy," said the herbalist in a matter-of-fact tone, as he turned back to his many shelves.

He produced the different ingredients and bound them up for her to carry back to the castle. Bethany took it, careful not to touch the sweet alyssum. Though she had never received a rash from it before, it would be just her luck to do so today.

In the kitchen, she borrowed a small bowl, dumped the herbs, added a few of the sweet alyssum leaves, ground them up with a wooden spoon, and added a few drops of cooking oil. The cooks watched her curiously. Like many other workers, they had heard the rumor of her new duties and stayed out of her way. Once the paste was finished, Bethany took the bowl up to the queen's chambers.

The queen's lady-in-waiting answered her knock.

"Is this it?" she asked, looking down at the uninviting paste.

"Yes, just mix that into her bath and have her soak for a long time. The aroma should be pleasant."

The older woman sniffed the bowl.

"Oh yes. I smell the herbs, I mean, quite lovely. Thank you."

Bethany nodded and trotted back to the prince's chambers where she still slept during the night in case he took a turn for the worse.

"Where have you been?" asked the knight in a low, quiet voice.

Sir Caldry had begun to sit with the prince to provide entertainment. The prince was awake but just barely.

"The queen's lady-in-waiting asked me to get something for the queen's bath."

Sir Caldry grunted. "And what's that?" He pointed to the twig she carried.

"A herb that will help the prince relax, should he get restless," she added, noticing the prince's present stupor.

With that, Bethany curled up beside the fire and fell fast asleep with images of the queen covered in horrible boils flitting through her mind.

# Chapter Twenty-Nine

Bethany woke to a rough nudge from a worn boot. She glanced up to see the knight and two guards standing over her.

"Wake up, the queen wants you," snapped one of the guards.

Bethany felt her stomach drop into her toes. Had they realized she'd done it on purpose?

The guards bent down and dragged her to her feet. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the prince watching the exchange from his bed. Fenrir stood next to the bed with a frown creasing his already wrinkled face. Bethany's guilt suddenly welled up. Why couldn't she stop? In contrast with Fenrir's confusion, Féderic looked annoyed and ready to argue with the guards, but they dragged her away before he could muster up a complaint.

Bethany picked up her feet, trying to keep up with the fast tread of the guards. She heard, rather than saw, Sir Caldry trail behind her. After a few minutes, they reached the queen's chamber. As she expected, Bethany spotted the queen standing beside her bed with a thin cloak wrapped tightly around her neck. Despite the covering, Bethany spotted the flaming rash lining the edge of her jaw. She had clearly lounged in the water for a long time with nearly her entire body submerged.

Bethany scrambled to her knees and pressed her forehead to the floor.

Next to her, the older lady-in-waiting crouched, her powdered face streaked from crying. Despite the awkward position of trying to hide as much of her body as possible, the queen appeared a formidable force with her head held high and her nostrils flaring.

"Is this the slave that gave you those herbs?" asked the queen in a lofty voice.

"Y-yes," stammered the older woman. "She said they would help your dry skin."

"I don't understand. Did they not help?" asked Bethany, trying her hardest to sound concerned and innocent.

The queen carefully lowered the cloak just enough for Bethany to see a few inches of her neck. The skin was a shocking shade of mottled red.

"Does it look like it helped? Go get the healer and the herbalist," she added to the guards, who scurried away.

"I didn't do that!"

"Don't lie to me, brat," screeched the queen as she stepped forward and kicked Bethany in the face.

Bethany felt her lip split and hot blood warm her chin.

"You've caused other mischief before this. My son may be blinded by your beauty, but I'm not. Cal, I want you to whip her until there isn't a shred of skin left untouched on her pretty little body and leave her in the pits. That will teach you to meddle with the looks of your betters."

"My lady," began the knight in a strange, choked voice. "I don't think she did this, at least not on purpose. It is possible the herbalist made a mistake."

Bethany wiped away the blood from her mouth before speaking. "I don't know what happened."

She didn't have to pretend to sound frantic and afraid. The queen's orders had driven all warmth from her body and fight from her spirit. For the second time in just a few days, she knew she had truly gone too far. After all, the knight would not hesitate to inflict any form of punishment on her; he would even kill her if ordered to.

"Silence," barked the queen as she kicked Bethany again, this time hitting her in the shoulder.

Bethany rolled with it, causing her to collide with the knight's legs. He knelt down and placed a restraining hand on her shoulder. Before anything else could happen, the door burst open and two elderly men entered. They quickly took stock of the scene, including a bleeding slave, a crying lady-in-waiting, and an enraged queen. They bowed as low as their old bodies could manage. Bethany wondered at the healer bowing, being that it was not required from him, but then she noticed the fire blazing in the queen's eyes.

Before the door could swing shut, in stormed King Wolfric. "What is going on?" he demanded.

"That... thing... has destroyed me," spat the queen as she opened the cloak to reveal a low cut nightgown and her discolored skin.

The room was silent as the small crowd stared at her. Bethany felt, rather than saw the knight avert his gaze from her bare skin. Though the mother of many children and covered in a horrible rash, the queen was a beautiful woman. Unlike the knight, the healer and herbalist looked at her with clinical interest.

"Looks like a rash caused by some sort of plant," stated the herbalist.

"She gave my woman some herbs for my bath. I tell you, it was her who did this."

"What did you give her?" asked the healer in the soft voice

"Just chamomile, calendula, and lavender."

"You also got sweet alyssum from me," stated the herbalist.

The healer glanced in his direction before returning his gaze the queen's rash.

"And what did you get that for?" the healer asked after a long moment of silence.

"For the prince. He was restless during my watch. I thought if we mixed some in with his food, it would calm him."

"Lies!" spat the queen while the healer frowned.

"I'm not so sure, my queen. Though I admit sweet alyssum isn't my first choice, it is known to have a calming effect."

"Then how did it get into my bath?" demanded the queen. "This wretch has been known to play tricks and cause problems. I want her put her death!"

Bethany's heart pounded against her chest so forcefully she began to wonder if it could escape on its own accord. Her palms grew sweaty and her mouth dried out. Never in her life had she been so afraid. Bethany glanced up at the knight, hoping he would do something. Why she turned to him, she couldn't say, but she did just as he spoke.

"My lady," Sir Caldry began, "the slave did bring herbs to the prince's room after delivering the items for your bath. And she did say it was to calm the prince."

"Besides, Arabelle," muttered the king, who looked more annoyed than angry over the whole situation. "She is Féderic's slave. And I will not have you killing my son's slave just because you put the wrong herbs in your bath."

The queen looked ready to fight back when her face suddenly took on a demure smile which made Bethany's blood run cold.

"As you wish my king, all I ask is that she is punished for her crimes, being that the prince is not in any shape to judge over her."

Wolfric thought it through for a moment before nodding once. No doubt it was easier to whip an errant slave than wage war with his wife.

"Good," snapped the queen. "Cal, have her whipped and put into the pits."

"My lady, I really don't think..."

"Silence," screamed the queen. "If you will not do it, I will have Bainard."

"No, my lady. I will do as you bid."

"No! You will go soft on the girl. I see it in you; like the prince, you are blinded by her youth and beauty. Fetch Bainard."

In less time than Bethany thought possible, one of the guards returned with the fat slave master panting behind him. Bainard took in the scene in one quick sweep of his beady eyes. For the first time, Bethany felt she would rather be beaten by the knight, despite his stronger arms. Though she was actually guilty, she felt the knight was on her side and would go easy on her.

"Have this slave girl whipped and thrown into the pits for a month!" ordered the queen.

Bethany felt her wet eyes grow wide. A month? She had never heard of a slave being punished for so long. How could she survive it? Especially after being beaten! She would die from infection if nothing else.

"And I don't want her anywhere near the prince while he is ill," continued the queen. "I will let him deal with her once he has recovered."

With this final statement, the queen waved them off. Bainard lunged forward and tore her out of the knight's hands. With his fist tangled in her hair, he dragged her from the room. Bethany couldn't help but cry out as she felt her hair slowly give way to his rough jerks. She reached out and took a firm hold of the slave master's wrist in an effort to relieve the pain in her scalp as she scrambled to her feet, or tried to anyway. He jerked her off balance while cursing her very existence. As he dragged Bethany out of the room, she spotted the knight. His scar was pinched from the dark frown that pulled his eyebrows together.

Bainard was like many slave masters; he took pleasure in dishing out punishments, while at the same time hating anything that interrupted his own free time. Judging by his attitude, the queen's summons had interrupted something far more enjoyable than punishing a wayward slave. At the narrow, winding stairs, Bainard thrust her forward, causing her to stumble. She barked her knees against the stone steps as she fell, tearing open the skin and leaving a red stain.

This didn't stop the angered man. He kicked at her as she struggled to get back to her feet in the narrow quarters. Bainard's large belly took up most of the available space. Using the wall, Bethany managed to struggle to her feet, just as they reached the bottom of the staircase. Hot blood flowed down her leg and made the skirt of her dress stick to the torn skin. He prodded her in the back anytime she slowed down.

In the slave dormitory, he pushed her to the chains, where a large male slave helped him remove her frock and hang her from the ceiling by her wrists. Bethany felt hot tears roll down her cheeks as a fresh sense of shame poured over her. It was a strange mix of embarrassment for her nakedness and shame for causing more problems.

She had sworn to stop after her antics had caused the prince to nearly die, and yet, here she was being punished for yet more mischief. Granted, she hadn't endangered the queen's life.

The truth was, she had to do something to rebel against her captives, even if it resulted in her death. She was, after all, a princess of Tokë. No matter what they did to her body, she would always be a part of that family, and she _knew_ the Kavadh family never gave up.

But the current situation and the forthcoming pain made it difficult to hold fast to her resolve. She wanted to snivel, grovel, and seek the favor of those above her if only to protect herself from further punishment. She wasn't certain how much more she could take.

_One more beating_ , she told herself. _Just hold out one more time_.

Despite her efforts, the princess cried out many times over the next half hour. She tried counting the lashes in an effort to distract herself from the growing pain. It worked... briefly. After the ninth lash, she lost track. On multiple occasions, Bainard was forced to stop and catch his breath before continuing. It seemed an eternity before they lowered her to the cool stone floor, but they didn't give her time to catch her breath. The slave that had helped Bainard string her up grabbed her by the wrists and dragged her across the dirty floor to the entrance of the nearest pit. Bethany absently noticed the streak of red she left in her wake.

"Get in," barked the slave master.

The large slave pulled her over the opening and lowered her to the floor of the pit. There she trembled with pain and exhaustion until unconsciousness released her.

# Chapter Thirty

Pelor folded the top of his saddlebag over the opening and fastened the clasp before flinging them over his shoulder. For the last time, he tromped down to the main room of the inn. He had been hoping to slip away unnoticed, but the room was filled with Gavius, his wife, Dana, and Jos. Jos shuffled forward to clasp his hand. The boy still limped after Pelor had cut the scarred portion of his leg away. It would be the 'proof' that Pelor had found the boy dead.

_A small price to pay for his life_ , Pelor thought.

Next came Gavius' wife, who shook his hand and presented him with a bundle of fresh bread and hard cheese. He nodded his thanks. Gavius came forwards, an encouraging smile on his lips.

"I can't thank you enough for what you've done for us," he said before giving the ex-knight a low bow.

Pelor nodded solemnly, feeling uncomfortable. It only got worse.

He glanced at Dana, the one person he had really hoped to avoid. Her eyes were puffy with her failed attempt at not crying. Pelor knew the young woman had grown to like him and had created unrealistic expectations in regards to their future. Pelor had tried to deter her, but it was difficult when he found her company genuinely pleasing. In fact, a large part of him wanted to stay and take her for his own, but facts were facts. He was not going to stay in this small town, where he had no hope of making a living for himself. He needed employment and activity to be happy.

Pelor tried to avoid her gaze as he made to leave.

"Let me walk you to the stables," murmured Dana in a choked voice.

"Dana, let the man go in peace," began Gavius, but Dana silenced him with a glare she had learned from her mother.

Pelor forced himself to feel a sense of resolve. He would leave, no matter what she said. Dana followed him out of the inn and across the little yard to the stables. The new—well new to him—horse stood already groomed and saddled. No doubt Jos had done it for him. Evidently, they had all suspected his intentions of sneaking out this morning.

"Pelor," Dana began as he draped the saddlebags over the animal's rump and tied them to the saddle.

It was difficult considering his damaged fingers were still tied to a narrow, sanded piece of wood. Pelor felt his stomach tighten in anticipation. He didn't like disappointing people, especially pretty women. He wasn't a man to use them and toss them away when he was finished and yet he had allowed himself to show more than he felt for this woman.

"Please. Don't go," she continued.

A new wave of guilt billowed up inside him at the sound of her quivering voice.

"Dana," he said, making his voice firm and rough. He would lie to her to make her feel better, he decided suddenly. "If I had the wealth of kings, I would stay here... with you. But I have nothing I can call my own. I could never give you the life you deserve."

She shook her head, hot tears flicking off her red cheeks and splattering them both. "I don't want wealth."

"I don't think I could forget about you, even if I tried," he lied frantically, cupping her warm cheek in his good hand. "But I have to go," he added.

He quickly climbed onto his new steed and kicked it into a gallop. He heard her cry out but ignored her. It would be better to have a clean break. He kicked the horse again.

The new beast was a young, chestnut mare with a startling cream mane and tail. He had never seen a horse with such unique coloring. Though she was a far cry from the war stallion he had once owned, she was fast and spirited. Just as she was nothing like his old stallion, his previous nag was nothing like her. Before he could think about anything other than Dana's cry, she had carried him down the long street of the village and into the early morning sunlight.

It would take him at least a few weeks, if not a month or two to return to Tolad, depending on the weather. It was plenty of time to forget about what he had done to that poor woman.

# Chapter Thirty-One

Bethany never knew how many days she spent in the pit. The food and water cup came too rarely for her to keep count. When the trap door finally flew open all the way and a familiar voice ordered her to climb out, Bethany's back and shins were caked in dry blood, and her body was covered in her own filth. She squeezed her eyes shut against the unusual brightness. Bethany's arms and legs shook as she struggled with the rope ladder. After a few minutes of exhaustive effort, she fell back and collapsed against the cold stones of her cage.

"Ann?" came Flora's voice from the direction of the bright glow over her head. "Ann?"

"I c-can't..." she choked out.

"You gonna have to carry her outta there," said Flora, in a deferential voice.

A second later, Bethany heard the sound of someone clambering down the awkward rope ladder. Before she knew what was happening, someone had thrown her over their shoulder, and the two of them were emerging from the hole into the light. Whoever hoisted her out quickly pulled her off their shoulder and laid her on the floor.

She collapsed on the stone floor and lay still as she tried to catch her breath. For some reason, she was not pushed or prodded back into motion. Once the world stopped spinning, and she no longer felt ready to throw up, she opened her eyes and looked around. The scarred knight and Flora stood over her, both their foreheads creased with worry. She could only imagine what she looked like.

"We'll have to clean her up before we present her to the prince," stated the knight.

Flora nodded.

"Roll over, Ann. Let me see your back."

Bethany obeyed but regretted it when she heard their sudden gasps, followed quickly by the sound of someone scrambling across the hard stones and the sound of dry retching. Bethany didn't know what they were seeing, but it couldn't be good.

Bethany was sure she was running a fever. Would they finally help her?

"I don't knows how to deal wiff this," whispered Flora from some distance away after the retching had stopped.

"Well, we can't call the healer. Not for a slave in disgrace." The knight knelt down and brushed her matted hair out of her face. "Ann, your back is badly infected. There are maggots in the wounds. Can you tell me what to do about it?"

Bethany tried to think through what he was saying, but it didn't make sense. Why was she wounded? And if she was hurt, surely her mother would take care of her. What was that awful smell? Why were they whispering?

"Maggots?" she said, looking up at the familiar face.

"Yes, Ann. How do I get rid of them?"

Who was this "Ann" they kept talking to?

"Are they eating dead flesh or healthy flesh?" Bethany asked, more out of reflex than understanding.

"I don't see any dead flesh."

"Flush 'em out, then," she murmured quietly.

Didn't everyone know that?

The scarred man nodded, took her by the arms, and dragged her to the trough where the other slaves washed. With more patience than she thought he possessed, he slowly flushed out the wounds. As he did this, the horrible smell that caused her empty stomach to roll, began to dissipate. She watched from her position, propped up against the trough, as the water rushed away from her, toward the small drain in the floor. Occasionally, a few maggots would flow with the murky water and disappear into the drain.

While the knight dealt with her back, Flora used more water and a rough rag to clean the rest of her body. The water was frigid to her boiling skin, and she begged them to stop.

"She's burning up," one of them said.

After this realization, they gave her some water to drink and some bread to eat. She could barely swallow the coarse food but managed to get it down after a stern look from Flora. Once her wounds were cleaned—and clear of maggots—they bound them in torn strips of cloth. Flora didn't even bother combing her hair. They got it clean and wound it up in a loose bun at the base of the neck.

"Why'd you do it, Ann?" asked the knight.

Bethany, slouched against the water trough and rolled her head to look up at the knight. His brows were still pulled together as he stared down at her.

"How can you just give in?" she asked in response.

Cal stared down at the skeletal slave, her mangled body propped up against a filthy water trough. Despite their effort to clean her, she still looked awful. Another day or two in the pit and she would have died, he was sure of it.

"How can you just give in?" she asked in such a soft whisper that he found himself leaning closer to catch her words.

Once he heard them he wished he hadn't. Rage boiled up inside of him as he listened to her quiet admonition. He swallowed, trying to force down the desire to hit her; she was already battered enough.

_She doesn't know what she's talking about_ , he reminded himself.

There was no way for this slave girl to know about his sister, or how he couldn't find her without Wolfric's aid. The king refused to tell him where she was, or what he had to do to secure her freedom. Until he did, Cal would be the king's man. Not out of loyalty, but out of necessity.

Before he could think of a response that did not involve his sister, Flora returned with a slave frock. Between the two of them, they got it over her body and laced up over the rough bandaging. With clothing covering some of her bruises and hiding how skinny she had become, she looked a great deal better.

"The prince wants to see you. I'll carry you to the main floor, but then you have to walk."

The girl nodded feebly.

Cal picked her up in his arms and nearly dropped her in surprise; she weighed little more than a child. It made him sick when he thought of what she had once looked like. Though she was barely strong enough to stand, she didn't relax in his arms. He felt her tension and anxiety, but he chose to ignore it. He could be gentle if he tried, and he would prove it to her.

At the top of the narrow stairs, which he had to take at an awkward angle to keep from knocking her feet and head against the stone walls, he carefully lowered her to the floor. She staggered against the wall. He stepped back, knowing she had to walk by herself. She took a deep, steadying breath, then began the long trek down the hall to the prince's room. Halfway there, she stumbled and fell to the ground. Cal reached out to catch her but was a second too late. She slipped from his fingers and landed hard on the wood flooring, but she didn't cry out.

He let her rest there for a moment since they were alone in the long corridor. After a moment, she reached up to him, and he consented to help her to her feet. The journey was slow, but, eventually, they made it to the prince's door. She leaned against the doorframe as he knocked.

"Enter."

"Enter," came the prince's voice from within his room, sounding strong and healthy.

The knight, who was being unusually kind, opened the door and ushered her in. She stepped forward, feeling more wobbly and weak with each step. Bethany lowered herself to the floor in an effort to bow. It was more of a controlled fall than a bow.

"What have they done to you?" demanded the prince as he staggered to his feet.

His ankle was noticeably less swollen. In fact, it looked normal though still bound in tight bandages. She noticed from her place on the floor that he didn't put much weight on it and that a pair of crutches leaned against his seat. Ignoring the crutches, he used the furniture to carefully hobble a few feet closer.

"Stand up, Ann."

Bethany tried her best to stand, but her legs wobbled and eventually gave out. As she collapsed, she felt a pair of hands try to catch her by the arm. Sir Caldry gripped her tightly but just a hair too late. In the end, she ended up back on her knees with one arm up in the air in his grasp. Bethany felt herself list to the side until she collided with a small table, which kept her upright.

"I don't think she was fed often, and the slave master beat her severely," said the knight with a hint of sympathy in his voice.

Even in her fevered state, she was surprised to hear such tender words from the normally cruel man.

The prince lowered himself to the floor in front of her.

"Ann," he said, cupping her cheek and tilting her head up so that he could see her face. "Are you all right?"

"Fever," Bethany croaked. Despite the water Flora had given her, her throat had gone dry again.

With Sir Caldry's help, Féderic rose to his feet and returned to his chair. He ran his hands through his hair as he watched Bethany slouch back against the table.

"She's bad off, isn't she?" he asked the knight.

"I believe so, my lord."

"Dammit! I wanted her as a mistress. Never wanted a woman as much as I want her. Probably 'cause she said no," chuckled the prince after a few minutes.

The room fell into silence for a long while after that. Bethany had nearly fallen asleep on the floor when she heard the prince speak again.

"Cal, you live in the north wing, right?"

"Correct."

"And don't exactly have a lot of people traipsing through your quarters?"

"No, my lord. I have no servants of my own. Nor a squire."

"Good," the prince exclaimed as he clapped his hands together.

He paused a moment. Bethany heard him taking quick shallow breaths. His ribs must not have been healed yet.

"I want you to take her to your quarters and nurse her there."

"Wait... what?"

# Chapter Thirty-Two

Cal couldn't believe his ears. The prince really wanted him to take his mistress-to-be into his own room and nurse her back to health in secret? Did he not realize what an opportunity the prince was giving him? This was his chance to win the girl's heart. Then again, he didn't have a lot of practice making women fall in love with him. Besides, he couldn't offer Ann what Féderic could. Cal forced his desires back into the pit of his stomach.

This was a bad idea. He didn't want to be put in temptation's way. More specifically, he didn't want to get in trouble with the queen.

"Yes... but you want me to do what?"

"You know enough about healing. You can get her back on her feet. And when she's a little better, we can pretend to bring her out of the pits. It's the perfect scheme."

"If I do this, and the king and queen find out, I will be in disfavor."

"I'll take full responsibility _if_ they find out. But they won't. Flora will keep the secret, I know. She's kept many secrets for me," added Féderic with a chuckle.

Cal knew what he was talking about. This wasn't the first lover he'd taken. Flora was perhaps the most discrete slave in the castle, a feature that endeared her to many of the royal family.

"But..."

"No buts, Cal. I need you to do this for me," he stated in a stern voice Cal wasn't used to hearing from the normally playful younger man.

The knight hesitated a moment before nodding. Between the temptation to do just what he was asked and the pressure from the prince, it was easy to give in to Féderic's demands. "As you wish, my lord."

"Wrap her up in your cloak so no one can see who you've got."

Cal nodded his acceptance of the plan as he unfastened the thick cloak and wrapped it around Ann's body. He scooped her up and left the room. His quarters were on the other side of the castle. For a second, he wondered whether he ought to take the main hallways or use the back ones used by the slaves. In the end, he decided it would be more noticeable if he went through the slave corridors.

He adjusted the weight in his arms and marched forward as though he were on an important mission. In truth, she weighed very little, but he wanted to make sure his arms weren't hurting her wounded back. Cal began to wonder how he would act as her healer. Sure, he knew how to plug holes and administer initial aid to those with battle wounds, but infections and fevers were beyond him.

It took him a while to get to his room; thankfully, no one stopped him. Cal had grown adept at frowning in such a way that even the king avoided him. It worked like a charm as he climbed the north staircase that led to his quarters. He passed Lyolf, who seemed ready to inquire into the knight's burden until he saw Cal's face. He nodded politely and continued on his way.

After many heart-pounding minutes, he reached his room. Cal pushed the door open and entered. His room, though nice, was a far cry from those of the royal family. On one of the top-most floors, it was a breathless climb. The stone walls were covered in tapestries that had been retired from other rooms. The wooden floor was mostly covered by the many furs of the bears and wolves he'd killed over the years. Along the left wall, a warm fire crackled. The far wall had one small slit of a window. Sitting kiddy-corner in between the window and the fire sat his desk. Up against the right wall sat a large bed surrounded by thick curtains. It was very plain compared to Féderic's gilded room, but that was how he preferred it. After all, he wasn't a noble, nor had he any intention of becoming one; he was a farmer's son, and occasionally he needed to be reminded of that.

Cal crossed the room and laid his burden down on the thick mattress. He removed his cloak, covered her with the extra blanket placed at the foot of his bed and went back to the door. A short way from his room, he spotted a slave.

"You, there. Send Flora to my room, immediately."

The slave bowed, trembled, and ran away.

Cal went back to his room. The slave girl was sound asleep. He shook her gently. Her eyes, usually so bright, were dull as they fluttered open.

"Ann, I need you to tell me what to do."

She opened her mouth as if to speak but suddenly collapsed back into a deeper sleep. Cal didn't want to wake her again. Her body clearly wanted to rest, but there had to be more that he could do. Based on how bad her wounds had been when they pulled her out of the pit, he couldn't imagine that a good sleep would do the trick.

Cal racked his brain, trying to remember any tidbit of information that might be helpful. Slowly, he began to recall how Féderic's wounds had become infected and what she had done. Before he could take action, a soft rap sounded against his door. He strode to it and cracked it open slightly. Flora stood on the other side.

"Come in," he said, opening the door just wide enough to permit her slim body to pass through.

She quickly noticed the sleeping figure on his bed.

"The prince has ordered me to hide her here until we can get her well again. He thinks this will give the queen more time to calm down."

"Prince wants _what_?" asked Flora, her careful façade of deference and humility gone.

"My thoughts exactly. Still, we have to do it."

"Why's he care so 'boat one slave? I doubt he paid that much for her."

"He hopes to take her for a mistress. But, between you and me, I think she'll continue to say no."

"That won't stop him," stated the slave before she bit down on her lip.

"Don't worry. I won't tell," Cal said with a forced chuckle.

She had the right of it. He dreaded the day when the prince finally forced himself on the girl.

"For now, fetch me a bucket of cold water. And I mean _cold_ water. I wish we could get herbs for her. But I don't expect that to be the case."

"Not 'less the prince helps."

"That's an idea. For now, get the cold water. We need to get her temperature down."

Flora barely waited for him to finish his sentence before she was out the door.

Long after he began to look for her, Flora returned with cold water and a few scraps of cloth. "I told the ol' cook you were hungry and want to eat in your room. They'll send your meal up here soon."

"Good. This will do for now. You may leave. I'll take it from here," he said dismissively. He had already started soaking the rags and placing them on Ann's head and neck.

Bethany woke slowly. The first sensation she became aware of was the feeling of something wet and cold on her forehead and neck. After a few moments of confusion, she realized it was a piece of cloth. About that time, she noticed how soft the surface was she was lying on. Next, she noticed the weight of a blanket over her body. Another moment's thought brought on the realization that she had not been this comfortable or warm since coming to Tolad. She didn't want it to end. Hesitantly, she opened her eyes.

She was lying on a large bed, with the drapes pulled open. From somewhere in the room, she heard a cheerfully crackling fire. The walls were lined with tapestries that looked too worn for the queen's castle; the edging on each one was frayed and the colors dull. Bethany forced herself to try to sit up, as much as she wanted to stay under the warm blanket.

Initially, the effort seemed to be going well, until it caused the flesh on her back to stretch. She let out a whimper and collapsed back onto the pillow. The noise she made was enough to rouse the person sitting next to the fire. In the brief second that she could see him, she thought she saw a jagged scar running down the side of his face. The knight? Sure enough, Sir Caldry came into her line of sight.

"You're awake."

She flinched as he reached down to remove the rag and feel her head.

"Looks like the fever's broken," he added as she heard the rag plop into the bucket of water stationed near the bed.

"Where I am?" she asked.

"My room," he stated as he sat down on the edge of the bed.

Bethany felt her brows furrow. She tried to scoot over to keep him from touching her leg, but the effort left her shaking and breathless.

"The prince had me bring you here to recover in secrecy. It seems he's quite fond of you."

She knew what he was referring to—Féderic's offer to take her as his mistress. He stopped talking as he took in her expression. She knew what it must have looked like; offended and disgusted.

"Whatever may be your choice in that matter, it's time to put your healing skills to the ultimate test."

He paused again, for which she was grateful. Her ability to process his words was not at its best.

"We got all the maggots out after we pulled you out of the pits. Do you remember that?"

Bethany thought about it for a moment before shaking her head carefully. She felt a dull ache begin to form behind her eyes.

"Okay. Well, you were severely whipped before being thrown in the pit, and the deep cuts have become infected. I don't know what to do, and we can't exactly get herbs... you know, for a slave."

Bethany nodded. She understood the dilemma, even if her mind was muddled with the remains of her fever. "Do you have any mirrors?"

The knight frowned for a moment, the movement pulling on his scar. Suddenly his eyes lit up as he grasped her idea. "I do, but first, you eat."

He slipped his hands under her arms and hoisted her up into a sitting position before tucking a couple pillows behind her. It hurt when he bumped her damaged back, and she found herself leaning against his outstretched arm as she caught her breath. To her surprise and discomfort, he was very gentle.

Finally, when she was breathing normally again, he placed a bowl of rich soup on her lap. While she ate greedily, he pulled a large mirror out of a wardrobe and laid it on the floor next to the bed, before fishing out a smaller mirror from a drawer. Once she had finished the soup, he helped her roll onto her stomach. It reminded her of helping Féderic to sit up. She wanted to curse, just like him, but clamped her mouth shut instead. Her mother would never condone her cursing.

Bethany used the mirrors to examine her back after he removed the soiled bandages. Sure enough, her shredded flesh was oozing greenish-yellow puss and giving off a foul odor.

"Well?" asked the knight in an impatient voice.

"I need you to clean the wounds again and leave them open tonight. You say we can't get any herbs?"

"That depends on how helpful the prince decides to be... on how attached he is to you."

Bethany grimaced. She knew what that meant, too. Their getting herbs depended on how well she could attach the prince to her; in other words, how well she could seduce him from her sick bed. The problem was she didn't know how to seduce anyone, much less while emaciated and running a fever. She forced herself to turn the grimace into a nod.

The knight began to clean the abrasions, but the feeling of the rough cloth against her open wounds was too much for her. She screamed. Sir Caldry quickly clamped a damp hand over her mouth. They both froze, listening intently for any sound in the hallway. Nothing came.

"I'm going to have to dose you," he said.

Before she could ask what he meant, he went to his large wardrobe and pulled out a bottle much like the one they used with Féderic.

"I can't drink that," she said, her voice muffled in the blankets, just as Féderic's had been.

She strained to lift her head enough to glare at the man and his bottle. The knight hesitated.

"What do you mean?"

"I can't get drunk."

"Oh, child, you're going to be so far beyond drunk."

Bethany tried to shake her head, but it didn't work well when it was hanging over the edge of the bed. "I can't."

"What? Tokës don't get drunk?"

"Not ladies. I mean... I don't..."

She could see the knight's face frowning down at her.

"How 'bout just enough to take the edge off. I won't get you drunk. I promise."

Bethany stared at him for a moment before giving a small nod. He helped her rise up onto her forearms, an effort that left her panting and poured a small portion of the liquor into her mouth. She gagged and sputtered as the stuff burned her throat. He put the bottle to her lips again, but she tried to pull away.

"Just one more sip. It will help you not be in so much pain," he said.

His eyes drifted to her cheeks. She suddenly noticed hot tears rolling down her face. She nodded and took another swig of the nasty stuff. As she relaxed back onto the bed, she felt a warm sensation spread through her body and into her toes.

Even with the liquor's help, the cleaning was extremely painful. By the end, she was covered in sweat and shaking. She left a wet mark on the soft mattress where she had bitten down to keep from screaming. Sir Caldry left her to recover her wits. A short time later, she was fast asleep.

# Chapter Thirty-Three

Bethany spent most of the day alone, lying on her stomach and fighting boredom. Sir Caldry had brought her some bread from his breakfast that he had smuggled away from the great hall. Bethany struggled to eat the coarse bread while lying on her stomach. The knight immediately left, unable to stay and keep her company. After all, it would be noticed if he suddenly started staying in his room all day.

Halfway through the day, Flora appeared to check on her back. It was much the same. She cleaned it again, an activity that exhausted Bethany. When she awoke, she set about the task of thinking up new ways to torment the royal family. If Féderic's wedding took place soon, she could easily ruin that in some way. Bethany wracked her brain for ideas, but each one was dismissed for one reason or another.

She began to wonder if she was rejecting her own ideas because she did not want to be caught again. The fire burning through the flesh on her back made that seem rather likely. Late in the evening, Sir Caldry returned with a well-cooked chicken leg. He made a face as he pulled the marinated meat from his pouch. It left a sticky coating to the leather. He rolled his eyes at the state of his pouch as he handed it to her.

Bethany's eyes grew as wide as buckets. She hadn't tasted fresh, evenly cooked meat in six months, much less eaten an entire chicken leg. She pushed herself up on her elbows, ignoring the pain in her back, and began gnawing on her feast. The knight sat down on the bed and began cleaning her wounds again. She had to stop eating until he had finished for fear of choking. It was still extremely painful.

When she returned to her food, Sir Caldry came to sit on the stool next to his bed.

"Sorry I haven't been able to sit with you today..."

Before he could say more, the door opened and the prince hobbled in on one crutch. Bethany immediately dropped back to the mattress in an effort to look worse than she really was.

"Ann! By the love of the Main Land," he cursed in a breathless voice as he took in the state of her back. He turned towards the knight, his face turning a shade of green. "Damn, Cal! You live in the asscrack of nowhere. It took me an hour to find this place."

Sir Caldry rose and bowed to the prince before offering him a seat near the fire.

"No, no. I've come to see my Ann," he said as he waved aside the offer and hobbled to the stool Sir Caldry had just vacated. "How're you feeling?"

She tilted her head slowly, keeping her eyes half-lidded and her mouth slack. She'd never been a very good liar, but she had to try. It helped that the warm food made her sleepy and the aversion to the prince made her nauseated.

Bethany could see him swallow a few times as his eyes flickered to her bare back. She wasn't sure what it looked like now, but if it was even close to what it had been yesterday, she understood his repugnance. She slowly closed her eyes and refused to open them again, despite the prince's repeated inquiries. Finally, Féderic turned to the knight.

"Is she going to be okay?"

Sir Caldry played along beautifully.

"My lord, her wounds are badly infected. Flora and I are cleaning them regularly and keeping her fever down. That's all we can do. It's up to her now... if she has enough fight left in her. Being so underfed isn't helping."

"Are you bringing her food?" demanded the prince as though Sir Caldry hadn't thought of that.

"Yes, my lord. I bring her something from each meal. What she can get down will help. She's very sick."

"There must be something we can do."

Sir Caldry hesitated briefly. Bethany struggled not to smile as she listened to the drama unfold.

"Well, my lord, herbs would help fight the infection."

"What herbs?" demanded the prince.

Bethany heard a scuffle against the wooden floor. She suspected the prince had tried to stand in his excitement.

"I can get herbs." He sounded thrilled to have a task of his own.

Bethany would have laughed had she felt better, but the truth was the longer she had her eyes closed, the worse she felt. Perhaps they weren't exaggerating as much as she had initially thought. She felt a hand gently touch the shoulder that hadn't been struck by the vicious whip.

"Ann?" It was the knight.

She slowly opened her eyes but found them so covered in gunk she couldn't see clearly.

"Ann, what herbs could Prince Féderic ask for that would help fight the infection?"

She had to stop and think about it for a long moment. "Lavender," she finally croaked. "Olive leaf...um... aloe vera... and goldenseal."

"What will people think when I ask for all those herbs?" the prince asked.

Bethany shook her head and tried to prop herself up again. She didn't get very far. Why was she feeling so much worse?

"All those herbs will also help fight the swelling. Tell the apprentice you need some herbs for your ankle. And ask for a variety so you don't have to go back. He'll give you loads, for fear of not doing enough. From those, we can pick out the ones we need."

The prince nodded once before hobbling out of the room.

It was a long while before Prince Féderic returned with the herbs. Cal began to wonder if the daft man had forgotten his one chore, especially as Ann grew worse with each passing hour. Her fever returned, and he was forced to fetch Flora. She brought the water, and they began dribbling it across her back and covering her with cold rags.

When the prince did return, Flora bowed and left as quickly as she could. Cal suddenly felt loathe to wake Ann. He knew she needed to sleep, but they wouldn't know what to do with the herbs without her expertise. He expected her to want to make a poultice like they did for the prince, but he didn't know which herbs to use.

He carefully knelt beside her head, which still hung off the edge of his bed, and gently brushed her hair away from her face. Cal knew he was showing a tenderness for her in front of the prince, but, in that moment, he couldn't bring himself to care. She looked so peaceful and carefree while sleeping.

"Ann," he said in a voice choked with sudden emotion.

She flinched slightly before blinking sleep from her eyes.

"We have the herbs. You were right, the apprentice sent up a large supply. But we don't know which ones to use or what to do."

The slave girl lifted her head and looked around. Cal brought the basket into her line of sight. A few minutes later she had pointed out the herbs to use and reminded him how to make a poultice. He did it as quickly as possible while the prince took over the task of mopping the patient's forehead. Cal tried not to glance over his shoulder at them. He didn't want the prince's help. Not when it took away his chance to be near her.

Damn! What are you thinking, old man? You're going to get yourself into trouble, or worse.

He couldn't fall for a woman, especially one enslaved to a man like Féderic, much less one Féderic found appealing. He might as well fall for a married empress. Besides, the minute Wolfric freed his sister, they would be seeking refuge elsewhere. Maybe they would brave the treacherous seas and move to the mainland, where Wolfric could not reach them. It would never do to tie himself down to a woman here, even if it was only by inclination. He needed to remove himself from the equation, but that was not easy when the prince demanded his assistance in healing her. Well, once she was well and back to her duties, he would stay clear of her.

Cal returned with the poultice and applied it to her back.

In the few places the lash had not marred her skin, it was clear and smooth. In fact, in many places, it looked as though it had never seen the light of the sun. As he saw more of her body, while still trying to honor her modesty, he noticed how preserved it was, as though hard labor was very new to her.

_She had to be the daughter of noble_ , he thought as he finished packing the wounds with the sticky herbs. Maybe a lower level noble who had either been killed during the war or sold his daughter to pay his debts. Either way, Cal felt convinced she was once well cared for.

# Chapter Thirty-Four

It took four more days before Bethany was able to return to work. They used the herbs liberally—both in her food and in her wounds. Sir Caldry continued to bring her generous portions of food, which she gobbled down with greed. She gained a few pounds back and, by the last day, was even walking around the room to build her strength. Prince Féderic visited every evening, and Bethany did her best to keep him in the dark as to her real feelings and intentions.

The four days by herself gave her plenty of time to think. She came to a resolution. No matter how bad things got, or what he promised, she would not accept his offer. If she did, it would mean she had lost all hope of ever returning home. She had to maintain that hope in order to continue, and she couldn't hope to return home if it would be in disgrace. Though she doubted they would accept her back into the family, maybe they would let her work in the castle. It was still something to hope for.

On the fourth day, as Bethany was walking up and down the room, using the furniture for extra support, the prince entered. He immediately moved to the chair near the fire. Though his ankle was vastly improved, he continued to favor it and expected sympathy from everyone. The real cause of his continued pain was his broken ribs. Strangely, though, he didn't complain about them to anyone but Ann. She tried to listen with apparent sympathy, but her own pain made it difficult.

"I have some bad news," he said, once he was settled in the high back chair.

Bethany watched his stiff movement, noting the way he kept his rib cage up, rather than slouching back into the chair.

"Mother has suggested bringing you back into service. It seems your respite is over. Though, I'm sure Cal will be glad to be rid of you," the prince added in a louder voice as the knight entered the room. "I told her I'd send for you tomorrow. Didn't want to seem too anxious. Besides, this gives Cal time to take you back there late tonight," he added with a smile as though he had been extra clever.

Bethany forced a smile to her lips.

That night, Cal led her down the many flights of stairs and into the slave dormitory. By the time they reached the main floor, she was shaking with fatigue. The others were fast asleep when she shed her slave frock and climbed back into the pit. Her back was not healed enough for her to not fear the grime that lined the floor and walls. She did her best to avoid letting her back touch any of it, but as the hours wore on towards morning, she found herself slumping. Eventually, she gave in and curled up on her side.

It seemed as though mere seconds had passed when she woke to a bright light shining through the hole. The room was empty when Bethany emerged. It was likely just after the slaves had been sent to work—the best time to remove a slave that looked surprisingly well for having been in the pits for weeks. Flora used the last of their herbs, packing them onto her wounds, and wrapped her back in bandages before helping her slip the frock back on.

She was immediately sent to the queen's room.

"Ah... you..." sneered the queen.

Bethany knew what was coming, but that didn't make it any easier.

She had heard of other slaves being forced to seek forgiveness after offending their owners. Now it was her turn.

Bethany dropped to the floor, the hard, wooden slats bruising her knees, and bowed until her head touched the floor. It hurt her back, stretching the healing skin.

"Please forgive me, my lady. I have seen the error of my ways," she pandered, choking on every word.

The queen waited a long time before speaking. "You may return to my good graces. But if you ever try a stunt like that again, I'll have you thrown to the dogs... alive."

Bethany swallowed the lump in her throat. She didn't doubt the queen's sincerity.

The rest of the long, tiring day was spent in mending garments for the entire family, under the watchful supervision of the queen. Eventually, Mirabelle joined them. She sneered at Bethany and took her seat near her mother. They stitched away at delicate embroidery that served no purpose and gave no pleasure to the eye.

Cal stared at the short letter from the man he had hired to track down his sister. It was simple and to the point: Though he had a new lead, he had not procured the location of Cal's sister.

The knight's hand folded into a clenched fist, wrinkling the small piece of paper. What was he supposed to do now?

Cal slipped away from the great hall, where the family was spending the fall evening together. He was in no mood to answer their questions or attend their tedious conversations. Thankfully no one noticed his quiet exit. Besides, he needed to write his contact and send more money to continue the search for his sister.

_He will find her; he will find her_ , he chanted to himself as he climbed the steps up to his own room.

It had been nearly eight months since he last knew the location of Catrina, his sister. Cal collapsed onto his bed, the hilt of his sword digging uncomfortably into his hip. He wanted to stay there and give in to the depression that threatened to crush him.

Eight long months without even one positive word from his searchers. Was she even alive?

Cal closed his eyes and forced the doubts down into the pit of his stomach. He would not give up, not ever.

He forced himself up from his bed and moved to his small writing desk, where he quickly penned a response, ordering them to continue the search. He added a few coins and closed the letter.

Giving up wasn't an option. He had to find her. What else did he have to live for?

# Chapter Thirty-Five

Bethany knelt on the floor of the great hall, working with the other slaves to scrub the large, gray stones while muddy boots continually tracked in new dirt. Despite being able to read and write and sew extremely well, after the first day out of the pits, the queen had put her to the most disgusting and arduous tasks, no doubt still punishing her for the incident with the infected bathwater.

Prince Féderic, to whom she technically belonged to, chose not to argue. Either he didn't actually care, or he realized, like Bethany, that it would be worse in the long run if he did intervene. She knew she just needed to let the queen get her anger out, and then life would return to normal.

Or what had become normal for her.

The captured princess was using a few choice curses she had learned from Féderic, directed at the newest boot print when the king burst into the room with a loud whoop of excitement. The royal family gathered around him from their separate corners of the expansive room; each one expressed their desire to know the good news in their own, loud way. Soon, the castle knights followed, drawn by the exuberant cries. Bethany began to doubt she would hear the information when Wolfric raised his hands for silence. His family immediately obeyed, quieting down until the entire room sat in a hushed silence.

"I have just received word from the front. There is a rumor that King Middin Kavadh is dead!"

Bethany sucked in a loud gasp, thankfully covered by the joyous outcry from the royal family. Each one took their turn to thump the king on the back and give each other overjoyed hugs while Bethany tried to work through what she had just heard.

_It is just a rumor_ , she told herself, but her brain couldn't accept either idea—dead or alive. She felt a numbness drift from her hair to the very tips of her toes. Her brain quickly shut down, refusing to process any thought at all.

Quietly, while the other slaves watched their masters' frivolity, Bethany slipped out of the great hall. Without making a conscious decision to head in any one direction, her feet lead her to the small storage room she had cried in before. There she sat, her mind unable to wrap itself around any thoughts as her breathing slowly turned into frantic gasps.

And there she remained.

It could have been minutes, it could have been hours. She didn't know.

As it turned out, it had been hours before she dazedly crawled out of her hiding place. She had just made it to the slave dormitory when a fat fist took hold of her hair and slammed her against the doorway. If she hadn't been dazed before, she was now. Lights flashed before her eyes. She blinked furiously, trying to see who had grabbed her.

Bainard stood over her, his red, puffy cheeks pulled down into a deep glower. "Where have you been?" he demanded.

In a rush of clarity, Bethany realized she had been assigned to serve at the dinner table. No doubt, she had missed it. Bethany couldn't think of a realistic excuse for her unexplained absence. Based on the number of slaves already lying on their piles of straw, wrists chained to the wall, Bethany knew it was late into the night. She must have been hiding for a very long time, but for the life of her, she couldn't remember a single minute of it.

Bainard grabbed her by the arm and hoisted her to the far end of the slave dormitory. Bethany could feel the eyes of the other slaves on her. There was no pity in their depths.

The slave master didn't bother chaining her to a solid structure. He left her on the floor, kicking her as he passed to fetch a whip and a flattish stick used to beat the slaves without breaking the skin. Bethany tried to roll with the kick, but it still hurt as his hard boot caught her rib cage. As she jerked, she banged her face against the stone floor and felt hot liquid quickly cover one side of her face; she couldn't tell if it came from her lip or her nose. Both hurt. The slave master didn't ask anyone to hold her as he, changing from one torture device to another, beat her—the room spun too badly for her to climb to her hands and knees.

In the end, he chained her to the nearest ring embedded in the wall and left her on the cold stone floor to sleep the night through. Bethany didn't remember falling asleep. In fact, she might not have. Her mind was still frozen, despite the sudden and intense pain she had just suffered.

Though Bainard had beaten her until he gasped for breath, and his pudgy arms shook with exhaustion, she hadn't cried. She was barely aware of the pain.

She spent the night fighting against one pervasive thought: _My father is dead_.

# Chapter Thirty-Six

Bethany woke the next day to find herself still chained to the far wall of the slave dormitory. Bainard and Flora were quickly ushering the slaves out: Bainard with swift kicks and Flora with hurried words. No one showed any interest in releasing Bethany. She waited silently. Though her arm ached from the awkward way she had to hold it to keep the chains from digging into her wrist, she didn't really want them to notice her for fear of further punishment.

Her whole body throbbed with each beat of her heart. She glanced down and saw the damaged done by the slave master. What skin she could see was varying shades of blue and purple. She pulled up the skirt of her dress. The bruising on the back and side of her legs was marred by shallow cuts and swollen welts from where Bainard's whip had struck her. She could only imagine what her back looked like—and based on the fire searing her half-healed flesh, she expected the worst.

It was hours before anyone noticed her. By this time, she realized holding still was not necessarily the best solution to her problem. Her muscles had grown stiff and began to cramp. She tried to rub them with her free hand, but the dark bruises were too tender. When Bethany tried to flex and stretch her sore muscles, she winced.

Finally, the other slaves began to return to the dormitory. They each glared at her as they passed to the long, splintered table, where they would receive a small midday meal. They had no sympathy for her or her present plight. Despite her battered body, they only saw someone not working, which meant more work for them.

As the entering crowd dwindled down to a slow trickle, Bainard appeared. He presided over the hasty meal and munched with noisy delight. The large slave master ate nearly as much as what fifteen or twenty slaves ate combined. It was a sad sight to watch her counterparts savor their tiny portions while the slave master shoveled food into his mouth. Bethany had never truly hated the fat man until that day as she sat with no food at all.

A few hours after the slaves had left the dormitory, Bethany was awoken by a painful jab from a boot. She had been dozing and had to work to not cry out. Bainard hovered over her for a second, his pouting lips wet with saliva. Bethany had known the slave master to take advantage of the female slaves, especially the ones in disfavor. Until recently, Bethany had mostly been able to avoid his whip and chains.

Sure, when she first arrived she spent many days in the pits, but Bainard tended to look toward the women who had been beaten within an inch of their lives. Perhaps he thought the royal family wouldn't worry about what happened to their slaves once they were so dishonored.

Whatever his reasoning, Bethany found herself under his bright gaze. A quick glance below his belt and Bethany knew her fears were justified. Her aching, cramped-up body tightened. She began to scoot away when he grabbed the chain and jerked her back toward his feet. The iron manacle dug into her sore wrist and broke the skin. Bethany was just about to resort to screaming out of instinct when a soft cough from the doorway caused her body to relax.

She recognized the voice. It was the scarred knight.

Hate him as she might, this was the second time he had come between her and rape. His green eyes were soft, despite his ugly scar, and his often expressive face was relaxed as he watched the scene play out. He knew who was in control of the situation, and it wasn't Bethany or Bainard.

The slave master glared back at the knight before he grabbed Bethany's battered wrist and unlocked the cuff. He grabbed the collar of her dress and dragged her halfway to where Sir Caldry stood.

Bainard slurped up the saliva that had grown around his wide mouth. "This what you want?" he asked.

"Yes, though I didn't expect to find her quite so black and blue. Ann, go to Féderic. He needs help dressing for tonight's feast."

Though she didn't want to admit it, she knew what the feast was for.

Her father.

Bethany swallowed the lump in her throat and forced the thought away.

_It wasn't true_ ; _it wasn't true_ , her mind chanted.

She scurried around the knight and out of the room, all too glad to get away from Bainard. Hopefully, her being sent to the prince would keep the slave master from renewing his interest in her, a marked sign of favor.

_It wasn't true_.

As she expected, Bethany found Prince Féderic dressed in nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. It had been a little over a month since his accident, and though he still walked with a limp, his flesh was mostly healed. Despite the weight lost during his convalescence, he was far from flabby or soft.

Bethany had never wanted to stop and admire his body. She knew he had a nice one and that many of the slave girls giggled about his strong arms and defined muscles, but she never joined in.

_It wasn't true_.

"What happened to you?" demanded the prince when he finally took a moment to look at her.

She had already helped him into his trousers and was lacing up his tunic.

Bethany mumbled something; she wasn't sure what. Her brain was sluggish, and she didn't care what she said or what he thought of her. Her mind was too preoccupied.

_It wasn't true_.

"I hope you're not up to more trouble, little Ann," he said as he gently cupped her cheek with his large, warm hand and forced her face up so that he could look into her eyes. He rubbed the blood from her swollen lip with his thumb and wiped it on the towel.

Bethany kept her eyes lidded and focused on his shirt lacings.

"I want you healed and ready to go to the housing I will set up for you by the time I have that wench pregnant."

Bethany took a deliberate step away from him. This was one of the few topics that could draw her out of her own deliberations. She had not agreed to be his mistress. Granted, she also had not gained the courage to tell him no either. The prince waved a hand towards the clothing item still laying on the foot of his bed. Bethany resumed her task, and her mind resumed its chant.

_It wasn't true_.

"We'll talk about this later," Féderic said as he slipped into his boots. "You better get down there before Bainard takes another whip to you."

Bethany bowed and scurried away.

In the small room attached to the great hall, she retrieved her burden and followed the other slaves to their place behind the tall dais. The royal family entered, their faces bright with laughter and excitement. No one commented on her battered appearance.

"Have you heard more news?" asked Rulfric, as he flopped into his chair.

"Yes, actually," responded the king. "I received another note from the front earlier today. They have confirmed the report."

The family clapped again, though not as emphatically as the night before. Bethany swallowed the bile that rose to her mouth as hot tears welled in her eyes and quickly began rolling down her cheeks. Try as she might, she couldn't deny the truth anymore. Before she could control herself, her silent tears turned into gasping sobs. Her hands shook until she couldn't grip the platter any longer. It slipped from her fingers and crashed to the floor, effectively silencing the family's request for more information.

Bethany could hear the king's final words trail off into the dead silence that followed. "...of a fever." As she raced out of the great hall, she heard their exclamations of surprise and anger. Bethany charged to the small storage room she had used before to cry out her sorrows. Once again, she ducked behind the convenient pile of broken crates, wrapped her arms around her knees, and hid her face in her lap.

The truth was a hard bite to swallow.

Her father was dead? Her strong, courageous father was dead? It couldn't be. The report had to be a lie. Her father was not even sixty yet. How could he be dead? He had always been so robust.

Bethany felt a numbness rush over her body while the world faded away. The only thing that existed was a devastating lie: Her father was dead.

All the fight and rage left her in one quick stroke. It didn't matter if she fought anymore or even if she lost the battle entirely. What was the point? The entire fight against Wolfric was dependent on their being a home for her to come home to.

If her father wasn't there, could it still be called home?

Bethany pulled her wet face away from her knees and, with quivering fingers, she yanked her signet ring from the mat in her hair. It hurt, but the pain of tearing her hair out by the roots was a dull inconvenience compared to the all-consuming agony of suddenly being fatherless.

It took her a long time to untangle the long, matted hair from the gold ring. Bethany rubbed her finger against the etching of the eagle that was her family's crest. In her father's castle, the walls of the great hall would be lined with long banners, displaying the noble bird in gold on a black background. It made her heart ache to think she would never hear her father tell her how their ancestors chose the eagle for their motif.

Bethany lifted the ring to her lips and kissed it while the tears continued in their path down her red cheeks.

# Chapter Thirty-Seven

Cal tried not to stare at Féderic's slave. If he gaped at her too long, he might go down and skewer Bainard. The pudgy slave master had beaten her black and blue. Just looking at her made his gut tighten in disgust, but he had no control over it, and he needed to remember that. It wouldn't do anyone any good if he were to get himself exiled over some slave girl.

The royal family was entering the great hall quickly, but taking their time reaching their seats. They were still excited by the idea that King Middin might be dead. They talked and laughed as they meandered toward the dais. Being now allowed to sit with the family once again, he waited near the short staircase, knowing he had to be the last one to reach the table. He tried to look busy, but it was hard to look busy and wait at the same time. Eventually, the family seated themselves at the table and he was allowed to do the same thing.

"Have you heard more news?" asked Rulfric, as he flopped into his chair.

"Yes, actually," responded the king. "I received another note from the front earlier today. They have confirmed the report."

Cal's gut tightened again. Middin was the only hope this land had. The knight sighed. He was a hypocrite, and he knew it—rooting for one king while serving another, but he couldn't help it.

His sister.

She needed his help, and he would do anything to save her from the clutches of Wolfric and whatever lord held her. Cal plunked his mug down on the table with too much force. The liquid sloshed over the rim and down to his fingers. Cal wiped his hand on his pants as his eyes scanned the room.

His brows pulled together as he noticed the battered slave girl. She looked as though someone had punched her in the stomach. Her lips quivered and her hands shook until the plate fell to the ground, breaking into a thousand pieces. Before the room could grow silent, she ran from the room.

"What in the world..." murmured the queen, her voice trailing off as she watched the slave exit the great hall.

"That girl of yours needs to be dealt with, Féderic. She's getting completely out of hand," grumbled the king as he slopped more food onto his plate.

Féderic stumbled over a few words, clearly at a loss for something to say. His eyes were still on the door. Cal imagined he knew what the prince was thinking—how dare she ruin his plans.

"Sir Caldry, drag that girl back here. She will explain her actions," demanded the outraged queen.

Cal stifled a sigh and rose from his seat. Once again the slave girl was keeping him from his dinner. He stomped out of the room, trying to look slightly frustrated. It was a fine line to balance—looking frustrated at having to leave so that they wouldn't know his true thoughts, but not so frustrated that the finicky royals were offended.

Once he was out of the great hall, he forced himself to relax under the weight of his chainmail. He contorted his face into a glower to keep people at a distance while clomping down the narrow steps. In the lower level he stopped, wondering where she would have run off to, then he remembered the last time she had run away. He turned toward the small storage room.

At the entrance, he stopped to listen. Sure enough, he heard soft crying. It wasn't the heart-wrenching sobs he had heard the other day. In many ways, the gentle sound was far harder to listen to—filled with more pain—as if there wasn't enough hope left in her to muster more volume.

Cal felt his insides twist as he listened. What had happened to this girl? Was she so ill-fit to handle slavery? It seemed like a stupid question, but he knew some people were pushed to suicide while others survived as slaves.

Cal didn't want to interrupt, but if he didn't take her back to the queen she would send someone else to find them. It took him another minute to muster the courage to take the next step into the storeroom, but he dragged his foot forward and marched ahead.

He didn't know what he expected, but it wasn't what he found. The slave girl sat, with her legs crossed, staring down at a shiny object resting in the palm of her hand. Thanks to years of training and hunting, Cal stepped into the room and knelt beside her without her noticing him.

It wasn't until he reached for the item in her hand that she became aware of his presence. She flinched and scooted a few inches away. He had taken her completely by surprise. The look in her stormy gray eyes said everything—she had lost all hope of secrecy, and he was about to finally learn the truth.

Cal reached forward, pinning her with the fiercest gaze he could muster, and plucked the golden object from her hand. He noticed her cut and swollen lower lip begin to shake before he looked down at what he held. It was a delicate, golden signet ring. An elegant eagle was etched across the flat top of the ring.

An eagle? Middin?

The knight looked back up at the slave girl. Only, she wasn't a slave... not really.

In the time it took him to take two breaths, her distraught face contorted into a look of arrogant distaste. It was impressive considering the bruises and tear streaks marring her features. Cal opened his mouth to speak, but couldn't find the words.

Finally, they came out on their own accord. "The lost princess?"

Slowly, with a proud quirk of her upper lip, she nodded. A sudden desire to slap the look of haughty disdain from her battered face rose up inside of him.

Who was she to look down at him?

He had to quell the urge with every fiber of his being. He knew she had been more than a slave for a long time, but he never truly imagined she could be royalty.

Yet here was the truth, sitting right in front of him. She was just as privileged as the bastards upstairs dining on venison and pheasant. All the compassion for her that had been growing inside him over the last couple weeks vanished. He couldn't even remember what it felt like to be sympathetic towards her.

"You need to come with me," he growled through clenched teeth.

She rose with a surprising amount of grace, considering how broken her body was. It hadn't been a month since the last time she had been thrown into the pits. He knew her back was far from healed, not to mention the recent beating she had received from Bainard. Still, she made it to her feet with all the elegance of an empress. It was only then, as he watched her without her careful mask, that he realized just how well she had hidden her true self from them.

Cal carefully placed his hand on her bony elbow and began to guide her out of the narrow room. Though he didn't really expect her to run, he didn't want her to try. He guided the princess up the slave stairway and back into the great hall.

The family was happily eating their food and maintaining multiple conversations at once. As Cal and the princess reached the center of the room, the family began to notice their presence. Arabelle delicately placed her fork on her plate, a scowl already in place.

Cal hesitated a short moment, expecting the slave girl to bow. When she didn't, he placed a hand on her dirty shoulder and pushed until she fell to her knees. He knew it hurt and felt a smile play at his lips.

That would teach her.

While she stayed on her knees with her head held high, he strode onto the dais and placed the golden ring in front of the king. Wolfric had continued to eat until the glint of gold caught his attention. He wiped his hands carelessly on the cloth provided before lifting the ring from the table.

It only took the king a quick, cursory glance to realize what he held. Before Sir Caldry could step away, the king jerked to his feet, causing his heavy chair to fall backward. Cal caught it before it could fall on his feet and righted it, then followed the king to where the girl waited.

By the time the king reached the floor, the other family members caught on to their father's excitement. Each one began to follow their father, crying out for more information. Those sitting at the lower tables abandoned their meal to watch the spectacle unfold.

Cal placed himself beside the girl, in case she decided to run, while the king grabbed her by the arm and pulled her to her feet. Somehow, regardless of the large family crowding around her, the princess maintained a look of proud aloofness. Even though the girl barely reached Cal's shoulders, she managed to look down on them—giving each their own, personal glower. The look was of complete dismissal; it said: _Wolfric isn't worth my time._

Wolfric grabbed her bruised jaw with his large hands and forced her attention back onto himself, while his other hand grasped the precious ring. The princess allowed him to stare at her for a few seconds before jerking her face out of his grasp. The king let her, too shocked to punish her for such brazen behavior.

"Are you Bethany?" he asked. Wolfric had never been a man to parse words. If three would suffice, why use more?

"I am Bethany Kavadh, youngest child of King Middin Kavadh, eldest son of King Faelan, eldest son of King Herral, second el..."

She never finished her lengthy sentence. In a quick burst of rage, Wolfric backhanded her across the face, sending her colliding into Cal. The knight tried to catch her out of reflexes, but she slipped through his fingers and collapsed on the floor. The princess lay in a silent heap, not moving a muscle. Cal wondered if she were trying her old trick of pretending to be more hurt than she really was.

"Is she dead?" asked Mirabelle in a breathless tone.

Cal bent down to feel her pulse. It beat strongly against his fingers. "She's alive," he announced while he took the opportunity of pinching her on the flesh running from her shoulder to her neck.

She didn't move.

There was a moment of awkward silence. No one seemed sure what to do with their sudden discovery. Cal, of course, thought the stocks to be the best place for her. The last thing he needed was another pretentious royal looking down at him.

Finally, when he was about to make the suggestion, Queen Arabelle took charge.

"You two," she said, waving towards two of the gawking slaves. "Carry her up to the corner room, next to Mirabelle's."

"What!" demanded Princess Mirabelle, but no one paid her any attention.

The queen continued, "Hepner, send for guards and inform the captain of the guards I want men at her door at all times."

While the queen made the arrangements, the king began to pace along the narrow portion of the great hall, his worn hands clasped behind his back. Cal could tell he was deep in thought. The prospect of holding one of King Middin's children hostage had the potential for changing many of his plans. Of course, King Middin was now known to be dead. But his son... _what was his son's name?_

Cal tried to think of it, but couldn't recall the name of the enemy prince. Still, whoever was now in charge would certainly do something for the girl if they knew she was still alive.

The real question was: _How would Wolfric use this to his advantage?_

Finally, when the queen's arrangements had been completed, the king stopped his pacing and spoke. "Everyone return to your meal. When we are finished here, Arabelle, I want you to oversee her needs. Get her cleaned up and well dressed. Mirabelle, surely you have a dress or two that you no longer fit in. I want to see if there is any beauty under all those bruises. Cal, I am placing the princess under your supervision—"

"What?" demanded the knight, before he could clamp his lips shut.

"Did I stutter?" Wolfric growled.

Cal could see the king's shoulders twitch in half contained emotion. The king was clearly greatly affected by his sudden advantage; though whether anger or excitement prevailed, Cal couldn't be sure.

"I have no intention of giving that whore any of my dresses," announced Mirabelle, taking Wolfric's attention away from the knight, as she made her way back to the dais.

Wolfric grabbed her by the arm and spun her 'till she faced him. The princess had the good nature to grimace and cast her eyes on the floor.

"You will do exactly as I tell you. Do you hear me?" he added with a firm shake.

Mirabelle nodded while the queen tried to make peace.

"I'm sure, Mirabelle, you have a few older garments still in your wardrobe that you'll never want to wear again. The girl can take them in herself," added the queen as she guided her daughter away from her angry husband.

Wolfric might have valued his wife for her ability to bear children and his sons for their ability to rule, but Mirabelle had proven herself useless—she was neither married nor did she appear to have any prospect in that regard. Mirabelle was the only one unaware of her predicament. Eventually, the king would marry her off to a desperate lord or knight with a smidgen of noble blood, if for no other reason than to be rid of her. The king held no love for his eldest daughter.

_Then again, who would_? Cal wondered as he followed the others back to their meal.

More importantly, what was expected from him in regards to the princess? Thankfully, the king chose not to leave his directions open to interpretation.

"Sir Caldry, I want you to set up her guard rotation. They will report directly to you. And anytime she leaves her room, I want you and two additional guards in attendance. She has proven herself a schemer. I trust she will not escape while under your care. If she does..." Wolfric trailed off. He didn't need to finish the threat to make Cal's gut tighten.

His dislike for the Tokë princess grew as he began to shovel his dinner into his mouth.

# Chapter Thirty-Eight

Bethany became conscious of her surroundings slowly, one sense returning at a time. The first thing she became aware of was the feeling of a smooth fabric beneath her face. Eventually, she realized the surface was soft against her battered body. Leisurely, she opened her eyes to an unexpected sight. She was lying across a large bed in a room she recognized as one of the castle's guest rooms reserved for very special visitors.

The room was as large as most of the family quarters—long and narrow. On one of the smaller walls was a narrow, but a deep-set window. The pink light of a sunset shining through suggested she had been unconscious for at least an hour. Bethany sat up slowly. Her head ached, and she felt a sharp pain an inch beneath her left breast. Her breath caught in her chest as she felt near the pain. A broken rib, she suspected. That was going to hurt for a long while.

Bethany took the lonely opportunity to look around the room. A large fire crackled in the hearth on the long wall across from the enormous bed. Other than the bed, the room held a writing desk, a small table, a large tin bathing tub, a trunk, and a wardrobe. The stone walls were hung with elegant draperies that showed no signs of wear or age—quite opposite from the tapestries hung in Sir Caldry's room. Bethany blushed as she recollected her time in the knight's private chambers.

Without thinking about it, she climbed off the bed and went to the door. Not surprisingly, it was locked. She thought about pounding on it or calling out but chose not to. The guards wouldn't let her out if the door was so purposefully locked.

Without knowing what else to do, Bethany moved to the fire and sat on the thick bearskin rug. This fur was white—a common decoration for feminine rooms. Prince Féderic's room had a brown fur. She ran her fingers through it, enjoying the sensation. Bethany knew she ought to be planning her next move, or, at the very least, worrying about what would happen to her, but she couldn't bring herself to care. For the first time in months, she didn't have a life or death secret weighing her down. She felt light, almost carefree. It was unnervingly pleasant.

Before she could enjoy the impression for long, she heard the lock on the door rattle. A second later, the door swung open. A row of slaves entered, each one carrying pails of steaming water and trying their best to gawk surreptitiously at Bethany—no doubt the rumor of her true identity had spread through the castle-like wildfire. After the row of water-carrying slaves came a slave with a pile of fabric, which she deposited on the bed, and another with a plate of food. While the slaves filled the tub and generally fidgeted around the room, the queen entered. She dismissed all but two young, female slaves.

With a calculated smile, the queen turned towards her captive. "Now Bethany, let's get you cleaned up. Come on," she added when Bethany failed to move.

The princess rose with difficulty and came closer to the queen. She didn't trust the other woman or her smile. After all, she had once contaminated the queen's bath. Would the queen be seeking revenge for that?

"Come on. Off with... that..." encouraged the queen, as she struggled to name the filthy garment Bethany presently wore.

After a minute's hesitation, during which the queen grew increasingly impatient, Bethany began awkwardly and painfully, pulling at the lacings. One of the slaves came to her rescue.

Finally, with a hiss of shock and pain, Bethany lowered herself into the steaming water. It was soothing to her bruised muscles but stung her numerous cuts. Before she could truly appreciate it, the two slaves jumped forward and began to scrub at the layers of dirt. In the end, the bath was more painful than relaxing, and Bethany was glad to leave it.

By the time they had declared her clean enough, the queen had sorted through the fabric on the bed and picked out the smallest lump—a dress of grayish-blue fabric with double-layer sleeves, one layer designed to be snug against the skin, while the out layer draped from the shoulders in folds of elegance. Of course, no piece of the dress was snug on Bethany. Though she had gained back a pound or two while recovering in the knight's room, she had lost nearly every ounce of fat while in the pits for such a long time. Despite the months of captivity, Bethany had never been _this_ thin.

Mirabelle's dress, many years out of style, hung from Bethany's boney shoulders. They tried adding a belt to the gown, but the result was nearly comical. Pulled tight around her tiny waist, the belt caused the ample fabric to bunch oddly, making her look like a bushel of cloth. In the end, they allowed her to sit in a night frock and robe, and nibble on the food provided.

Overall, Bethany couldn't figure out what was going on. The queen seemed perfectly cordial, pleasant in fact, though she did avoid looking at Bethany's scarred body. Nevertheless, Bethany didn't trust her for a moment. Not a syllable was said about what they planned on doing with her; the queen talked about gathering supplies for Bethany so that she could take in the dresses condescendingly provided by Mirabelle, and even sent for said supplies.

Finally, when the skies were dark, and Bethany felt exhausted from the emotional tumult of the day, Arabelle left her.

Bethany climbed into the large bed, pulled the thick curtains around it, and fell fast asleep.

# Chapter Thirty-Nine

Pelor hovered over his struggling fire, afraid another gust of wet wind would put it out completely. He had already sacrificed his cloak to provide a rain shield—suspended over the fire with a few twigs and an obliging tree—but with the wind blowing moisture in from all angles, he wasn't sure if the sodden fabric would be enough. With shaking fingers he crumbled up another small piece of dried tinder, which he had found under a thick bush, and blew into the flickering flame. The wood caught and the fire took.

The knight, wet and exhausted, gave a sigh of genuine relief. He had already spent the last two nights in the rain, propped up against large trees or stumps to keep his head out of the mud. Pelor carefully added a few larger pieces of wood before crawling under his cloak. Between it and a few carefully placed branches, he had managed to create a less-wet spot. The space wasn't large enough to stretch out in, but he would take cramped leg muscles over wet ones.

He was just beginning to pull out the last tiny wedge of cheese from his pack when he heard the sound of approaching horse hooves. They didn't clunk against the ground. It was far too wet for that, but the steady tread was audible nonetheless.

Pelor ducked his head in an effort to see beyond his impromptu shelter and carefully drew his dagger. After a short wait, the horse in question appeared. It was an old, swayback paint, ready for the pasture. Pelor unwillingly dragged himself out from under the dubious protection of his cloak when it became clear the traveler was going to stop.

In what little light still filtered through the thick clouds and forest canopy, Pelor spotted a pale man dressed in healer's garments, dismount from the tired-looking animal. The knight carefully returned the dagger to its hidden sheath tucked into his jerkin. He had another one hidden in his left boot. It was his nature to be prepared for the worst, but the pudgy healer could hardly be a threat.

"I saw your fire, friend," began the other man as he led his horse forwards, "and hoped you had space for another."

Pelor glanced down at his already cramped quarters. He didn't want to share it, but the heat of another body would be welcome.

"I have bread and jerked beef to offer to the super table," added the healer when he noticed Pelor's hesitation.

Pelor waved him towards the fire. After tonight he would be out of food, and a full stomach would be welcome. While the healer tethered his horse next to Pelor's little mare, Pelor added more wood to the fire. Before the rain had picked up to its present fervor, Pelor had scrounged up a decent pile of dried brushwood.

"My name's Micah," announced the healer as he crawled under the protection of Pelor's delicate shelter.

"Pelor," the knight grumbled.

He wasn't in the mood to dialogue with a stranger and hoped the healer wouldn't insist on it. His hope would go unanswered.

The healer rambled on as he prepared their meal, asking the occasional question and not growing offended as his companion refused to answer. Finally, the meal was consumed, and they agreed to seek the quiet refuge of sleep.

The healer fell asleep with ease, quickly drifting into a deep sleep that produced a loud snore. Pelor rolled his eyes as he settled against the healer's back. Even if he snored, at least he produced some heat. It was a long while before Pelor found his own peaceful oblivion.

Pelor woke with a start. Something was wrong. His back was cold. He kept still as he listened to the low crackle of the dying fire, slowly tuning it out and focusing on the other sounds. The rain had stopped, but the trees still dripped noisily. Beyond that, there was something more. Pelor opened his mouth slightly to lessen the sound of his own breathing.

And there it was—the sound of creaking leather and the soft rustle of fabric. Slowly, Pelor opened one eye. Not surprisingly, he spotted Micah rummaging through his saddlebags resting by his head. There wasn't much to find there. Pelor kept what little gold he had in his boot, far from prying fingers. With a quick jab of his fist, he took hold of the thief's pale arm and twisted. The man, whom he doubted was a healer at all, tried to follow the sudden movement of his arm to relieve the pain, while at the same time letting out a little cry of surprise.

"Want to tell me what this is about?" asked Pelor. "Did you really expect to find anything worthwhile in there?"

Micah grunted as he tried to pry Pelor's fingers from his arm. When it became clear that Pelor would not let go, the thief began to speak.

"You can hardly blame me."

"Oh yes, I can."

With his other hand, Pelor threw a quick punch, striking Micah in the eye and sending him onto his backside. Pelor used this moment to scramble out from under the shelter and land a swift kick on the other man's ribcage. Micah grunted with the impact of his kick and rolled away, but Pelor was faster. He pinned Micah to the ground, pressing his knee slowly towards the other man's neck.

"Now...let's have a little chat. Are you alone?"

"Yes... yes... quite alone," stammered Micah as he suddenly realized how dangerous his companion was.

"Who do you work for?"

"No one. Myself, I guess."

"And what were you looking for in my bags?"

"Anything! Money! Food! Anything!"

Pelor was silent for a moment, considering what to ask next. Before he could make up his mind, his captive stammered on. "What...where... I mean, what are you going to do with me?"

The knight hesitated again. He really didn't want to kill the thief, nor did he want the man following him.

"This," he answered with a hard blow to the man's head.

Micah jerked once before collapsing into unconsciousness. To be certain, Pelor pressed his hand against the man's mouth. He was still breathing.

As quickly as he could, Pelor tore down his shelter and saddled his horse. The thief's horse whinnied at him as he pulled the cinch tighter one last time. It was hardly worth the meat on its bones, but that was still something. Pelor took its lead and tied it to his own saddle before swinging up onto his own horse.

As quickly as he could, he rode away, determined to not think about what would become of the man when he awoke.

# Chapter Forty

Bethany had enjoyed, and endured, six days of nearly complete solitude. She spent her time obeying the queen and taking in the few dresses given over to her from Mirabelle's wardrobe. Even the smallest was inches larger than her waist required. Three times a day a slave arrived with a plate of food. Bethany willingly ate anything they brought, though it was not exactly the cuisine consumed at the king's table. Still, it wasn't stale or burned.

When she wasn't sewing, she slept. If left to it, she would have slept the clock around, but each day the queen or her lady-in-waiting came to check on her progress. Those brief visits did little to interrupt her solitude, but they did force her to continue the work left for her.

_It could be worse_ , she told herself on the sixth day.

She was right.

On the morning of the seventh day, she received a surprising visit. Flora entered, followed by a row of slaves with hot water. Bethany could imagine the purpose of this visit: It meant she would be visited by someone other than the queen before too long.

The other slaves filled the tub and left. Flora remained, gently nudging the princess towards the tub. Bethany removed the robe she had been wearing willingly enough. Despite her elevation to the rank of captive, she knew it was pointless to return to her former modesty—too many had seen her naked already.

Therefore she quickly lowered herself into the water and let Flora wash her hair. The slave didn't speak for a long while, but finally, her curiosity got the best of her.

"Princess," she whispered.

"Speak freely, Flora."

"I wish you told me."

"And what would you have done with this information?"

Flora was silent for a long time as she rinsed the soap from Bethany's hair. "Still, I could've helped you in some way, I'm sure."

"That would have only gotten you in trouble. It is best that you didn't know."

"You might be right, at that."

They were silent for a long time after that. Bethany climbed out of the tub and dried herself off.

"The king is coming. What you wanna wear for him?"

Bethany hesitated. "You have my old slave frock?"

Flora looked at her, her eyes growing large in her dark face until Bethany could see all the white around her irises.

"I do, milady... but..."

"Don't worry, Flora. It was a joke. Whichever you think is nicest. I have most of them taken in."

Flora picked out a delicate white gown with gold trimming and a gold belt that wound around her thin waist. The slave braided her hair and wrapped the long braid in gold string—scraps from when Bethany took in the dress.

"You look pretty."

"Thank yo..." but she never finished her statement.

The door burst open, and in traipsed half the royal family. Flora quickly bowed and scooted into a dark corner. The king and queen both looked resplendent in their finest, as did their five eldest children. Even Sir Caldry, who entered last, was dressed in his best. Bethany could see the other knights waiting in the corridor, also dressed in their best. She felt her stomach drop into her knees.

What was the special occasion?

Even in her new garments, with her hair clean and braided, Bethany looked pathetic next to them. She couldn't help it, covered in half-healed bruises and scabbed-over cuts. She knew it and knew it was purposefully done. Still, she held her head high. She wouldn't fold to them. Not now—not ever!

"Cal, take her to the wagon," ordered the king.

"My lord," murmured the knight as he passed by the family.

He took her by the arm and roughly dragged her towards the door. The family parted, watching her pass with cold, calculating eyes. All but Féderic; his eyes glowed with excitement as he watched her every move. Bethany felt her stomach drop farther. She knew what he would want from her, even now that she was no longer his slave.

Sir Caldry tugged her down to the bailey, where a small cart shrouded in fabric waited. Bethany also noticed the horses of the royal family saddled and waiting. The knight shoved her into the back of the wagon and tied her hands to the sides before mounting his own mighty steed. A soldier climbed into the seat in the front and whipped the horse into motion.

Even through the breaks in the dark fabric, she couldn't tell where they were taking her. She didn't know the city, having been in it only the one time. Bethany had spent all her months of captivity in the castle. After a few stops and turns, Bethany sat back and gave herself over to her fate.

Wherever they were taking her, she doubted they intended to kill her. They could have done that just as easily at the castle.

Cal pulled his warhorse to a sudden stop. In the shadows, the horse looked to be a flat dark brown, but the minute the sun reflected off of him, one could see all the varying shades hidden in his thick coat. His muscled legs bore long feathery hair that covered his enormous hooves. Three of his legs darkened into a rich brown that almost looked black, while one of his hind legs displayed a small, white sock. Cal had been forced to fight off bandits and buyers over his horse on numerous occasions.

"Steady, Éimhin," he murmured absently as he patted the stallion on the neck.

The horse was in high spirits today. It had been a long time since he'd had the freedom to take the beast out of the busy city. He wanted to run him, but he had to watch the princess.

Cal pursed his lips as he watched the tiny wagon begin to slow down. They had traveled out past the houses that had sprung up beyond the protection of the city walls. Now, nothing but forest and the occasional farm tucked into a valley lay ahead of them. They would stop here and wait for the royal family to meet them. Cal watched the soldier direct the old horse toward the side of the roadway.

It had been a rough journey down the steep mountain road that led from Tolad. No doubt it had been worse for the princess. Cal forced his jaw to relax when he realized he had been grinding his teeth again. It was a nasty habit his sister and mother had often chided him over.

The knight dismounted and led his energetic horse to a patch of grass and thistles, where he tethered it to a tree. It may not be the same as running him, but at least this way Éimhin wouldn't get bored. Cal had never seen an animal so curious, or so mean. Most of the stable hands possessed scars on their shoulders from walking too close to Éimhin's stable. The nasty beast would stretch his neck out and nip at passing workers. They quickly learned to avoid him. The horse knew not to bite Cal; therefore, he didn't mind his horse's bad manners too much. Éimhin's propensity to bite was a great asset on the battlefield.

Cal took a moment to watch his horse nimbly curl back its lips and pluck a thistle bloom before he turned towards the wagon. He would have preferred to leave the woman in the darkness of the covered wagon, but Wolfric had made it clear that she was their guest now, not their slave—a change Mirabelle was not taking well. Secretly, Cal agreed with Mirabelle's suggestion of sending the princess' head to her brother in Dothan, though his reasoning greatly varied from Mirabelle's jealousy.

The last thing he needed was another noble ruining his life. Wolfric had done that enough for a thousand nobles.

With a quick, annoyed jerk, Cal pulled the back drape away. The girl blinked fiercely as the morning sun shown down on her. Cal could see that her eyes were watering from the sudden light, but he didn't feel like caring. He bent forward and untied her hands.

"You run, I tie you up again. Understand?"

She nodded slowly. "Where are we?"

Cal grimaced. He didn't want to talk to her. He didn't want to look at her. He didn't want to think about her.

Cal glanced at the soldier, but he had already pulled his hood over his eyes and drifted to sleep. Cal considered smacking him back into consciousness but decided against it. The truth was the soldier was hardly needed. It would look odd if he, a knight, asked a foot soldier for help. He couldn't very well say, "Please be a third party member so I don't have to talk to this woman."

Any other knight in Wolfric's castle would have been glad of the opportunity to chat up the captive princess.

"We are a few miles outside of Tolad."

"Why have you brought me here?" she asked.

"The king ordered me to." Cal glared at her, hoping to scare her into silence.

"Why did he do that?"

"You'll find out soon enough."

"Is he going to have me killed?" she asked the second Cal had finished speaking.

"Will you not be quiet?" snapped the knight as he lowered himself onto the tailgate of the wagon.

The sun was warm and it was pleasant to be away from the noisy city, or it would have been had he been left to his own thoughts.

"Somebody didn't get his beauty rest," she mumbled as she settled onto the tailgate next to him.

"Perhaps I'm simply annoyed with my present company."

"You were never this cranky when I stayed in your room," the girl stated before she could censor herself.

Out of the corner of his eye, Cal could see a delicate, little blush darken her cheeks. It was rather pretty, though he refused to admit it.

"A few things have changed since then."

Thankfully, before she could ask him any more questions, they heard the sound of approaching horses.

# Chapter Forty-One

Bethany was about to ask the knight what he had meant when the sound of numerous approaching horses stopped her. Something was different about the scarred knight, but she couldn't tell what. Bethany had almost thought they were becoming friends during her convalescent time in his room and even during the days that followed. He had been gentle with her, concerned even, but now, Sir Caldry seemed more like the man she had first met all those months ago—cold and cruel.

Not surprisingly, those who had invaded her room arrived on horseback, surrounded by two dozen mounted guards and the castle knights. Their arrival shook the ground with the pounding of so many heavy hooves. The queen and her daughter remained on their delicate mares, while the men dismounted. Wolfric, Féderic, and Lord Payne, the king's advisor, approached Bethany and Sir Caldry.

"Caldry, get her back into the wagon," ordered the king. "Men, get this fabric down. I want them _all_ to see her."

Everyone jumped forward to do their assigned tasks. Sir Caldry pushed her roughly over the back of the wagon. She tripped in her scramble to climb back in and banged her bony knee against the hardwood, but he didn't withdraw his constant prodding. Eventually, Bethany made it into the wagon. The knight climbed in behind her and tied one hand to each side of the wagon, forcing her to ride on her knees, facing forward. It was awkward and uncomfortable.

Within a few minutes, the fabric was removed and the men were remounted. Six guards took the lead, followed by King Wolfric and Prince Féderic, then came the wagon. Bethany glanced over her shoulder to see how the others arranged themselves. The rest of the royal family, with Arabelle in front, followed the wagon. After the royals came the knights, including Sir Caldry and Lord Payne. Lastly, the remaining guards brought up the rear.

It was a long, noisy parade, even when they slowed to a walk at the city gates. One of the first guards began calling out in a loud voice, "Make way for the king and captured princess! Bethany Kavadh, captured by King Wolfric. Make way for the king..."

_That seems like a bit of an exaggeration,_ Bethany thought.

The procession wound through what must have been most of the main streets of the city before turning towards the castle. Bethany had never been in the city without her view blocked by heavy curtains. Now she looked her fill. There didn't seem to be any logical organization to the layout. Roads were seldom straight or designated for one type of building. She noticed a shop, such as a shoemaker or a weaver, right next to the high walls of a private estate. Blacksmiths intermingled with brothels and butchers.

Initially, it gave her ample sources of entertainment, but after the third turn, the crowd took to whooping and howling at her. Bethany tried to ignore their words, but the coarser they became, the more she struggled. Eventually, hot tears began to roll down her cheeks.

"Whore!" one woman yelled, as she hurtled a rotten fish at her.

The projectile hit her in the shoulder, leaving a gray streak on her dress. The flying fish was the catalyst the angry mob needed. Half the audience took to chucking rotten food at her: cabbage, fish, and tomatoes soon covered her white dress. This continued until one of the missiles grazed the queen's horse. Quickly, before anyone could lose a head, the guards fanned out and surrounded the procession to effectively end the crowd's target practice. Still, the damage was already done.

By the time the wagon worked its way onto the final hill, Bethany's head ached with the creaking of the wagon, the pounding of horse's hooves, and the crowd's monstrous shouting. She looked and smelled like the refuse pile. Bethany tried not to think, but her thoughts had a mind of their own, traveling from one topic to another, finally resting on imagining what her family would think if they saw her now.

She had once been the most loved of her family: Elegant, beautiful, rich—everything desirable in a woman.

What was she now? Nothing. Worse than nothing. If Wolfric tried to ransom her, she would be a burden on her family.

Bethany let the tears roll down her smudged cheeks as the parade made its way back to the castle.

She didn't hold her head high any longer.

# Chapter Forty-Two

Bethany paced down the length of her room, yet again. It had been five days since the horrifying parade. Without anything to sew or the need to sleep, Bethany found herself bored as she had never been in her life. Before captivity, she always had a task to accomplish with her mother—assisting the healers, seeing to the poor boxes, arranging the evening entertainment. Even in her spare time, she had her music to work on, her embroidery to finish, and her sister to visit. As a slave, she had never been left with a minute to call her own.

Now, as a captive, she found she had nothing but time.

At first she had tried to find some mistake in her alterations of the dresses given to her by Mirabella, but, of course, they were perfect. After that, she sat and stared out the narrow window. She could only see a small portion of the bailey, and it was seldom full of activity. Next, she counted the large stones used to build the hearth in her room. This experiment grew until she had counted all the stones on each wall. After counting them, she began to name the stones but gave up after the first couple attempts. On the following day, she spent half her time lying on the floor and crossing her eyes in an effort to find shapes in the stones.

She never found any.

The only interruption she received was the delivery of her meals and the occasional bath prepared for her by a row of servants that came and left in complete silence.

Now, when she felt ready to scream, she paced the length of the room, listening to the sound of her bare feet pattering against the wood floor. As the sun was beginning to descend from its zenith—and therefore shining brightly into her room—Bethany heard the lock on her door clank as a key was turned.

She stopped her pacing as the door swung open. Flora entered carrying a wide, wooden box.

"Times to getting dressed," she announced.

Bethany looked purposefully down at the gown she was wearing.

"Nopes," responded the slave. "Something nicer."

"What's happening?"

"You eating wiff family."

Bethany suddenly felt more inclined to remain in her lonely room. Flora set the box on the foot of the bed and moved to the wardrobe. After a few moments digging, she pulled out the only dress Bethany had struggled to resize. It was heavy with thick, rich embroidery. Bright gold thread adorned the dark blue color of the fabric throughout the skirt and around the cuffs of the long sleeves. Bethany swallowed the lump in her throat—what torment did they have in mind for her now?

A few minutes later, she was dressed in the new gown and her hair was piled on her head in intricate braids. With a smile on her wide lips, Flora took the box and flipped the lid open. Inside lay an array of jewelry, the centerpiece being a thick belt of gold links.

Bethany frowned at the slave, who was already pulling the belt out of the box and moving to fasten it to her waist. When it was attached, Flora took up the necklace—a heavy gold chain accented with three large sapphires. Once the heavy chain was on, Flora flipped the padding aside to reveal a matching bracelet and three sapphire rings.

"Don't you think this is a little much?" asked Bethany.

Before becoming a slave, she would have liked nothing better than to wear this much wealth on her body. It made her feel grown up and regal—like her elder sister or mother. Now, it just felt ridiculous.

"The king sent them to you; I think he means you to wear them."

"Not to keep, surely."

Flora shrugged. Finally, the last piece of jewelry was on. Bethany felt weighed down and overwhelmed.

What in the world were they planning?

Flora turned back to the box, and Bethany wondered what else could be hidden in its depths. The slave pulled out a small pouch, loosened the drawstrings, and dumped a small, golden item into Bethany's outstretched hand. She looked down at it and gasped as she recognized her own signet ring.

Before she could question the slave, the door opened to reveal Sir Erin Caldry. Once again, he was dressed in his best. The sight of the knight, normally looking as though he was about to step onto the battlefield, brought a shiver of fear down her spine.

"Ready?" he asked.

Bethany watched as his green eyes assessed her appearance. They darkened, and the skin around them tightened as his expression turned into a glare.

_What have I done now?_ she wondered.

"Yes," Bethany responded aloud, trying her best not to let her voice crack. Her efforts caused her to sound disdainful and condescending, even to her own ears.

The knight held out his arm in a quick jerk. Determined to not look frightened, Bethany threw back her head and, with all the grace she could muster, placed her small hand in the crook of his arm. He lowered his arm and bent it until her fingers were smashed in the inside of his elbow and the back of her hand was crushed between his arm and his side. If Bethany had been inclined to flee from him, she would never have been able to free her hand.

They left her room and made their way to the main staircase that led down to the great hall. At the head of the stairs, the royal family waited. Bethany thought she was overdressed until she saw the others. Mirabelle was dressed in a gown of rich, green velvet. Her long, flowing sleeves were pulled up and pinned at the elbow, to reveal the thick brown fur lining the sleeves. Gems and gold trinkets had been sewn into the heart-shaped neck of the dress and along the waistline. On top of this, the local princess wore a delicate crown and a heavy necklace of gold. The queen was no less adorned.

Even the men were embellished with gold and jewels.

"Ah, I see Cal found you ready, my dear," said the king as he approached her. He took her hand and kissed it gallantly. "You look radiant."

Bethany felt herself glow with the compliment, and it sickened her. Was she so desperate for admiration that she would accept it from Wolfric—the man who had destroyed her life? Bethany ground her teeth together and lowered her head a fraction of an inch in response. The king's smile faltered for a second before he gestured for the family to head down the stairs. They waited for Wolfric to take Arabelle's arm and lead the way. The children descended, oldest to youngest, followed by Bethany, escorted by the knight.

At the entrance to the great hall, a herald announced them as they entered. It surprised Bethany when she heard him call out.

"Princess Bethany Kavadh, guest of the king, escorted by Sir Erin Caldry, the hero of the Battle of Cascina Bridge, the assault on Nájera, the Battle of Rouen..."

Bethany's eyebrows contracted in wonder as she tried to steal a glance at the man escorting her to the high table. She had always feared him, especially when he held a whip, but she had never realized how truly dangerous he was. Many of the men in the castle were dangerous as a result of a bad temper; he was dangerous due to skill. Suddenly the clink of his chainmail and the tap of his scabbard against his leg became deadly, foreboding sounds.

The knight led her up the steps of the dais and helped her to a seat next to Mirabelle. Bethany swallowed another shudder of nervousness. Of all the royal family, Mirabelle was her least favorite—and the feeling was mutual.

The local princess blatantly glared at her while she took her seat. Silently, the knight sat in the chair on Bethany's other side. At first, Mirabelle seemed content to ignore Bethany, and Bethany preferred this treatment. She was happy to sit in silence and eat the delicacies offered her, but halfway through the meal, things took a turn for the worse.

"So, slave girl..." began Mirabelle in a soft voice, so as not to attract the attention of her parents. "How is it you managed to convince my father that you were a princess?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," replied Bethany, before taking a small bite of quail.

"You must have done something. Are you his new mistress?" she added in a whispered aside.

Bethany smiled delicately, glad to be beyond the age and naivety of blushing at the mere mention of sexual immorality. If someone had spoken to her of mistresses before her time as a slave, she would have turned scarlet.

"I would not degrade myself in such a fashion," she responded before she heard Sir Caldry carefully clear his throat.

_Was it a warning?_ Bethany was playing with fire, and she knew it, but it was enjoyable to bait the other princess.

"Degrade?" demanded Mirabelle in a more audible tone.

Bethany noticed the sudden attention of Féderic, Wolfric, and Arabelle. She pointedly turned towards Mirabelle before replying.

"Yes. Is it not a degradation for any woman of character to become a man's mistress? I have personally not known desperation like that. Have you?" she added for good measure.

Bethany felt the knight's elbow nudge her, but she ignored him.

"What is it you are accusing our guest of, little sister?" asked Féderic.

Bethany felt a sudden surge of surprise. The prince did not seem the type to keep his sister out of mischief, and yet it sounded very much like a warning.

Mirabelle hesitated, her eyes darting around the room to the new listeners she had acquired. "I uh... I was simply asking our guest how she had managed to convince Father that she was, in fact, the foreign princess."

Evidently, Mirabelle had decided to use the truth rather than attempt a lie.

_Wise_ , thought Bethany.

"And you were suggesting I had taken her as a mistress?" asked the king in a voice between anger and humor.

Mirabelle didn't answer.

Wolfric suddenly laughed. "Though I'd gladly take her into my bed now that I have seen her as she is today, I would not have touched her beforehand. You can be assured, Daughter, I have ascertained the truth of her claims."

Bethany lifted her chin in disgust and turned her attention back to her food. She did not want to see the faint blush on the queen's cheeks or the mischievous grin on Féderic's face. Besides, she could feel her own cheeks heating up with a blush. It was one thing to talk about mistresses in general; it was an entirely different matter to be told you were wanted as one.

"Still," continued Mirabelle, clearly not taking the hint from her father. "She is our captive, is she not? Why then are we treating her like an honored guest? She should be sent to the dungeons like any other captive of war."

It was Féderic's turn to laugh. "Mirabelle, you clearly have never seen how a noble is to be treated when captured. If you were captured by Middin... I mean, his son. Ann, what is the name of your father's heir?"

Without turning her head, Bethany said, "Gilead Kavadh is my eldest brother and heir to my father's throne. And my name is Bethany."

"Bethany, then." He smiled. "Mirabelle, if you were captured by Gilead, wouldn't you want to be treated as we are treating our Bethany?"

Again, Bethany ground her teeth together to keep from screaming.

"Father would never allow me to be captured," stated Mirabelle in a matter of fact tone.

"Your father does not expect you to do anything in the war effort," commented Bethany before she could censor herself.

Féderic burst out laughing and nudged his sister. "Too true, Bethany!"

"Tell me, Bethany, how was it you came to my lands?" asked Wolfric, his commanding voice cutting across his son's laughter.

"I don't see how it's any of your business," she murmured, still unwilling to turn and look at the king.

"It is in the sense that I have the power to return you to your family."

Bethany hesitated for a moment, thinking through what the king had just offered her. "I was sent to visit my uncle, Lord Elias, in Garrul... to bring him comfort in the twilight of his life."

Bethany swallowed the lump in her throat. Her uncle was likely also dead. She struggled to word her story in a way that did not show just how angry she was at being sent and therefore captured.

"As I traveled home, my caravan was attacked. I escaped and ran into the woods to wait until the battle was finished. While in the forest, a slaver found me. I was taken to Dothan, and Prince Féderic purchased me."

"And why did you not come clean immediately?" asked Féderic.

Bethany paused to think through her answer. She could very well tell them her hopes of doing mischief seemed greater as a slave than a captive, but she thought better of it. Finally, she spoke.

"I did not realize your father treated his prisoners so well," she stated as she lifted her glass of wine in a toast.

"Well said!" beamed Wolfric.

Out of the corner of her eye, Bethany noticed Mirabelle's face harden into a cold glare, though she did not turn it on any one person; Mirabelle was angry at everyone, not just Bethany.

Bethany wasn't sure if she should feel relieved or not.

# Chapter Forty-Three

Cal pushed his plate away, happy to see that the others were finishing their last course. He was ready to deposit the princess back in her room and have the rest of the evening to himself. It was only a short wait before King Wolfric rose from his seat, signaling the end of the meal. The guests on the lower level rose as well and bowed to their king.

"Why don't I walk you back to your room, Bethany," Wolfric said in a congenial voice that Cal had grown to mistrust.

He noticed the princess swallow a lump in her throat before she rose from her own seat. Cal followed, knowing that the king had ordered him to escort her anytime she was out of her room, though he hardly wanted to be witness to what was about to happen.

The princess linked her arm with the king's with good grace, though Cal could see her cheeks glowing with a bright blush and the muscles of her jaw ripple. Like him, she knew what these civilities were really about. Cal rolled his eyes and followed them out, trying not to see the queen's look of hurt and mistrust.

_Arabelle knows her husband takes mistresses_. _There is no reason to be so upset now_ , he thought as he slowed his pace to keep a lengthy distance between him and the nobles. Bethany's guards followed him at yet a farther distance.

"You know, I wasn't teasing, Bethany, when I spoke of you as my mistress. We could come to a very comfortable arrangement," said the king.

Cal tried not to hear, but the stone corridor echoed back to him.

"Nor was I teasing when I said it would be a degradation. I will not enter the bed of any man, save my husband."

"And you are determined in this?"

"I am."

The king suddenly stopped walking, forcing her to stop as well. Cal didn't notice until he had taken a few steps, bringing him far closer to them than he wanted. Wolfric wrapped one arm around her slender waist while the other began pulling her skirt up. Cal caught a glimpse of leg before carefully pulling his attention away. He noticed the guards were ogling the sight until they saw the knight's glare. Suddenly the wooden slats of the floor became extremely stimulating.

"Then you do not realize the pleasure you are denying yourself," whispered the king.

Cal glanced at them out of the corner of his eyes. He couldn't help it. Half of him wanted Wolfric to teach her a lesson, the other half wanted to drive his fist into the king's face. The king's hand had nearly reached skin by gathering up the skirt of her dress. Cal noticed Bethany's jaw clenched as she glared up at her captor, fire erupting from her eyes.

Before she could respond, Wolfric clamped his mouth on hers. Cal thought it looked as though the king might actually be trying to eat her face. The desire to gag grew in his throat as he looked away, but a sudden commotion drew his attention back. Bethany had shoved against the king's chest with all her might, causing him to stagger back a step. Without waiting for anyone to respond, the captive princess slapped Wolfric across the cheek, causing a loud crack to resonate down the corridor.

Wolfric rubbed his glowing jaw. A smile played at his lips as he grabbed her roughly by the arm and propelled her forward. The princess nearly ended up in a heap on the floor. Only the strength of the king's arms kept her upright as he propelled her down the long corridor. Cal resumed his slow pace while Wolfric pushed and prodded her towards her room. He opened the door and flung her in. Bethany stumbled and landed on the floor.

Like the simpleton she was, she climbed to her feet and gave the king a look of haughty disdain—one Cal was quickly recognizing to be Bethany at her worst.

Didn't she know she would only make him angrier this way?

Cal followed the king into the room, motioning for the guards to remain outside. He wasn't sure how the king intended to punish her or if it was a private affair.

"Cal, you have your dagger?" the king suddenly asked as he glowered down at the young woman.

The knight's eyebrows drew together. _What is he thinking?_

"Yes, my lord."

He withdrew his dagger and offered it to the king.

"Put it in the fire," growled Wolfric.

Cal obeyed, a sickening feeling building in his gut. He tried not to look while the king shoved the princess over the edge of the bed and pulled the shoulder of her dress down until nearly half her chest was bare to the world.

This wasn't easy to achieve. The feisty woman fought against his every move. When he had her pinned with his forearm pressed against her throat and his hand groping the revealed breast, he called for the dagger. Cal was glad to see the metal had not had a chance to turn red. It would still hurt all the same.

The knight brought it to the king, who was still struggling with the desperate woman.

"Below her neckline," stated the king in an order.

It would be up to Cal to press the heated metal against her flesh.

_Maybe this will keep her from ever giving me that scornful glare again_ , he thought as he pushed the flat side of his dagger against the skin of her shoulder, near the armpit.

The princess screamed and jerked against Wolfric's weight. When Cal pulled the dagger away, Wolfric released his pressure. Bethany slipped off the edge of the bed and collapsed into a mound of blue and gold fabric on the floor. Cal could hear her quietly weeping into the skirt of her dress.

Wolfric bent down and forced her to look up at him.

"Strike me again and I will take you, willing or not. You understand me?" he demanded.

She nodded mutely.

# Chapter Forty-Four

Bethany woke to a strange view of her new room. Most of what she saw was the tall ceiling, but out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the frame of the large bed. Carefully, she moved into a sitting position. She had fallen asleep where Wolfric and Caldry had left her. A quick glance showed the red spot where the knight had pressed the hot blade to her chest. It would leave a scar, especially without the aid of medicine. Gently, she pulled the dress up to cover her breasts and slipped it over her shoulder. She wouldn't be able to lace it up on her own, but at least this way she wasn't exposed.

Bethany moved to the fire, which was already burning. Evidently, someone had been in to tend to it but didn't think it necessary to wake her.

What must they think of me? Seeing me lying on the floor, half undressed?

A deep blush rose to her cheeks.

Before she could dwell on what could not be changed, the door opened and Flora entered with her breakfast. Bethany ate in silence while Flora tidied up the already clean room and picked out a dress for her. The princess glanced at it, only half caring; it was unlikely that anyone would come to visit her.

Bethany tried to think of a reason to care about her appearance; it had once been her life's greatest pursuit to be beautiful, but now she couldn't force herself to care. Long before she could come to terms with this change, Flora approached her with the gown she had chosen. It was a simple red dress.

Bethany let the slave help her out of the gown she had worn the day before and ignored Flora when she noticed the burn mark. Bethany was not in the mood to explain her recent interaction with the king and his trusted knight. Bethany felt her stomach tighten as she thought about the scarred man. She had thought he had become her friend, of sorts, but it was clear that she had been gravely mistaken.

Flora had just left her to her seclusion when her door opened again—this time revealing Prince Féderic and Sir Caldry. Though Bethany would have rather been left to cry out her fears and insecurities in solitude, she refused to let them see it in her. She would not let them break her, no matter what the king or prince did to her.

Bethany lifted her head in defiance and pressed her lips together. The prince's mouth turned up into a smile, but the knight's face hardened into cold lines as he watched her transformation from his place in the doorway.

"I don't think I'll need your help right now, Sir Caldry," said the prince. "You're dismissed."

"As you wish," murmured the knight. "I will be out in the corridor if you should need me."

Caldry pulled the door shut with a bang, and Bethany heard his footsteps as he moved away from the door. She was nearly thankful; she didn't want an audience for whatever was about to happen. As they listened to his receding strides, Bethany took a discreet step back. Sadly, the prince noticed. He marched forward and took her gently by the shoulders.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he whispered.

Bethany felt her stomach drop in surprise. This was not what she had been expecting.

"I don't understand. What do you mean?"

"Why didn't you tell me who you really are? Do you really think I wouldn't have helped you? And don't give me that bull shit about how well my father keeps his prisoners. You had to have known it would be better than the life of a slave."

"I have no idea what you would have done, but I had my doubts."

Féderic's fine blond eyebrows drew together as he stared down at her. He let his hands trail down her arms until his fingers laced into hers. "I would have helped you."

It almost sounded like a question.

"I couldn't be sure of that."

The frown deepened. "Why do you say that?"

Bethany pulled her hands free of his grasp and stepped back. "I have seen how you treat women. How was I to know that rank would have an effect? When I was a slave in your eyes, you tried to force yourself on me. How could I know that my lineage would protect me?"

To her astonishment, the prince blushed, making his dirty blond hair stand out against the red tone of his skin.

"I was wrong to have done that to you. Very wrong."

Bethany swallowed the lump forming in her throat and remained silent. She didn't know what he expected her to say. She wasn't about to forgive him or make him feel better in any way. If the prince truly felt ashamed for his past actions, then she was pleased to let him stew in it for a while. Besides, he hadn't actually apologized for it. Saying you were wrong and saying you were sorry for being wrong, were two very different things in her mind.

The silence lengthened until Féderic finally spoke. "I take it your answer to my request has not changed."

"To be your mistress?" Bethany asked, more to give herself time to think than to clarify.

"Yes. I still want you. More than I have wanted any woman I have ever met."

"That is simply because I said no to you."

"You really think that's your only charm?" asked the prince.

"Whatever charms I may possess, they will fade after you have had what you want."

"How can I prove that that won't happen?" he asked.

Bethany struggled not to laugh at him. "I don't think you can prove it."

The prince was silent for a long time, his eyes on the wood slats of the floor. Finally, he looked up and closed the distance between them. "Then marry me."

The butterflies dancing around her stomach suddenly turned into stone and fell into her feet. For a short moment, Bethany couldn't breathe, couldn't think. Was he serious? He couldn't be. She was his father's captive. It was impossible that King Wolfric, who had just tried to seduce her himself, would agree with it. This revelation steadied her.

"Your father would never allow it."

To her further surprise, Féderic smiled.

"That's not a no," he purred, his hands returning to her shoulders before one of them reached up to cup her cheek.

Bethany swallowed the new lump in her throat. She hadn't expected the prince's level of excitement. She had intended on dissuading him immediately. "Nor is it a yes. I do not wish to marry you."

"Your mouth says no, but everything else says yes."

Again, Bethany pulled away, freeing her face from his warm grasp. "I don't know what you mean. I have no wish to marry you. You forget, Prince Féderic, you are my enemy."

"I won't be for long," he said with a playful smile. "I'll go to my father and ask for his permission."

He moved to the door.

"Despite my refusal?"

"I'll win you over yet."

"Your father will refuse you."

"Why do you say that?" he asked, finally taking her warning seriously.

"King Wolfric has already expressed his..." she swallowed in an effort to return moisture to her dry mouth, "interest in me."

Bethany watched as the muscles around the prince's mouth tighten. His hand squeezed the handle on the door until his tendons stood out and his knuckles turned white. His reaction surprised her. Though she didn't know what to expect—from him or anything else in her life—it certainly wasn't this.

"And..." Féderic exhaled forcefully before taking a deep, calming breath, "did you... did you give in to him?"

It was Bethany's turn to clench her fists until her nails dug painfully into her palms. Surely he knew her better than this.

"Of course not," she growled. "Do you really think I'd say yes to him when I had already refused you?"

"He is king. I am only his heir apparent. And he could refuse me the crown at any time. Many women would choose him over me."

"As I have said before, I refuse any man who wishes to take advantage of me in _that_ way."

Again, Féderic surprised her by grinning. "Then I have the upper hand on him." With that, he left her.

Bethany moved to the bowl left for her washing up and leaned over it, feeling ready to vomit. What had just happened?

_I refused him, right?_ Bethany suddenly felt unsure. At some point or another, she had given him a definite rejection. She was sure of it.

Bethany realized she was sure of nothing; nothing except one thing—the prince was going to his father to ask for her hand, and she had no power to stop him.

# Chapter Forty-Five

Cal took up his sentinel a few feet from the door to the captive princess' room, content to wait quietly while the guards watched him with furtive glances. He knew he made the soldiers nervous but didn't find it necessary to set them at ease. Their nervousness stemmed from respect of his abilities, and he preferred it that way, even if it was lonely.

After a short time, far shorter than the knight expected, Prince Féderic emerged with a determined look on his face. Cal quickly fell into step with the prince. A curiosity of what had been discussed plagued him, but he clamped his teeth down onto his tongue to keep from asking. It hurt, but the pain reminded him what happened when he stuck his nose in it—it typically got smacked.

Cal followed the prince down to the main level and into the small office set aside for the king to use on the rare occasions when he was actually sitting still; when Wolfric was away, Hepner, the steward, put it to good use. Wolfric was an active sort of king—always off inspecting a holding in the area or in distant lands fighting his enemies.

Surprisingly enough, the king was sitting behind his desk. It was a small table, littered with letters and maps. The walls were covered in shelves filled with rolled-up parchment—stock lists, farm yield expectations, weaponry needs, and many other bits of necessary information.

The king looked up from what he was writing long enough to ascertain who was visiting before focusing on his work again. Féderic wisely waited for his father to give him his full attention. Cal took up a post next to the door in silence, still unsure what they were doing in the king's office.

Finally, after a long wait, Wolfric set his writing stylus down.

"What is it you want, Féderic?" he asked in an exasperated tone. Evidently, he had been hoping the prince would give up and go away.

Féderic swallowed. He was clearly nervous, and Cal's curiosity increased.

"I would like your blessing to marry Princess Bethany."

Cal noticed a flash of surprise on the king's face and knew it was nothing compared to the shock spreading across his own features. He had never known the prince to seek out the matrimony state. He pursued short-term flings and mistresses—but a wife? And the captive princess?

After a short pause, during which the king recollected his audience and schooled his features, Wolfric responded. "You are already engaged to Gia."

Féderic ground his teeth together. "I am, but you have to admit a marriage between me and Bethany would be far more... productive."

"Explain."

"Though I see the wisdom of a union with the locals we have conquered, I cannot marry women of all the nations presently under our rule. But imagine if I marry a princess of the _one_ nation not under our control. The future heir to your throne would be in the line for theirs, too. If we can't conquer them through arms, let's conquer them in the bedroom—breed them out."

"You suggesting I cannot beat Middin or his brat?"

"Not in the least, Father. But imagine what you could do if your resources are not needed to battle Middin's son."

"Such as?"

"Well, you've often wondered what was on the mainland. Imagine the glory if you were the king to finally cross the Great Sea. You could bend all your attention toward the mainland. And with Bethany here, we could have the wedding immediately. We wouldn't have to worry about all those ridiculous customs. In nine months' time, I could have an heir of my own." The prince finally stopped talking, realizing any further rambling would annoy his father.

The king sat in contemplation, his strong fingers slowly tapping the paper lying in front of him.

"And tell me, with Bethany would you be content?"

"Far more content with a princess than I would be with some foreign lord's daughter."

"Bethany is a foreigner."

"But you yourself have said that the Tokë and our people have often intermarried, before the war. They are not so different than us."

The king sat in silence again. "I think you will find them far more different than you realize, son. But if this is what you want, I will allow it."

"And Middin's brat?"

"We'll inform her people after she's with child. They won't be able to deny the marriage then."

Cal clamped his mouth shut to keep from revealing his shock. He had always known Féderic would end up with her, and now that the truth was out, he thought they suited each other. He might not have always looked at their union with such contentment, but that was before her real identity had been revealed.

He didn't care anymore. Or at least, that's what he told himself.

Bethany listened to the sound of the prince's receding steps. She turned away from the wash basin, determined to forget what had just happened. Féderic wouldn't actually go before the king and ask for her hand—he didn't want her badly enough for that. Bethany forced her breathing to slow down as she crossed her room to the one deep-set window and stared out at the early morning, surprised to see the bailey covered in a fine layer of snow. Despite being only October, winter had arrived at Tolad.

The normally raucous bailey was unusually silent; the only sound to drift up to her ears was the soft crunch of booted feet in the snow. Even the voices of the workers were subdued by the hush of winter. Bethany leaned against the window ledge and allowed the silence to calm her.

It would be okay.

She couldn't say how long she remained at the window or what first brought her attention back to the room in which she stood, but she suddenly became aware of noises coming from the hallway. Bethany stepped away from the window. A shiver ran up her spine. She had been standing by the window longer than she'd realized if the cold had permeated her thick dress. Bethany moved to the fireplace.

As she reached out towards the warmth, her door burst open and the prince entered, a triumphant smile spread across his face. Before the guards could close her door, the prince had reached her side, wrapped his arms around her waist, and began kissing her.

Bethany pushed against his chest and wriggled in his arms, but the more she moved, the more aggressive he became. The prince forced his tongue into her mouth and pulled her closer to his chest, making struggling all but impossible. In an act of desperation, Bethany went limp. Though she kept herself upright, she did not press against him, did not try to pull away, and did not fight. At first, the prince acted as though she had given in, but slowly, as his groping hands found her non-responsive, he realized she was fighting him the only way she knew how.

Finally, he released her mouth and peered down at her. Bethany could feel her heart pounding against her chest and the heat of a blush forming on her cheeks. While keeping one arm securely wrapped around her narrow waist, Féderic reached up and ran his thumb along the line of her jaw.

"The king has consented."

"I figured," Bethany responded through clenched teeth.

"You're angry?"

"What made you think that?"

"Why?"

"I told you, I do not wish to be your wife."

To her disgust, the prince smiled. "And I told you, I would win you over."

"My brother will never allow it."

"Who says we will ask for his permission? We'll tell them once you're with child. They can hardly argue the validity if we are expecting an heir."

Bethany stared at her new fiancé, her eyes wide and frightened.

# Chapter Forty-Six

Cal stomped his boots on the flat stones near the entrance to the great hall before following Prince Féderic to the roaring fire. They had been overseeing the progress on the road and encouraging the frozen workers—a task not appreciated by the young prince. The snow had fallen early and heavy, even for the mountain region. The steep path leading up to the remote city of Tolad had been blocked by the sudden storm. With the aid of the castle soldiers and half the townsfolk, the snow was slowly being cleared and the road repaired.

Cal shook his thick, fur-lined cloak out but wasn't ready to resign it to the care of a slave. His body ached with the cold. He hunched forward, reaching out to thaw his fingers. The prince was doing the same thing; despite the thick fur lined mittens, his fingers had turned a shocking shade of red. Cal's didn't look much better.

Before they had finished warming themselves by the fire, Queen Arabelle joined them, followed by a slave girl carrying mulled wine. They each took it and gratefully downed the hot liquid in one long gulp.

"And is the road cleared?" the queen asked anxiously while they returned the empty mugs to the slave.

Féderic bent forward as he burst out laughing, nearly dropping his cloak into the crackling flames.

"Hardly, mother," he guffawed, mirth still sparkling in his eyes. "That storm hit us hard. But the soldiers have it under control, especially with the help of the townsfolk. We'll have it cleared enough for a cart in another day or two."

"I suppose that will have to do," said the queen, her soft voice speaking all the frustration of a man's greatest tirade. "But there is much to be done before your wedding with Princess Bethany."

Cal tried not to smile at the queen's obvious disdain. She did not appreciate her son's present infatuation. Arabelle thought Gia quite suitable enough and more likely to promote peace throughout her husband's vast nation. A marriage to Princess Bethany had the chance of producing even greater peace, but the chance was slim. Arabelle preferred a surety to a possibility.

"Yes..." drawled the prince, his eyes flickering between the queen and the roaring fire. "About that..."

Arabelle's eyes grew wide. Cal couldn't decide if she had finally reconciled herself to the idea of their union or if the queen was excited at the prospect of it dissolving. The knight chose to feel nothing on the matter; instead, he focused on the sensation of warmth spreading over his icy body.

"Mother, can you tell me how to win the princess over? She is determined to think ill of me and our marriage."

Cal glanced at the queen, his interest peaked in the conversation. The queen looked just as surprised as he was, her eyes round as pails and her fair skin turning pink with a delicate blush. Her eyes darted to where Cal stood and back to her son.

"I—uh," she stuttered. "Sir Caldry, you are quite popular with the ladies. What say you?"

Cal ground his teeth, annoyed with being drawn into the conversation. Though he had every wish to listen, he did not want to participate. If he gave the wrong advice, who knew what the prince might do?

The knight cleared his throat before speaking.

"Well, obviously we want her to be excited by the marriage. A willing bride, especially a princess, will be of far greater political value than one forced into it." Cal hesitated. What he wanted to say would surely get him into trouble with the love-struck prince. "May I have your permission to speak freely about the princess?" he asked, turning toward Féderic.

"Of course, dear friend. I am not so foolish to think that everyone sees her perfections as I do."

Cal bowed his acquiesce to the prince's statement, not trusting his voice to keep from expressing his growing humor. Once he was sure he could speak calmly, he continued, "I believe the princess to be one... awed, shall we say, by wealth and power. Shower her with the wealth of this nation, show her the bounties available to her as your wife, and she may capitulate with good grace. If she doesn't, you haven't actually lost anything. Any presents given to her will not leave your possession in reality."

Sir Caldry glanced at the queen. A bright, cheerful smile spread across her face. He had saved her the awkwardness of saying something she may not actually believe. No doubt the queen did not want to forward the match, nor could she refuse to answer her son's questions.

"What wonderful advice. The girl is a vain little creature," the queen added, just to make sure her distaste was universally known.

Féderic rolled his eyes at his mother, though a playful smile was pulling at his lips.

"And will you help me with this, Mother? We must all woo her if we wish to win her to our cause. Cal is right; a willing bride will be a more powerful ally against her family. She must want to remain with us."

Cal thought the queen looked ready to vomit as she slowly nodded her elegant head, her delicately braided hair never moving an inch. At least this would not require any work from him; it was up to the family to win her to their cause.

Bethany sat on the edge of a stream, happily playing with the hem of her sleeve while listening to the handsome man sitting beside her. His voice was firm, deep, and yet soft. It made her feel safe. She closed her eyes and listened to his words of love which he read from a much-smeared piece of wrinkled paper.

My dearest love, my heart beats for you

I fear that I cannot go on; I may only have a few

You are wonderful, beautiful, and clever

I know that I will love you forever.

I'm so glad that you're in my life

_You make my heart sing like a_ fife

You are lovely when you are sweeping

_And_ ever _more when you are sleeping_

We will soon be together

We will be each other's tether

_From_ you, _I will never roam_

For I know with you is my home

Bethany woke with a start, jerking her head against the thick headboard. She looked around, momentarily forgetting where she was. After nearly three weeks as his captive, rather than his slave, she had yet to grow accustomed to waking up in a plush bed with a roaring fire in the hearth.

The princess took a deep breath, trying to remember her dream. It left her with a feeling of ease and comfort, and yet she felt a strange desire to laugh though she couldn't remember why. Something about the dream made her think of childhood fantasies, but rather than make her long for her adolescent naivety, she felt a sense of bashful chagrin.

Bethany shook the remainder of her dream from her head and wondered what had woken her. Then she heard it again: a gentle knock on her door.

"E-enter," she stammered, her voice rough with sleep. She pulled herself up into a sitting position and dragged the covers up to her chin.

Queen Arabelle swept into the room, her thick, winter skirts flowing around her ankles in folds of warmth. Two exquisite ladies-in-waiting followed closely. The first was rather young, perhaps sixteen or seventeen, with hair so blonde it looked almost white. Her features were beautifully molded, as though she were the invention of a master artist, rather than a human. A sudden and unexplained hatred for the young women boiled inside Bethany's chest as she watched the woman eye her disdainfully. Once, before all this had happened, Bethany had been just as beautiful, but work and starvation had changed her.

Bethany used the haughty look she had learned from her older sister, and the younger woman shuffled off to the corner.

The other woman was older, but with an air of sensuality, Bethany had begun to recognize in women who used sex as a mode of currency, just as Lynnette had as the king and prince's former mistress. The woman's long, black hair was done up in braids wrapped around her head, and she wore a dress of startling red, designed to attract the eye.

"Princess Bethany, may I introduce you to Dunla," began the queen as she motioned to the young, fair-haired woman. "And Matty. We just call her Matty, of course. Her real name is quite unpronounceable."

Bethany glanced at the woman in question and noted the resigned expression that flitted across her uneven features. She wasn't nearly as pretty as Dunla, but Bethany would guess a man would be quicker to go to her than the younger woman.

"I thought it high time you had some ladies-in-waiting of your own since it looks like you will be staying with us. And here are a few slaves that will answer to you," Arabelle added as three female slaves entered carrying heavy pails of steaming water, followed by a plump woman Bethany recognized as the seamstress that made all the clothing for the royal family.

Bethany tried not to sneer at the large woman, but the truth was she could make her own clothing with far more skill and expediency. She kept these thoughts to herself.

With the seamstress came a small herd of women, all toting bolts of fabric, baskets of notions, lengths of lace, and boxes of jewels. They quickly dispersed themselves under the direction of her new ladies-in-waiting, while the slaves poured their burdens into her personal bathtub. Meanwhile, the queen took hold of the covers Bethany had pulled up to her chin and deftly yanked them away.

"Come now, into the bath with you. I swear, we will never get you clean from... well..."

She trailed off as awkwardness descended on the room. Bethany refused to help her out of the situation, though she did obey and climb out of the bed.

Before she could protest, Dunla rushed forward, seized her nightgown, and pulled it over her head. Bethany quickly climbed into the hot water before the over-exuberant lady-in-waiting could have a chance to push her in. Much like her other baths, the slaves applied themselves to her skin and hair, still finding hidden dirt and grime from her slave days.

When the rough and embarrassing treatment was finished, Bethany was manhandled into a plain underdress of soft, white fabric before being propelled onto a low stand that the seamstress and her crew had erected at the other end of her room.

"M-my lady, I have plenty of dresses already," she stammered as the seamstress began measuring her with non-too-gentle hands.

Evidently, the fat woman didn't appreciate the deception Bethany had played on her, like all the other castle inhabitants.

"Ouch," she added when the woman _accidentally_ pinched her.

Bethany's own indignation rose as she prepared to slap the erring woman, but she commanded herself to relax and lowered her outstretched hand. Her mother's words came back to her: Striking a lesser being seldom makes them work better or harder. A firm hand does not require damaging or demeaning other.

"Oh, my dear Bethany," exclaimed the queen who had taken up a seat near the fire. "Those old rags of Mirabelle's will never do. Especially now that you are to join the family! Someday you will be queen, taking my place. You must look the part!"

Bethany felt her heart begin to stampede through her chest. Her knees began to shake, threatening to buckle under her weight and send her careening to the floor. Only her own determination kept her standing as the seamstress continued to measure her body.

So Féderic had announced their engagement to the family?

Bethany swallowed nervously; there were aspects of this coming commitment that she was just beginning to comprehend. She needed time to quietly think about what her future entailed.

What did it mean to be queen?

Despite being a princess, she had never been raised for the duties of a queen. There was no need to, considering she would be lucky to marry a noble at all. She wasn't even sure what this change meant.

The queen either didn't see Bethany's face grow green, or she chose to ignore it. Either way, she turned her attention to the fabrics and began suggesting different colors and styles. Soon her new ladies-in-waiting joined in the discussion, but Bethany struggled to appreciate the wealth around her. She couldn't think of anything except her impending union with Féderic and its many disturbing ramifications.

_Think about this later... in private_ , Bethany told herself firmly in an effort to maintain her sanity.

If she thought about it too hard or too long, she would surely scream. In an attempt to distract herself, she dragged her attention to what the women around her were saying. They were debating which trimmings to pair with deep burgundy fabric.

"I think that soft, goldish tan—yes, that there—would make a beautiful underskirt. And I want gold embroidery around the shoulders," Bethany said, using the voice she had often used with her seamstress back home in an effort to calm her nerves. It came naturally to her and the familiarity steadied her.

Yes, this I can lose myself in.

Before they could move on to selecting the fabric for the next dress, the door burst open and another parade of people entered carrying everything from caged birds, to chests of pre-made clothing such as fur-lined boots and undergarments, to embroidery supplies, and even an enormous harp. Bethany watched wide-eyed as her ladies-in-waiting ordered them about, arranging her room to their liking.

Bethany rubbed her fingers, rough for months of slavery, but lacking the calluses needed for extensive harp playing. It had been ages since she had made music, and it took all her willpower to keep from running to the instrument and caressing its gut strings. As the last of her new possessions were brought in, Sir Erin Caldry entered and placed himself beside the queen, his face pulled tight into a glower.

She wanted to ask what he was doing there. She felt uncomfortable standing before him in nothing but an underdress, despite the fact he had already seen her naked. This feeling reminded her of all the degradations she had experienced, and a deep blush rose to her cheeks. The more she became accustomed to being a prisoner rather than a slave, the more she was embarrassed by what had happened in the past.

"Now, my dear," began the queen. "I'm afraid we have already had threats made against your life. Oh but don't worry, we will not let a hair on your head be harmed. Sir Caldry here has been assigned to you for your protection and we have stationed two guards outside your door at all times. Now, for your own protection, we insist you have Sir Caldry in attendance whenever you leave this room. He knows to remain close by and will keep himself available for you. Do you understand?"

Bethany understood. Whatever threats had been made were simply a convenient lie to hide the fact that she was in reality still their prisoner, not their guest. Bethany glanced at the knight, but he was looking at something she couldn't see. In response to the queen, who was still waiting, she nodded.

"Excellent! Now, let's make a few more decisions, shall we?"

And the rest of the day was spent selecting fabrics and embroidery patterns.

# Chapter Forty-Seven

"Enter," Bethany commanded from her place at her new harp, her fresh gown draped elegantly over the small stool and across the floor. Over the last three days, the seamstresses had produced a record number of dresses for her. Though some of them were rather poorly made, and in her solitude, Bethany had repaired a number of them. Still, for the first time in ages, she felt like a lady.

Her current gown was made of thick, blue fabric that kept her warm, despite the enormous snowdrifts pressed up against the keep. Tunnels through the clogged bailey had been shoveled each morning to provide access to the essential outbuildings, making the deep snow appear even deeper in some places. Her snug underdress, made of a darker blue, peeked through beneath her skirt and around her forearms, where the overdress opened into wide sleeves that often acted like a blanket over her lap.

Bethany looked up from her harp to see Sir Caldry enter. She stared. She couldn't help it. For the first time that she could remember, he was not swathed in heavy chain mail. Instead, he was garbed in a sleeveless leather jerkin, strapped snugly to his chest. The muscles in his arms and shoulders rippled as he caught the door to keep it from banging shut. Bethany forced her eyes up to his scarred face.

"The prince has sent for you," he stated in a voice devoid of all emotion.

Bethany was still taken aback by his sudden, and inexplicable, coolness towards her. She returned it in kind, extending her neck to its full length, having learned the trick from her older sister of looking down on even the tallest of men with this little movement. She saw a flicker of emotion cross his face and felt a surge of triumph.

Bethany rose from her seat and crossed the room to where he stood. He thrust his arm out for her, and when she delicately took it, he jerked it back to his side so forcefully she nearly fell into him.

"I beg your pardon, my lady," he simpered, using just the right tone of voice—a perfect mix of sneering disdain and polite concern—that she couldn't call him to task as she wanted to.

Then again, she had no idea how the knight would respond to her reprimand, or if she even had any power over him at all. If she truly was to be the wife of the heir apparent, then it stood to reason that she did carry some authority within the castle, but much like her freedom, she doubted her authority's validity.

The transition from disfavored slave to the future queen was a hard one to make.

The knight led her down the corridor and to the main level. As they walked, she noticed a slight layer of perspiration on his bare arm and smelled his personal scent: a mixture of leather, horse, and man. It was disconcerting to notice such things about any man, but especially him.

They entered the great hall where all the furniture, save a few benches lining the walls, had been removed. In the center of the room, the princes, the castle knights, and a number of men-at-arms were play-fighting with wooden swords.

"Bethany!" exclaimed Féderic as he dropped his own wooden sword and ran to her.

His clamor had brought the entire room to a standstill as they watched the prince cross the room and carefully kiss the back of her hand. Bethany tensed, ready for a sudden and inappropriate display of his affection, and was duly shocked by his courtly behavior. She honestly didn't think he had such gentlemanliness in him.

"I thought you'd like to get out of your room. I'm sorry these threats have you locked up like a bloody prisoner. Yes, thank you, Cal. I can take it from here."

Féderic pulled her away from the knight, whose arm she had still been holding, and led her across the room to where Anabelle, Mirabelle, and a few of the ladies-in-waiting were sitting. Instead of placing her with the women and returning to his sword fighting, he sat with her, absently playing with the fingers resting in the crook of his arm.

"I've missed you," he whispered in her ear once the others had returned to their tasks. Without meaning to, she noticed Sir Caldry take up a wooden sword and engage in a mock battle with Lyolf.

"You can't miss what you've never known."

"You think I don't know you?" he asked, looking down at her.

"Of course not. Up until three weeks ago, you thought I was your possession, to do with as you chose. Now... now I am your captive. I suppose not much has actually changed."

"You are not my captive. You are my fiancée."

"Not by choice, making them the same thing," Bethany replied, her eyes still on the fighters.

"You will like it here. I promise. In a year's time, you will loathe the idea of ever leaving this place, or me."

Before she could respond, the king called his son to task. "Féderic stop making love to your bride and get back to work."

"Guess the break is over," joked Féderic before he pecked her lightly on the cheek and ran toward the end of the room where his brothers were doing battle.

The prince gathered up his sword and engaged Rulfric. Bethany watched them for lack of something else to do. Despite her lack of interest, she couldn't help but notice the differences among the men. Rulfric was a lazy fighter, tending to let his opponent do all the work for him, while Féderic was aggressive and prone to bouts of rage if he misstepped. Despite this failing, Féderic showed signs of real skill with the blade and even stopped to quickly give his younger brother tips. The king, who was working with Cedric on his basic form, was far more patient, and Cedric far more distracted than she had expected. Lyolf, the bastard son, fought as though his life and standing depended on it, and perhaps it did. Unlike the others, his future in the castle was not set. His ability with the sword might genuinely be his bread-winner one day.

Sir Caldry... Bethany paused in her assessment as she watched the sweating knight. Caldry fought as though he knew the realities of war. There was a grim determination to his face and movements that she did not see in the others, despite the fact he was obviously going easy on the bastard prince. She saw him check swings and slow his feet when it was clear he was getting ahead of the younger man.

Before she could finish her assessment of the knight, Féderic called out to him. "Cal, you need a real opponent. Let me have a swing at him, Lyolf!"

Bethany noticed the prince glance back at her. Had he noticed her staring at the knight? The two men engaged each other. At first, they appeared evenly matched, but as the battle continued Bethany spotted the prince beginning to trip over his own feet and his sword arm slow, while Sir Caldry was just as crisp and fast as before.

Thankfully, she didn't see the end of the fight. Arabelle, obviously aware that her son was not performing well, came to sit next to her and engaged her in conversation. The queen asked mundane questions, her eyes occasionally glancing towards the battle. Bethany would have liked to have seen the outcome, but she allowed the queen to save face. It would be better than offending her captors by insisting on seeing their son's failure.

A surprisingly short time later, Féderic stumbled up to her side and collapsed in the seat next to her. She turned away from the queen to see an impressive cut across his left eyebrow and blood streaming down his cheek.

"Will you bandage my wounds, sweet lady," he said in a breathless voice.

Like the others, he was trying to distract her from the fact he had been beaten soundly. Bethany glanced at the knight, unable to keep her eyes away. He was unscathed, barely breathing heavier than before and already working with Lyolf again.

"I am sure your mother would prefer the healer to attend to you."

"Oh, nonsense," piped in Arabelle in her most congenial voice.

Bethany cringed inwardly. Why couldn't she stay distrustful?

"C'mon, Bethany. I still have some supplies in my room." He took her by the hand and started to guide her from the room.

"Sir Caldry, please attend them," commanded the queen in the loudest voice Bethany had ever heard her use.

Bethany couldn't decide if she was relieved to have a third member to their party as they made their way to Féderic's room or if she was disturbed by the knight's continued presence. They reached the prince's room, where Sir Caldry stationed himself in the corner. Féderic pulled out the supplies remaining from his long convalescence and seated himself on the edge of his bed, well away from the fire.

She didn't want to bathe his ill-gotten wounds, especially in her new gown. Without asking, Bethany went to where she knew the prince stored his tunics and slipped one on over her dress before taking up the damp cloth and cleaning his face.

"I must say, I like you in my clothing. Though the dress underneath does ruin the effect."

Bethany felt her face warm with a blush, but she chose to ignore it and him. She cleaned his cheek, determined to use the same detachment her mother had taught her to use when dealing with patients not long for this world.

"Of course, I could help with that," he added as his idle hands reached up under the frock and began playing with her lacings.

She continued to ignore him, despite her growing discomfort. In record time, she had the cut cleaned and covered it in a paste that would act as a bandage until it scabbed over.

"There," she stated as she casually stepped away, removed the tunic, and dumped it on the prince's work table. "Sir Caldry?"

The knight pulled himself away from the shadowed corner and opened the door for her before the prince could protest. As they walked back down the hallway, Bethany could hear the prince cursing. When they rounded a corner she reached up and stopped the knight.

"I am sorry to ask, but may I beg a favor?" she asked in her most formal of tones.

"Of course, my lady. I am here to serve."

"I fear the prince has grown too accustomed to ladies lacings and has undone mine. Would you retie them before someone notices?"

Bethany tried to keep her dignity wrapped around her like a comforting blanket, and yet she felt tears prick her eyes. _How dare he compromise me in such a way as to force me to ask this man, of all men, to help me!_

_Why did she have to be so bloody formal_? Cal wondered as he motioned for her to turn around. Whether he liked it or not, he missed the fiery slave who burned withies and gave the queen a rash. Was this pretentious woman the real Bethany, or was it just a mask to hide the deep hurt and fear tearing her up from the inside out? Much to his disgust, he suspected it might be a mix of the two. She was afraid, no doubt about it, but it wasn't enough to push her back into action. Her new position was too comfortable to be worth risking.

Cal felt his gut tighten in disgust as he finished lacing up the back of her dress.

Yes, the woman he had grown attached to was gone and this... this _lady_ stood in her place, wearing her face. Ann was gone, and he would just have to get used to it.

Bethany turned around and absently took his arm. He felt her tapered fingers shake ever so slightly against his bare skin. _She must be hungry_ , he thought. Despite three weeks of excellent food and plenty of rest, she was still much too thin.

# Chapter Forty-Eight

Bethany sat next to a roaring fire, a precious book lying in her lap, completely forgotten. She stared into the crackling fire, trying her best not to think. It was not a skill she had mastered. Her wishes ignored, Bethany's thoughts trailed easily to her past, and more often, to her future.

It seemed the more the prince and his mother pampered her, the more her emotions sank. The book in her lap, the harp in the corner, and the beautiful dresses in her wardrobe all reminded her of the life she had lost. In many ways, Bethany had handled her slavery better than she now coped with her engagement to the heir of the most powerful nation in the history of the peninsula.

Bethany had grown up living much like she did now—her life had been arranged and organized by someone else. She had gone where she was told. She had comforted the soldiers she was told to call upon. She had encouraged the lords and relatives she was told to visit. She had eaten when a meal was presented to her and rested when she was told to go to bed for the night.

Here, in Wolfric's castle, she lived a very similar life. True, she didn't help with the war effort; they weren't naive enough to trust her with this task, but she did follow their plan and schedule for her days and nights.

So why did she find herself so often lost in despondent thoughts?

Bethany looked up as she heard heavy, familiar footsteps descend the long hallway toward her room just as a new idea took shape in her mind. It was worse here because she had no future to dream about. At home, safely amongst her family, she could dream of a handsome man saving her from the tedium of life as a princess. Now, a handsome prince had stolen her from her family and forced her into a life worse than that of a princess. She did everything she had done back home, but now she had no future to wait upon. Her path was set, and it was darker than the deepest ocean.

"Enter," she said as she quickly wiped her cheeks to be sure they were dry before her visitor could pound on her door.

The door creaked open to reveal Sir Caldry, just as she had expected. His brows were pulled up towards his hairline in surprise.

"I must not be as quiet as I used to be," he said by way of a greeting.

Bethany bowed her head in response.

"The prince has asked for you."

Bethany set her book on the table, not taking the time to mark her spot in it. Like everything else in her life, it was simply a way of forcing the sun to hurry in its journey across the sky. She rose, retrieved her cloak from a peg beside the door, and followed the knight out of her prison.

They walked in silence, stopping at the main entrance to the great hall. Just as they arrived, Féderic ran up the steps, taking them two at a time. He stopped by her side, his chest rising and falling faster than normal.

Once he caught his breath, he panted, "I'm afraid... I have... to cancel our plans... my dear."

Bethany racked her brains, trying to remember what plans they had had, but, as usual, they were plans that the prince had made without consulting her. She curtsied and turned to return to her room, without saying a word.

"Wait! Bethany!" Féderic jogged to her side and took hold of her shoulder. "I'm sorry. I wanted to take you riding today, but father has found a chore for me." After a moment's thought, he added, "I'll have Cal here take you riding. You spend too much time locked up in that room. Cal?"

Bethany glanced up at the knight and spotted the muscles in his jaw ripple as he ground his teeth together. He wanted to be in her company less than she wanted to be in his, and for some reason this idea made her stomach turn.

_Perhaps it is just my old ego rearing its ugly head_ , she thought as she nodded absently to Féderic, who was still waiting for a response.

The prince finally pulled his gaze away from Bethany and looked at the knight, who still hadn't responded. "Cal?"

"I have some free time, my lord."

"Excellent!" exclaimed the prince, oblivious to the emotions surging through his companions. "I'll see you at dinner, my love." Féderic kissed her on the cheek just as the king began bellowing for his presence.

Bethany forced her eyes up to the knight's face, though she didn't want to see the disgust still playing in his light green eyes. Whether he intended it or not, his eyes could express fountains of emotions in a single glance, and yet she still felt so confused by him. She wanted to ask him what had happened, how he had discovered her identity, but his face was quickly closing down until all his personality was hidden behind a dark mask.

"This way, my lady," he said in a formal voice.

"Thank you, Sir Caldry," Bethany responded, matching his voice, note for note.

She followed him to the stables, where they asked for a pair of horses. Strangely enough, the stable hand looked frightened at the idea of fulfilling their request. A few minutes later, which were spent in silence, a pair of stable hands returned with two horses. The new stable hand was leading a large, flat-brown horse in the most awkward way, as though he thought the horse might morph into a monster and bite him. As they walked, he glared at the first stable hand. The brown horse was handed over to Sir Caldry and, with a great look of relief, the stable hand scurried away as fast as possible.

The knight tied his horse to a ring before approaching Bethany to lift her into the woman's saddle. Bethany tensed as his strong hands took hold of her narrow waist. He hoisted her up onto the tiny mare without even the slightest effort. She felt small and fragile in his grasp and was grateful when the contact ended.

The first stable hand bolted the minute Bethany's hands grazed the reigns. Clearly, neither of them wanted to be near the knight, or was it his horse? It certainly was large. She felt dwarfed next to it on her delicate mare. In fact, she had to look up to see the knight's face once he had mounted it.

She followed him out of the castle, the first spurt of curiosity causing her heart to beat faster. Other than the horrific parade through the city, she had spent very little time outside the castle since her arrival six months ago.

The guards at the gatehouse bowed and stepped out of their way. Finally, with a sense of release, they were in the city itself. It proved to be unchanged from her last venture through it: a complete hodge-podge of buildings with no flow or pattern. At least this time no one was howling or throwing things at her.

They rode for nearly half an hour before either of them spoke.

"Are you enjoying your new life?" asked the knight.

Bethany glanced at him. His face was still the perfect mask, hiding whatever thoughts or emotions that prompted him to speak.

"Are you making conversation for the sake of conversation?" asked Bethany.

"That is not an answer."

"Observant," she commented, a slight smile pulling at the corners of her mouth on its own accord.

"Are you refusing to answer?"

"Yes. Besides, I think you are simply asking out of boredom, no real desire to know anything about me." Bethany forced her voice to stay calm. She didn't want the knight to know how much he confused and vexed her.

"In that case, I will remain silent."

A few minutes later, after she began shivering from the winter cold, he turned them back towards the castle. After depositing their horses in the stables, he escorted her back to her room and left her.

Bethany stomped to the fire's edge, angry and frustrated. Why couldn't he be like he had been when she stayed in his room? Remembering those days brought a blush to her cheeks. She would be thrilled to know that he had completely forgotten about her residence in his room, and yet she wanted him to act as he had during that time.

Bethany jerked her cloak off and tossed it towards the door and its peg in frustration.

Nothing made sense, especially her own feelings.

# Chapter Forty-Nine

Bethany had just finished donning her warmest dress and snatching up her recently knitted mittens when the door swung open to reveal Sir Caldry and Prince Féderic. The prince offered his arm and escorted her from the room, leaving the knight to follow.

Surprisingly, Bethany was previously informed of the day's activities and was able to dress appropriately. Today they would be ice-skating, an activity Bethany had never attempted. Though Dothan, her hometown, got cold enough to freeze water, they had no ponds small or shallow enough to allow for ice skating. She had heard of it, of course.

For the first time since she destroyed the alcohol at the banquet, her heart beat fast with anticipation, rather than dread.

The three of them met Féderic's siblings and a few of the younger knights at the entrance to the great hall. In a large group, they descended the steps where a large wagon and a small herd of horses and guards waited. The men mounted their horses, while the ladies ascended the wagon. It was to be driven by Sir Caldry so that he could remain close to Bethany, in case of an attack. Bethany rolled her eyes as she settled onto the front bench with the knight. Her annoyance at the situation helped her ignore Mirabelle's poisonous glare.

They rode out of the city and into the surrounding wilderness. Mirabelle and the ladies-in-waiting she had chosen to attend her chattered energetically, pointedly leaving Sir Caldry and Bethany out of the conversation. Finally, after Bethany was ready to slap the silliness out of the ladies sitting behind her, they stopped in a small valley with a circular lake that came up to the edge of the valley. Bethany could only tell the difference between lake and land by the lake's lack of large mounds, which she took for bushes covered in snow.

The guards dismounted and, taking brooms from their saddles, began sweeping away the newest layer of snow from the ice. By the time they finished, Bethany was shivering in her seat and quickly losing interest in the day's activities. She was almost tempted to scoot closer to the knight to steal a little body heat, but one look at his face stopped her.

Finally, Féderic approached her with a pair of sharp-looking blades attached to what looked like shoe soles. Without asking, he flipped her thick skirts up to reveal her tall, fur-lined boots. With straps of strong leather, he attached the skates to her feet. Once this was done, the prince reached up and lifted her from her seat. To her relief, the snow helped keep her upright on the narrow blades. She waited for Féderic to attach his own skates, too unsteady to venture away from him. When he had finished, he took her by the hand and they carefully walked to the edge of the lake.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Not even a little bit."

Bethany didn't look at him. His presence might have been necessary for her to stay upright, but that didn't mean she was enjoying his company.

"C'mon. I won't let you fall." With that, Féderic glanced over his shoulders to see the others following them onto the frozen lake. "Cal, join us!"

It was worded in just the right way as to be more than a suggestion, but less than a command. Bethany looked back to see how the knight would take the directive. She saw his shoulders slump ever-so-slightly before he climbed off the wagon and donned the last pair of skates.

With this final alteration, the group took the first, all-important step onto the ice. The knights and ladies-in-waiting glided away smoothly, happy to flirt and dance around the ice, far away from the royalty. Sir Caldry stayed close to Bethany and Féderic for obvious reasons, but Bethany couldn't comprehend why Mirabelle had abandoned her friends.

Bethany felt her stomach give an uncomfortable twist as her nerves went into high gear. Thoughts of toppling over were the least of her concerns. Images of falling through the ice and being sucked into the frigid abyss of the lake flooded her mind and made it difficult for her to listen to Féderic's patient instructions.

Mirabelle skated around the small group, often gliding effortlessly in front of Bethany, forcing her to stop suddenly. The first time this happened, Bethany over-corrected and ended up tumbling backward into Sir Caldry's waiting arms.

Bethany glanced up at the scarred man, wondering if he had been prepared for just such an incident.

"Oh, little Bethany, you're not as graceful as you led us all to believe," chortled Mirabelle.

"Little?" Bethany asked as she nodded her thanks to the knight in as regal a manner as she could manage. "I suppose considering your girth, I would be thought of as little. But don't forget, I am, after all, two years your elder." And with that, she skated away, forcing her movements to be smooth and steady.

Féderic had said being confident was the secret to success on ice-skates, and now she was proving him right. Sadly the effect was lost on her audience when she hit a patch of rougher ice and fell face first. She saved herself from a broken nose by the sheer luck of her hands hitting the ice first. Still, it hurt and the following laughter didn't help. Bethany rolled over, the breath knocked out of her lungs.

Even in her stunned state, she noticed that Féderic wasn't laughing. In fact, he was skating as fast as he could across the pond. He skidded to her side, closely followed by Sir Caldry, whose scarred face was blank of all emotion, though it did seem a little whiter than normal.

"Bethany!" Féderic gasped as he slid to his knees at her side.

"I'm fine." Bethany sat up with some effort; she felt as though a horse had landed on her.

_Why must ice be so hard?_ Through sheer force of will and a complete unwillingness to let Mirabelle have the last laugh, she forced herself back on her feet.

The rest of the day was a new form of torture for Bethany. No matter how many times she fell, she always climbed back to her feet. She improved slowly, but that didn't mean she grew to enjoy the activity. Even though she was no longer falling every few feet, her ankles ached with the effort of staying up on the thin blades, and her bruised body throbbed with each heartbeat.

When she was beginning to wonder if she could continue, Sir Caldry spoke aloud for the first time. "The sun is going down. We need to head back before the roads become impassable."

Bethany nearly cried out in relief, but to her astonishment, the group began arguing. She stayed out of it, hoping the knight would stand firm. As she expected, he did, but Mirabelle took to a new tactic.

"I'm sure Sir Caldry just wants to end it for Bethany's sake. She looks as though the slightest puff of wind would blow her over, and the knight has been pining over her ever since she was your slave, Féderic!"

The prince glanced towards Bethany, his expression a mixture of concern and distrust. To Bethany's astonishment, a small part of him believed his sister's accusation. She didn't care to make him feel more comfortable. This engagement was not formed by mutual consent. Still, she also didn't want anyone to think there was anything between her and the cruel knight. Bethany didn't know what to do or say.

Thankfully, the knight produced the perfect response: He burst into heartfelt laughter.

Bethany felt her stomach tighten, and her face pucker into a glare. She knew this was the exact opposite of how she should be responding, but his laughter rankled her sense of beauty. Before, when she lived with her family, being loved and admired was her first goal; now, as her sense of security slowly returned, her need to be admired began to increase. Yet here was a grown man, openly laughing at the idea of finding her attractive.

"Her?" he asked when he finally caught his breath. "I've... seen her... naked! There's nothing there to admire! If you want to stay, fine, but I'm taking the wagon back up the mountain. Anyone who wants a ride better hurry up."

Bethany felt her glare freeze on her features. Had he really just said that or had she imagined it? A blush rose on her cheeks until her skin burned and her breath came in frantic little gasps. She had never felt so embarrassed in her life. With the deepening of her blush, a rage grew. Bethany thought she knew what hatred felt like, having spent many months as a slave, but now she knew she had only dipped a toe in the mire of true loathing. After the knight's statement, she dove in head first.

The others joined Sir Caldry in his laughter, as they reluctantly followed him back to the wagon and the waiting horses. Oddly enough, the only one that seemed to notice the princess, still standing in the middle of the pond, was the knight. Instead of calling to her, he caught Féderic's attention and pointed in her direction.

The prince had the discernment to skate out to her, rather than call her by name.

"C'mon, Bethany. Don't mind the knight. He likes nothing but whores. Besides, it shouldn't matter what he thinks. I love you!" Féderic said as though that should be sufficient.

Bethany was thoroughly aware of the fact her fiancé didn't object to the fact the knight had humiliated her, but rather to the idea that she cared what another man thought of her. He was more worried that she like him, and only him, rather than that she was hurt and embarrassed.

Reluctantly, Bethany climbed onto the bench beside Sir Caldry and allowed Féderic to remove her skates. She hoped he would not force her to repeat this awful excursion again.

When they entered the noisy city, Sir Caldry scooted closer to her and spoke lowly. So low in fact, Bethany at first wondered if she had imagined it.

"I had to say that. It was the only way to make them believe me."

Bethany didn't respond. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the knight open his mouth again, as though he wanted to say more, but he shut it and remained silent for the rest of their journey.

She tried and failed, to wipe the tears from her cheeks without him noticing.

# Chapter Fifty

Bethany sat near the fire, happily stitching away on her newest gown, made specifically for the upcoming banquet. If she ignored the fact that the banquet was to announce her engagement to Féderic, she was very happy to attend. The new dress was made by the seamstress in the latest style to make a speedy rampage through the wealthy city. It had a stiff neckline that wrapped around her shoulders like a shawl, leaving her collar bones bare to the world. The sleeves opened drastically at the elbows rather than gradually widening from the shoulders. It was in a brilliant red color that would attract everyone's notice. Bethany couldn't wait to wear it before this foreign court. She would show them the true beauty of Dothan!

Thankfully, she had convinced the queen and the seamstress to allow her the pleasure of doing the finishing details on the gown. Partly it was for her own entertainment, but mostly it was because the seamstress was useless. Bethany would have sacked her years ago.

To her annoyance, her door swung open, and Féderic entered with a wooden box tucked under one arm. He smiled at her with a look she was beginning to recognize as Féderic in his happiest mood; he was determined to make this an agreeable encounter.

Bethany set the dress aside, rose, and curtsied. A weariness was settling in on her; she didn't want to fight with Féderic or anyone else, except maybe Mirabelle. Bethany simply wanted to be left alone and in peace. It seemed the most she could ask for in her current situation.

"You're looking lovely today," Féderic stated as he ravaged her with his eyes.

Bethany tried to keep the blush from forming on her cheeks, but it was useless. She glanced down to remind herself what she was wearing. It was one of the simplest frocks she owned, a green gown with long, snug sleeves. In fact, it was so simple she imagined a middle-class woman would be able to afford it. She had dressed assuming no one would visit her today.

One blush blended into another.

"I have something for you," the prince said before she could get any more embarrassed. He crossed the room to where she stood and, without any preamble, flipped open the box. Inside laid an enormous necklace on a bed of silk. The rope was made of perfectly white pearls, each one identical in shape and size. From the string of pearls hung three immense rubies, the middle ruby just enough larger than the other two to be gaudy.

Bethany adored it!

She stood staring at the ostentatious necklace with her mouth hanging open, completely entranced as the light of the fire shimmered in the massive gems.

"Mother said it would match your dress."

Bethany glanced up to see a look of concern spreading across the prince's features. "It's... it's overwhelming," she stuttered, trying to find a way to describe just how much she wanted it.

The prince took that for a good sign. He plucked the necklace from its box, motioned for her to turn, and applied himself to hanging it from her neck. Bethany knew the neckline of her dress; the snug necklace would fit perfectly.

"You really like it?" he asked as she turned back to face him.

Bethany's small fingers were already tracing the outline of the string of pearls. "Very much so."

For the first time in a very, very long time she felt happy. An involuntary smile spread across her face. She couldn't remember the last time she'd had a present of any sort, and she knew perfectly well she had never received any gift that was so costly. As the youngest child of a war-torn king, she mostly wore her mother's jewelry when the occasion called for it.

"Good," Féderic whispered before leaning down to kiss her.

And in that instant, all her happiness was gone. The necklace was costly, very costly. Her payment would be her life. In just a few, short weeks, she would marry the prince.

She let him kiss her, too stunned with her realization to creatively duck out of his embrace. Bethany let her body's natural instincts take over, one hand wrapping loosely around his waist while the other continued to trace the shape of the pearls.

Was this sort of wealth worth the price?

To her utmost disgust, a small piece of her mind thought it just might be. She could learn to forget the past, learn to ignore the scars on her body and soul, and simply live in the present. Maybe she could even learn to like Féderic.

But if she did, what would happen to her family? Could she become their enemy, too?

Cal walked down the corridor, forcing himself to leave the letter in his pocket. Reading it again wouldn't change the information it contained, nor would it speed up time. The man investigating his sister's current location seemed to think he was getting close to an answer. Of course, this meant he needed more money, but Cal willingly paid. More investigation would be necessary; besides, even if he did know the exact location, Cal wouldn't be able to pursue it until after the banquet. Life was simply too busy right now.

Before he could make it to the stairwell that would lead up to his level, where the knights and a few high ranking soldiers kept quarters, Féderic caught him.

"Cal!"

"My lord," he said formally, hoping the prince would be discouraged from further talk.

"I just gave Bethany the necklace. She loved it!"

_The shallow twit_ , Cal thought before he could censor his own mind. His thoughts didn't show on his face, they seldom ever did. _If your thoughts and intentions showed on your face, you would die in battle_ , as _simple as that._

"I think she's actually warming up to me. I kissed her and she didn't pull away. In fact, I think she was kissing me back!"

"I'm happy for you," Cal heard himself say. Even to his own ears, his voice sounded unnatural. He needed to escape the prince's company before his sudden anger showed through; though why he was angry he couldn't say. "If you'll excuse me, my lord, I am very busy."

"Oh, yes, of course." With that, the prince sauntered off, too happy to be annoyed with the knight.

Cal ground his teeth as he marched up the stairs.

Of course, she liked the necklace. It was just the thing to lure the superficial woman into his arms. She would be happy to be with anyone, so long as they kept her in furs and diamonds.

_I_ won't _think about her anymore_ , he told himself as he flopped onto his bed and drifted into an uncomfortable dream about an annoying blond woman with scars on her back.

Cal didn't sleep well.

# Chapter Fifty-One

The big day finally arrived. Bethany spent the morning surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting, who worked diligently to have her dressed and ready long before it was necessary. The process of dressing and having her hair done up in ornate braids did not require any effort from her, and Bethany spent the time struggling to comprehend the throng of emotions rampaging through her mind.

It seemed to be a perfect mix of fear, excitement, and disgust with a fine layer of resignation over the top. Her family pride made it impossible to be truly joyous about the banquet being thrown in honor of her engagement to Féderic, and yet her fingers kept creeping up to her new necklace. She stroked the pearls and traced the outline of the enormous rubies, happy during the brief moments that her fingers touch the wealth that hung from her neck; when she realized what was happening she dropped her fingers, disgusted with how easily she fell into their grasp.

Bethany knew the gift was designed to lure her into a place of complacency, or even happiness, and she was horrified to find that their scheme was working. She felt more resigned to her future with Féderic than she had even a week ago.

Was it just the gift? Or was time doing this, too? Aside from Mirabelle and Wolfric, she was slowly beginning to see the different members of the family as people. She knew some of their hopes and fears, and this new knowledge broke down the barriers she had originally placed between herself and her captives. For example, Bethany knew Cedric, the youngest of the grown princes, had a soft spot for one of his sister's ladies-in-waiting. She also knew a different lady-in-waiting would have been happy to return the feeling. In contrast, she knew that Lyolf, the unspoken bastard of the family, was thinking of leaving the protection of the family to join the army, though this was not common knowledge amongst the family. His parents definitely didn't know their _son_ was thinking of leaving them.

Long before Bethany could settle her feelings, her door swung open, startling her ladies-in-waiting, to reveal Sir Erin Caldry. "They're ready for you," he announced from the doorway. The other women scurried out of the room while Bethany slowly rose to her feet.

Like everyone else in the castle, the knight was dressed in his finest. Over his usual chainmail, he wore a leather tabard embroidered with the royal family's livery. To protect from the cold that permeated the castle despite the many fires, he wore a thick cloak, the collar made of a white fox fur. Even with the scars running down one side of his face, he looked very handsome and regal in his own way.

Bethany swallowed the lump forming in her throat and joined him in the doorway. In his normal manner, he offered his arm and jerked her off balance as he brought his elbow back to his side. Bethany did her best to ignore it, which seemed to only annoy him more.

They walked in silence, meeting the family at the head of the largest staircase leading down to the great hall. The knight handed her over to Féderic and escaped down the stairs.

Bethany thought of the last time she has been announced at a banquet in her home, with her family. Her feelings than had been so different from what they were now. Now she was a captive, and yet here she was, about to be announced to a mob of enemies as their future queen. Bethany forced the emotions down before they could consume her, mostly because she didn't know which emotion it was that threatened to overwhelm her. Was she angry at the idea of her enemies welcoming her as one of their own, or was she excited at the thought of being elevated to an heir apparent?

To her astonishment, the rest of the family descended in a group, without the honor of the herald announcing their entrance. Bethany watched them leave, wondering what was happening. A moment after they left her line of sight, she heard the crowd grow quiet and the king's loud voice.

"Friends! I am happy to announce a surprising turn of events which has taken place over the last couple of weeks. Princess Bethany Kavadh has agreed to wed Prince Féderic!"

Rather than any sort of cheering, Bethany heard the mob break into soft, uncertain murmuring. It quickly ended as the king continued.

"She has expressed her hope that through their union, a peace might be reached between us and her family!"

This brought about the cheers Bethany had expected. Evidently, the average noble wasn't as keen on war as their king. Eventually, the crowd quieted again.

"Now, let me introduce to you your future king and queen!"

Whatever feelings this last statement may have produced in Bethany, they were shadowed by her sense of loss. A weight descended on her shoulders, making her dress feel ten times as heavy as it really was. These people thought she wanted to help them, and though she wanted peace, she didn't think this was the way to achieve it. More importantly, she doubted whether Wolfric would ever allow true peace between them and her family. He wanted their rich land too much.

All of the warring emotions raging through her settled in their proper place. In a moment of clarity, she realized what the king was really using her for. With her help, he would gain access to her family and likely stage a coup or assassination. In no time at all, he would kill off all her family until she was the only heir left, and therefore instate his own son into their line of succession.

Bethany had to work to control her face as she descended the steps with Féderic. He, of course, was ecstatic. His father had just announced publicly that Féderic would indeed become king one day, and though he could go back on his word, it was less likely once it has been stated so publicly.

Just as they were entering the crowd's line of sight, Bethany forced her lips up into something that resembled a smile, though it felt more like the beginning of a growl. Either way, her teeth were visible. Hopefully, the expression would interpret it as a smile. She didn't want her sudden increase in hatred to be known to her enemies just yet.

Bethany felt, for the first time since her first night in a real bed, the need to ruin this family and kingdom in whatever little way she could. She knew her previous attacks had been nothing but nibbles on Wolfric's boot heel, except maybe Féderic's accident, but now she was determined to stab at the heart of the king.

For now, though, she would have to mislead them.

The crowd cheered for them until they reached their seats on the dais.

The dinner went off without a hitch. In fact, Bethany wasn't really required to do anything other than eat and attend to what Féderic said until the meal was finished. Then the many tables were removed to make room for dancing. Unsurprisingly, she and Féderic opened the dancing.

What with Bethany's newfound hatred for her fiancé and what their engagement meant, she had trouble allowing him to wrap his arm around her waist and guide her through the dance. Féderic kept her dancing long after she would have liked to sit down. Her feet were beginning to ache from pounding them on the stone floor, and her back throbbed from the effort it took to carry her thick, heavy dress. She began dropping hints, which he ignored. Finally, she flat out asked him if they could rest.

"Of course, my dear," said Féderic as though he was surprised to find her tired.

They weaved their way through the crowd to where the king and queen sat. A bench was left vacant next to them for the royal children. With all solicitude, Féderic guided her to the bench and took a seat between her and his mother. As they sat, Bethany noticed the queen motioning for someone to come to her. Bethany assumed it was a slave with a pitcher, but to her annoyance, it was the scarred knight.

"Sir Caldry, would you take Bethany back out to the dance floor. I need to talk to Féderic, and I'm sure Bethany would rather dance than sit here and be bored," said the queen as though Féderic had been rude to pull Bethany away from the dance floor.

Bethany tried to think of a way to politely decline, but before she could, the knight had taken her hand and escorted her back out onto the crowded dance floor. To her surprise, the scarred man swung her easily into his arms and held her tightly against his chest. At first, she tensed at the close proximity before she realized that his tight grip was keeping some of her weight off her battered feet. With more expertise than she expected, the knight guided them through the crowd, to the opposite side of the throng and up against an empty bench. Before she knew what had happened, she was sitting on the bench next to Sir Caldry. Her breathing came in shallow gasps as she took in their surroundings.

Finally, she looked at him, confusion written across her features.

"You're tired," he stated in response to her unspoken question. "You haven't gained your strength back. You should eat more. Besides, I thought you'd prefer to sit until they want you again rather than dance with me."

Bethany couldn't think of a polite way to respond, so she remained silent and watched the other dancers. She was happy to sit quietly, without the prince's incessant attention, but she was too surprised by Caldry's sudden generosity to enjoy the reprieve. It had been a long time since the knight had done anything nice or helpful for her.

What had brought this on?

When she thought he wasn't looking, she stole glances at him, but she couldn't discern any change in him. She was looking at his unscarred side, and though his mouth was turned down in a perpetual frown, she realized he really was a handsome man, with strong features, thick hair cropped short, and a long, straight nose.

Handsome or not, though, he was a cruel man who had taken a sudden dislike of her since her true identity had been revealed, she reminded herself. Bethany forced herself to remember all the beatings she had received at his hand, determined to despise anyone associated with this place and her time here.

As she sat beside the man who had caused her hours upon hours of pain, she reformed her resolution to fight Wolfric in any way she could.

Now she just had to figure out what mischief she could cause.

# Chapter Fifty-Two

Cal ran his hands through his hair one last time in a nervous gesture before mounting his horse, who was currently trying to take a bite out of the stable hand. The young lad was doing a little dance with the horse's head, masterfully keeping away from Éimhin's large teeth. Cal wasn't in the mood to find his horse's aggressive tendencies humorous.

He mounted in a swift, practiced motion, despite the weight of his chain mail. The stable hand tossed him the lead and ducked out of the way. Cal didn't wait to make sure the lad had gotten away before kicking Éimhin into motion. The horses quickly shifted into an easy canter and took him out of the castle grounds before Cal had time to think about what he was hoping to do today.

He had received another letter from the man investigating his sister, and this time the letter contained good news: She had been found. The bad news was that she was now the slave to a man Cal knew all too well.

Tethys was a wealthy lord living in Tolad. Unlike many of the other lords, Tethys had learned to use his wealth to gain true power within the city. He had subtle control over the city guards and the prosperous horse trade. This meant he was a valuable asset to the king. Cal knew his only hope of getting Tethys to sell his sister to him was through diplomacy. Excessive money wouldn't be enough. Cal had to offer Tethys something Cal could do better than anyone else—this generally meant killing.

It only took Cal a few minutes to ride to Tethys' manor. The lord was wealthy enough to afford one of the large, gated estates that circled the castle, a long stone's throw from the outer walls of the castle. At the gate, a slave boy chained to the wall to keep him from escaping, opened the gate. Cal tried not to think about what sort of humiliating tasks Tethys had his sister doing.

At the large double doors of the manor house, another slave ran up and took Éimhin's head. Before Cal had time to warn him, the horse bit the man's shoulder hard enough to draw blood. The slave yelped and ran away. Before Cal could tie his own horse to a stand near the door, the door opened to reveal Tethys, dressed in his usual black, with a few gaudy gold chains hanging from his neck. The rich lord glared down at him.

"Where's my man? Why isn't he here to attend your horse?" Tethys demanded.

Cal realized the lord's anger was not directed at him. "It's probably better, my lord. My horse has a tendency to bite. I think your man is nursing a pretty nasty wound."

The lord's glare shifted toward his horse. Cal couldn't blame him but hoped the incident wouldn't put Tethys off too much. Cal needed him to be open to his proposal.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, Sir Caldry?" Tethys asked as he took a discreet step back.

Cal acted as though he hadn't noticed the other man put more space between them; it was a normal response. He frightened people, and though he didn't enjoy it, he also didn't try to alleviate their fear. Most of the time their fear was needed.

Just not today.

Today, Cal needed to be liked, but he didn't know how. He was better at frightening people. In an effort to calm the other man, he smiled. It didn't work. Cal watched as Tethys swallowed convulsively.

"I understand you recently procured a slave named Catrina."

A look of understanding flitted across Tethys' face before he schooled his features to look confused. "I'm afraid I don't know who you're talking about."

In a spurt of anger and frustration, Cal responded, "In other words, the king has already warned you!"

Tethys tried to hold his look of confusion, but Cal saw the corners of his mouth twitch upwards ever-so-slightly. Before either of them could say anything a woman appeared in the doorway.

"Tethys, is everything okay?"

At first, Cal didn't recognize her, but suddenly he identified the face he'd grown up with. Her hair was unnaturally black, and she wore a brilliant red dress, accented in gold. At a glance the dress was exquisite, but Cal quickly recognized it as cheaply made; still, it was far beyond what a slave should be wearing. Catrina stared back at him, her master momentarily forgotten.

"Catrina?" he asked, too shocked and confused to say more.

"Well, I suppose you'll want to talk to her, now that you've seen her. C'mon in Sir Caldry," Tethys said through clenched teeth.

Cal followed mechanically, never taking his eyes off his sister. Finally, after years of searching he had found her, and yet he could barely trace a resemblance to the young girl he'd played with in the mud. She swayed her hips enticingly and glanced over her shoulder to be sure Tethys was noticing. Cal swallowed the bile rising in his throat as an unwanted thought began to creep into his mind.

Tethys showed them a short way into the large entrance hall before stepping back. It was just a token movement, he hadn't actually given them any privacy. Nothing about this encounter was going as Cal had anticipated. He had wanted to speak with Tethys privately, secure his sister's freedom before he saw her.

Catrina turned to look at him after a quick glance at her master.

"Erin, what are you doing here?" she asked as though he had dropped by unannounced right before a family dinner.

"I... uh... I've been searching for you for years, Catrina! I... ummm..." With this, he turned toward Tethys to state his intentions. "I have come to purchase Catrina. I have plenty of gold. Or, if you'd rather, I'm sure I have some skills that would be useful to a man like yourself."

Unsurprisingly, Tethys smiled. "I'm afraid you're too late. I've freed Catrina. As to whether she wants to join you or not, well, that is _her_ choice."

Cal just stared at him for a long moment before he thought to look at his own sister. "Catrina?"

He couldn't think of anything else to say as even more shock set in. What was happening? All this time that he had been looking for her, she had already been free and with a man he saw on numerous occasions.

"Will you come with me? We can..."

"I don't want to leave," she replied before he could finish.

Cal felt as though he had swallowed a large stone. Had it really all been for nothing? All the work, all the money, all the worry for a woman who didn't even want to be saved?

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Tethys' smile widen.

"What do you mean? We could finally go home."

"There is no home to go back to."

"So you just want to stay here? As a slave?" he demanded.

"I'm not a slave."

"Then what are you?" Cal probably already knew, but he refused to think the word.

"Catrina is my mistress," Tethys said.

Cal felt the stone in his stomach give a leap that made him want to throw up. There was the dreaded word, the reality of the situation. "Catrina?"

"He's right, Erin. I like it here. I _want_ to stay. Go home, or wherever you come from. I don't need you."

Cal tried to keep his face a mask to hide the pain and shock he felt, but he knew it was only marginally successful. Without saying a word, he turned to leave the large estate. He wouldn't let them see his hurt, or at least any more than he had already shown.

"Erin, wait."

For a short moment, he thought she might have changed her mind. He turned to look at her, trying to keep his face a mask of unconcerned apathy.

"What happened to your face?" she asked.

Cal's expression darkened into a glare.

"What do you care?" he snapped before storming out of the large house and up to Éimhin's head.

He untied the lead in quick, practiced movements, mounted, and was away before Tethys and Catrina could reach the large double doors to see him off.

As he rode through the open gate, he noticed a bedraggled man on a fine-legged mare enter the lord's property. Hardly a beggar, considering the horse, but he didn't look reputable. Had this man been entering the castle, Cal would have been worried, but he couldn't muster any concern for Tethys or his back-stabbing sister.

Cal returned to the castle thoroughly drunk.

Pelor stopped in front of the large gate that guarded Tethys' massive estate. The slave boy, chained to the wall, peered at him through the iron gate, slowly recognizing him.

"Well, ya gonna let me in?" Pelor asked from his perch upon the little mare Gavius had given him.

He'd sold the thief's horse just a day or two after acquiring it. The proceeds hadn't been much but it had provided him another couple of days' worth of food.

The boy behind the gate nodded slowly, never taking his eyes off Pelor.

"You're back," said the guard as he moved out from his hiding place.

Pelor held up the flap of human skin he had attached to a leather thong and hung from the horn of his saddle. The piece of skin clearly held the mark of Tethys' house, despite the skin's discoloration. Pelor tried not to look at it himself. It gave him the creeps.

The guard motioned for the boy to open the heavy gate. As he made his way toward the house he spotted a knight on an enormous warhorse make his way through the gate. The man had a long, jagged scar down the side of his face. It brought to mind all the stories he had heard in his hometown of a foreign knight with a horrible scar, a knight who was considered to be the fiercest in the land. Pelor felt a shiver run down his spine as he forced his little mare into a trot, speeding his way towards the lord's house.

It was the largest house he had ever seen that wasn't a castle. A slave he didn't recognize ran up to him, bleeding from his shoulder, and tentatively took the lead to his horse. Pelor had an idea that a horse had taken a chunk out of his shoulder earlier today. It made Pelor laugh at the idea of a horse so poorly trained that it would bite someone.

Before he had finished with his laugh, the doors were opened by yet another slave. Pelor entered, feeling uncomfortable entering through the main entrance, but the slaves didn't recognize him as an employee of Tethys.

"Who is it now?" demanded a recognizable voice.

Tethys emerged from the small room just off the hallway while trying to do up his trousers. A certain condition was making this task extra difficult. Pelor forced the smile from his face.

"Ah. You've returned. About time."

"My lord, I found your slave, but I'm afraid I was too late. He was dying of some illness when I found him."

With this lie, he produced the flap of skin and handed it to the surprised lord. Tethys had forgotten about his pants.

"Good. Good," he said distractedly before looking down at the skin in his hand. "This is disgusting!"

Pelor couldn't help but laugh as Tethys flung the skin at the nearby slave.

"You, there. Get umm..."

"Pelor, my lord."

"Get Pelor a room and a meal. And a bath."

Pelor smiled to himself as he followed the slave up to one of the family guest rooms. Evidently, he had been elevated from guard to guest. Before he made it out of the entrance hall, he saw the lord escape back into the small room where a woman waited, no doubt.

# Chapter Fifty-Three

Bethany walked around the wide bailey of the castle, with Sir Caldry following at a short distance. They were experiencing a sudden and unseasonal warmth. It wasn't enough to melt the enormous snow drifts, but it was enough to make an excursion outside bearable. Féderic was busy with his father in the far corner of the bailey where something special was happening in the stables. This left the scarred knight to watch over her, as though someone within the castle walls would do her harm. Bethany thought it a little excessive but wasn't about to argue.

She just wished the knight was in a better mood. For the last two days, he had been extra acerbic, snapping at everyone, when he spoke at all, and glaring at those around him the rest of the time. Bethany was glad he chose to walk some distance from her. Whatever was bothering him was rubbing off on her, making her grumpy as well. She didn't want to be irritable. She wanted to enjoy the brief respite from the intense cold of the mountain city.

More importantly, Bethany wanted to find a way to do some damage. She had thought of an idea but wasn't sure how to execute it, especially with her faithful guardian in tow. In hopes of losing him, she sauntered towards the stables, where she thought it possible the king or prince would call him. To her surprise, the scheme worked. She had just passed the entrance when she heard Wolfric call to the knight.

She took a few more steps before glancing back and was rewarded with the sight of Sir Caldry entering the dark stables. Bethany had to work to keep her pace calm and sedate as she made her way to the blacksmith's hut. Earlier, she had noticed a bucket of dying embers sitting outside the building, most likely from when the apprentice cleaned out the forge. In a swift, discreet movement she scooped up the bucket and kept walking.

With her heart pounding in her ears so that she wouldn't have been able to hear a call of reprimand had there been one, she took the bucket to the large shed where they kept the recently made weapons that had yet to be sent off to the front. It happened to be full of freshly fletched arrows. Her timing couldn't have been better had she planned it; in fact, the whole plan was revealing itself with surprising ease.

She dumped the coals onto the thatched floor and knelt to blow life into them. After a few fretful moments, the warm embers caught the straw and flames jumped upwards towards a supporting beam. Bethany took a step back and made the greatest mistake of her life: She stopped to watch the fire spread.

Just when she was beginning to think she ought to leave, she felt a heavy hand land on her shoulder and screamed. The hand pulled her backward, away from the growing flames while another hand wrapped around her stomach and started dragging her away. Bethany scrambled, trying to free herself from her attacker's grasp, but the smoke of her fire was beginning to choke them both. Soon it was all she could do just to breathe.

A moment later, they both emerged from the smoke into more breathable air. Bethany fell to the snow-covered ground and coughed. When she finally looked up, she saw Sir Caldry, covered in soot, coughing beside her. Before either of them could say anything, a crowd of men carrying buckets of snow came running towards the fire.

"What happened?" demanded the recognizable voice of Wolfric.

Bethany and the knight were still coughing, unable to answer. Of course, Bethany was prepared to lie, but she didn't know if the knight would back her up. Shortly before they discovered her identity, she thought he just might support some of her machinations, but now she wasn't so sure.

"Sir Caldry and the princess came out of the arms storage just as the fire started," panted a man with an empty bucket.

Bethany looked in time to see the king nod his head in the general direction of the fire. The man ran off with the others working to put out her fire. A few men started shoveling snow onto the burning building. The king glared down at them. Before she could realize what had happened he made a motion and soldiers rushed forward to point their swords at her and Sir Caldry.

"Now tell me, Bethany, should I have Sir Caldry killed?" Wolfric asked her, squatting down where she knelt in the cold snow.

Bethany looked up in shock before glancing to where the knight knelt beside her. "What?"

"Well, clearly one, if not both of you, started this fire, and since we know you have started fires in the past, it seems likely you are the instigator. But did you have an accomplice? Well now, that is the question."

With this, the king turned his gaze on the knight. Sir Caldry was glaring at Bethany, his soft green eyes bright with hatred.

"I acted alone!"

"Likely story of a lover."

"What?" she and Féderic asked at the same time.

Wolfric glanced over his shoulder at Féderic; the prince was standing a foot or two behind his father.

"Surely you've noticed how much time they spend together, Son. It seems likely your fiancée has corrupted our good Sir Caldry."

"No!" barked Féderic.

"I acted alone," she repeated in the same instance, though with less fervor. It felt useless. No doubt Wolfric had already made up his mind.

"That seems hard to believe, Bethany. Take them to the dungeon. Chain them up together, since they're so fond of each other."

"Father!"

"Silence!" commanded Wolfric.

At the same time, Bethany took up their case, describing everything she had ever done. She couldn't, wouldn't be the reason this man died, but the king didn't listen. He walked away, dragging his son with him.

The soldiers guided them down to the dungeon. Bethany did not go quietly until she suddenly grew too tired to fight their strong grasp. Sir Caldry, on the other hand, seemed to be putting all his energy into a horrific sneer directed at Bethany.

When the guards finally left them, chained to a wall with their arms over their heads, Bethany turned to say something to the knight, but for the first time since Wolfric had accused them, he was looking pointedly away from her.

She swallowed a lump in her throat, suddenly at a loss for words.

How do you apologize to a man who is about to die, just because he saved your life?

# Chapter Fifty-Four

Cal hung from a set of shackles, his head drooping against his left arm. He wiggled a little to look over at the princess. When they were first locked in the dungeon, she had tried to say something but gave up when he turned away from her. Now, untold hours later, he would have done anything to spark up a conversation, if only to distract himself from the pain in his wrists and the dead feeling in his arms. The soldiers had pulled their arms up high enough to make breathing difficult. In fact, Cal was pretty sure the princess had passed out. He wanted to kick her to wake her up again but refrained. If she was passed out then it was a reprieve from pain. If only he could do the same.

A few minutes later he heard a sound from the entrance to the dungeon. A bobbing light began to shine in the distance, which slowly dissolved into a person carrying a torch. After another long wait, Cal recognized the prince.

"What are you doing here?" Cal asked in a voice made hoarse from going without water.

"Sssshhhh," Féderic hissed as he produced a large ring of keys and began working on the shackles that suspended Bethany from the ceiling.

"What's going on?" He would get the prince to explain things even if he had to kick him.

Féderic sighed heavily before lowering Bethany to the ground. As the pressure on her chest eased she began to stir groggily.

"Father is thinking of executing you both tomorrow," explained Féderic.

It looked as though that was all the prince would say.

"Are you helping us escape?" Cal asked out of desperation.

Much to Cal's chagrin, the prince burst out laughing.

"And risk my crown? Not likely, ol' friend."

Cal clenched his teeth together to keep from screaming at the younger man. All the hatred he had been concealing for many long years was about to boil over, but this wasn't the time to lose control. Anger clouded one's judgment, and he needed all his cunning to survive.

"Where are you taking her?" he asked.

Cal didn't really care where the prince was taking the damned girl; he asked to keep the prince talking. The longer Féderic was here the longer the keys were within reach. Cal had to figure out how to convince the prince to release him.

Once again, Cal realized how bad he was at being persuasive unless he was doing it with a sword.

"I will have my wedding night," Féderic sneered.

With that, the prince hoisted Bethany over his shoulder, retrieved the torch, and left Cal in the darkness.

A brief moment later, the glowing light returned. Cal wondered if the prince had had a change of heart, but dismissed that thought before the person became recognizable. It was one of the dungeon guards, the keys in hand.

"Jes checkin' to make sure the prince don't do nothin' stupid."

Cal wracked his brain, trying to remember the guard's name.

"Bran," he barked in desperation. The other man stopped to look at him. It wasn't a look of confusion. Cal assumed he had guessed right and proceeded, speaking with all the authority he could muster. "Come here."

"I ain't 'spose to go near you... sir."

"I will get out of here, one way or another, and I will come for you."

"How you gonna get outta the dungeon?"

"Do you really think the king will execute me?" Cal colored his voice with derision. If he could just make the guard fear what might happen. "Now, come here."

The guard took a hesitant step forward, as though Cal's very words had forced his feet to move without his consent. Cal stared at him, drawing him in with his gaze, using every trick he knew to instill fear in the other man. Bran took another step forward and Cal acted.

He gripped the chains from which he was hanging, lifted himself up, and slammed his boot into the man's groin. As he expected, the man fell forward, grabbing his privates and dropping the key. Cal brought his foot down on the man's head, effectively knocking him out.

_Now for the hard part_ , he thought as kicked his boot off.

With clumsy efforts, he used his toes to pick up the keys. Once the ring was firmly grasped between his toes, he used every ounce of strength he had to curl his straightened legs up towards his shackled hands. The muscles in his stomach screamed as sweat beaded on his head, but slowly he managed to raise his feet up to where his hands waited and grabbed the key.

The knight took a moment to rest, letting his abs calm their shrieking protest to what he had just made them do with very little oxygen. When he could breathe more easily he began to work on the locks, hoping he didn't drop the key.

Apparently, luck was with him.

A few minutes later, one shackle and then the other, snapped open. He dropped his dead arms and bit his tongue to keep from screaming. Every nerve in his arms shrieked in defiance of their treatment. He wanted to wait a moment to let the blood recirculate, but he didn't have that moment to waste.

Cal leaned down and placed his hand in front of Bran's nose. He felt wet, warm air flow over his tingling fingers and took that as a good sign. At least he hadn't killed him. Cal groped around in the dim light, finally coming across the man's hips. He undid Bran's belt and removed it and the guard's sword. It wasn't anything like his own sword, but it was better than his fist alone. Once the old thing was hanging from his hip, he went back to searching the unconscious guard, eventually finding the man's dagger. This he tucked into the boot he had returned to his foot.

Without stopping to think about what he had just done, he ran toward the main entrance of the long dungeon. Most of the other occupants were too far gone to cry out in protest at his freedom, those that were able to couldn't see him clearly enough to know it was he and not the guard who'd returned.

Cal knew the habits of the castle. There were two guards on duty at the dungeon at night, but they often took turns watching while the other slept or found some other entertainment. Cal reached the large doors that led out of the dungeon, into an ante-chamber that connected to the upper levels as well as the guards' quarters. Bran had left it open a crack.

The knight stopped to listen, but it was difficult to hear anything beyond his own heart pounding and the pins-and-needles pain attacking his arms. Eventually, after more patience than he thought he possessed, Cal heard the faint snoring of the other guard. He pushed the door open slowly, cringing at every unnecessary sound it made. Sure enough, the second guard was fast asleep. Using the skills of a childhood spent hunting, he silently crossed the room and slipped up the stairs.

Cal felt a surge of guilt as he thought about the guards' fate when his disappearance was discovered, but they had fallen victim to him due to their own stupidity and laziness.

A few minutes later, Cal emerged into the night air of the empty bailey.

The castle slept.

# Chapter Fifty-Five

"I will have my wedding night," Bethany heard Féderic say from somewhere over her head. She felt her stomach give a little flip of nervousness, but nothing was making sense in her present state except for the agonizing pain coursing through her arms. She groaned softly to herself.

Before she could figure out what was going on, the floor disappeared out from under her. In one swift movement, she was pulled up off the floor and draped over Féderic's shoulder, which dug painfully into her stomach. Through sheer force of will, Bethany kept from vomiting down the prince's back. In retrospect, she wondered if it might have been wiser to just let her last meal return.

The prince started moving, taking the dim torch with him. His steps hurt her stomach, but the pain in her arms was far more intense. She had to work hard to keep from making a noise, which she felt would give away the fact she was conscious again. Bethany didn't know what was about to happen to her, but she felt certain it wasn't going to be pleasant.

They passed out of the dungeon into a brighter room, where Bethany heard the prince say: "Don't breathe a word to anyone about this. I'll have her back in an hour or so."

She heard a man begin to chuckle darkly in response, causing her stomach to give another little flip of revulsion. A glimmer of an idea began to take shape in her mind and Bethany had to squeeze her eyes tighter to keep the tears from leaking out of her eyes.

A few minutes later, Bethany heard a door creak open and softly bang shut. Before she could prepare herself, Féderic flipped her off his shoulder and onto a soft surface. It was such a surprise that her eyes flew open despite her resolution to play dead.

"I thought you were awake," smirked Féderic from his crouched position over her on the bed.

"Why did you bring me here?" she asked through clenched teeth.

"You're likely to be put to death tomorrow." For once, Féderic seemed to appreciate the weight of his words. "I thought... I thought I could give you one last night of pleasure... before..."

"You mean, give yourself pleasure."

"Can't it be both?"

"No." Bethany wasn't sure if she had an option, but on the off chance, she chose to refuse.

"You're dying tomorrow. What difference does it make if you hold to your ridiculous rules?"

"It makes all the difference. If my life is to end tomorrow, then how I choose to spend my last hours is all I have left. I want to die with the ability to respect myself. Do you think having sex with the man who kills me would bring me any peace of mind?"

"I'm not the one killing you!" Féderic thundered in shock and defiance.

"You might as well be," Bethany responded as calmly as she could considering the circumstances. "Are you doing anything to save me?"

Féderic didn't respond.

"If you truly care for me as you claim, why are you spending my last hours trying to seduce me, rather than trying to save me?"

They stared at each other in silence for a long while.

"Just as I thought," continued Bethany, "you've only ever wanted my body, not my company."

Bethany felt more tears leak from her eyes. Some small part of her had grown accustomed to the idea that Féderic might actually care for her. Now, in the face of her own death, she began to realize that she had foolishly given in to so many lies. Féderic didn't care for her. Wolfric only allowed their marriage in the hopes of using her to destroy her family, and the one person she had started to place her trust in hated her with every fiber of his being. Bethany ignored the free-flowing tears, which leaked down and mixed with her hair as she lay on Féderic's bed.

When she grew tired of the prince's penetrating glare, she tried to sit up and push him aside, but in a moment of sudden rage, the prince shoved her back onto the bed. Bethany tried to fight him off, but her arms were still hurting and even if they weren't, she would never have been able to match his strength or speed.

The prince grappled with her arms for a few moments before he grew tired of her attempts to defend herself. He hit her in the head with the back of his hand, his large signet ring cutting her eyebrow. While she lay there, too dazed to respond, Féderic undid his trousers and tore her skirt up to the bodice.

She was just starting to shift away when he flopped down on top of her, effectively pinning her to the soft mattress with his weight. For a short second, he lifted himself, only to adjust his position. It was far too short a time for her to respond. Before she could say or do anything more, she felt a pressure between her legs.

The rest was a blur of pain, tears, and cursing. She fought back throughout the experience, but after a few minutes that felt like pieces of eternity, his weight was suddenly lifted from her, and the excruciating pain stopped.

Furiously, she blinked the tears away, just in time to see Sir Caldry drop Féderic's body to the floor. From where she lay, exposed to the world, she saw a puddle of blood form around the prince's body from a long gash across his back. Without immediate aid, it would be fatal.

Bethany tore her gaze from the prince to look at the knight. He was grinding his teeth, which she knew to be a nervous habit. His jaw muscles were working hard, either to control some deep emotion or to keep from vomiting, she couldn't tell which.

"C'mon," he ordered in a soft but commanding, whisper.

Bethany felt her lips begin to quiver as the tears continued to drain down her temples and into her matted hair. What was he saying? Where could they possibly go? Now that he had attacked the prince, there was nothing she could do to save him from her fate. Why couldn't he have just stayed in the dungeon?

A new weight landed on her shoulders, sinking her further into the mattress, now wet with sweat and blood. It was the knowledge that once again she had cost this man his life. He would die for saving her, and not because he cared for her, but simply because he couldn't leave her to this fate. Slowly, her tears stopped as a strange numbness seeped through her limbs and into her mind. Bethany sighed deeply as she relaxed into the mattress.

He must have seen the change that took no more than a second. "What are you doing?" he snapped as he grabbed her shoulder and jerked her angrily from the bed.

The movement and the derision in his voice brought the tears back, though her mind still felt too numb to respond.

"We have to run."

Bethany followed automatically, allowing him to pull her this way and that. She felt a strange draft in the skirt of her dress, the coolness of the air in the castle uncomfortable against a wet patch on her thigh. When they stopped at a corner, she reached down and tried to wipe the moisture from the inside of her thigh; her hand came back wet with blood.

Bethany froze, staring at the blood. She couldn't be certain if it was from her body or Féderic's, but a sinking nausea that threatened to overwhelm her began to break through her comforting dullness.

It was her blood! She was bleeding! And it wasn't her time.

Bethany felt panic well up in her chest. She was just opening her mouth to scream when Sir Caldry turned to look at her. Before she could muster up any noise, he clamped a hand over her mouth and pressed her against the stone wall, a sword still clutched in his other hand.

"Listen to me, Ann," he said, reverting back to her slave name out of habit.

Its unusual sound broke through her terror and made her look away from her bloody hand.

"You are alive. The bleeding has stopped. Hold it together and we BOTH live."

Bethany swallowed convulsively before nodding. Tears were streaming down her face again, but she ignored them, instead focusing on Sir Caldry's back. He was still wearing his chainmail and a fresh cloak. The sword he held she realized wasn't his. His was longer, with a beautiful, but simple, pummel. This looked like it was one of many identical swords.

_Where had he gotten it_? she wondered absently. These little details kept her from thinking of the dying prince, the blood on her hand, or what had just happened.

They weaved their way through the sleeping castle, using back corridors where they were less likely to run into anyone else wandering around the castle. She quickly lost track of where they were, relying on his superior knowledge to lead them to safety.

It seemed like an eternity later when they emerged through a small door and out into the dark bailey. In the castle, they had stumbled upon the occasional torch held by an elegant sconce, but outside there was no light, except what the sliver of the moon provided. This was both good and bad.

Sir Caldry didn't waste any time dithering around the bailey. They crossed the yard at a run. Bethany forced herself to ignore how the tear in her skirting allowed the frigid night air to seep into her legs; now wasn't the time to have another breakdown. They stopped at the stables. Sir Caldry turned to her, took her by the shoulders, and directed her into a small nook between the enormous stables and a smaller building.

"Stay here. If someone finds you, scream. As loud as you can."

A new panic began to choke her.

_Where was he going? He can't leave me here._ She tried to form a protest, her mouth working automatically, but her throat was too dry to create a sound. Before she could work moisture back into her throat, he turned and slipped into the stables.

Bethany glanced around, but in the darkness, she couldn't see beyond her own hand. She nestled down into the little recess, which had been protected from the recent snowfall by the surrounding buildings. She pulled the tear in her skirt closed and squatted down, trying to ignore the persistent pain in her groin. Terror kept her from feeling the bitter cold of the night, but her body shook on its own accord.

With every noise, she had to refrain from screaming. The wait felt like hours, but when Sir Caldry returned with his horse she saw that he was breathing heavily; he had hurried.

Bethany didn't wait for his order. She emerged from her hole and joined him beside the enormous horse. The knight draped something that smelled like horses and hay over her shoulders before hoisting her up onto the saddle. Absently she noticed that he had placed her in the saddle like a lady, which allowed her to keep her legs together and covered with what remained of her dress. With practiced ease, he mounted the horse, settling in the saddle behind her. As he tapped the animal's side he adjusted her legs until they draped over one of his legs and pulled her closer. With one arm he held her while the other hand held the reins.

For once, Bethany forgot about all the horrible things this man had done to her. Right now he was the lesser of two evils. Whatever his reasons were, he was saving her from death, and worse.

She felt the horse stop briefly, and heard the jingle of a full coin purse. Bethany tensed, assuming someone had caught them. Instead, she heard a door creak open and felt them enter a small, narrow tunnel. It was even darker here. The tunnel was just tall enough to admit them and the horse. It felt like it went on for miles, but in reality, it was only about six meters, the width of the base of the enormous walls surrounding the castle. A moment later they emerged.

Sir Caldry kicked his horse into a canter as they crossed the swath of empty land between the castle and the city.

They were free. In unison, they breathed a sigh of relief as the horse quickly got them lost in the labyrinth of the city. Wolfric would have to search for weeks to find them in Tolad, and by then they would be far, far away.

Or at least, Bethany hoped that was the knight's plan.

To read the next chapter, check out Lost,

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# Works by Charissa Dufour

The Series that Just Plain Sucks

Life Sucks (Prequel short story)

Sucked In (Book 1)

Sucked Away (Book 2)

That Sucked (Book 3)

Or purchase in a box set:

The Series that Just Plain Sucks: The Complete Series (Books 1-3)

Suck It Up (A little something extra. Can be read at any time in the series)

The Dothan Chronicles

Bought (Prequel short story)

Torn (Book 1)

Lost (Book 2)

Alone (Book 3)

Or purchase in a box set:

The Dothan Chronicles: The Complete Trilogy (Books 1-3)

The Void Series

Cornered Magic (Book 1)

Misguided Allies (Book 2)

Balanced Chaos (Book 3)

Sinful Redemption (Book 4)

Hostile Takeover (Book 5)

Grateful Wreckage (Book 6)

The Echoes of Sol Series

Trust and Treachery (Book 1)

Broken and Hunted (Book 2)

Profit and Peril (Book 3)

Mayhem and Mutiny (Book 4)

Lost and Found (Book 5)

Heart and Sol (Book 6)

Bits and Pieces (Book 7)

Captives and Consequences (Book 8)

# Sneak Peek of Lost
Chapter One

Cal cringed as the manacles clinked against the stone wall of his cell, pausing a second to make sure no one had noticed. Most likely the other prisoners were too far gone with fatigue and malnutrition to notice a little extra noise, and the guard lying on the floor of his cell was truly unconscious. Cal bent down and checked to make sure the man was still breathing.

He was but, though this was good, it wouldn't save him from the punishment coming his way. When the authorities discovered that the unlucky guard had let the prisoners escape, he would likely be beheaded or at least put in the stocks.

Cal stooped to search the guard's pockets. He didn't find much, but he did take the man's sword and dagger. His own superior weapons had been confiscated, of course, when King Wolfric had found him dragging the captive, Princess Bethany Kavadh, from the burning wreckage of the weapons depot.

Princess Bethany was the daughter of Wolfric's enemy, the last king to stand against him on the enormous peninsula. She had come to Wolfric's household as a slave after being captured during an ambush by slavers on her caravan. After many months of slavery her true identity had been discovered and, up until a few hours ago, she had been engaged to the heir apparent, Prince Féderic, in a scheme to bring down the Kavadh family from within.

But the rebellious woman, who couldn't appreciate what fate had brought her, had ruined it all and taken Cal down with her. She had set the weapons depot on fire and was stupid enough to stay and watch her work. Wolfric and Féderic had arrived at the scene of the crime just as Cal had pulled her out of the burning building, and they had jumped to the conclusion that Cal had been involved in the offense.

Hence the prison cell.

Cal strapped the sword to his side, double checking the binding of the belt to be sure it wouldn't fall from his hip as he made his escape. He slipped out of the cell and silently crept down the long row of cells toward the half-opened door leading into the small quarters where the guards slept and ate.

He paused at the door, listening to the soft snores of the other guard. Wolfric kept two guards on duty at any given time, but the guards often took turns sleeping, especially during the night shift. As Cal had expected, the second guard was fast asleep and unaware of the silent mayhem occurring in his prison. Like the man lying in Cal's cell, this guard would likely receive a severe punishment for letting the prisoners get away.

Cal slipped into the dimly lit room and tiptoed toward the other door, which opened up to a tiny landing at the bottom of a narrow stairwell. Cal climbed the stairs, taking them two at a time, and emerged into the dark bailey. There wasn't a sound from any of the darkened corners. All the castle's residents were fast asleep.

The knight set out in the direction of the stables, determined to get out of the castle as soon as possible. By now every member of the castle would know that Sir Erin Caldry had been sent to the dungeon and sentenced to death, along with the princess. Wolfric seemed to think that they were lovers. In reality, Cal hated Bethany just like he hated all nobility. They were all the same—out to steal the lands and wealth of those beneath them, to take the purity of any woman they fancied.

Cal knew. He had experienced it himself as a young lad when Wolfric's army rolled through his Domhain home, killing his parents, and enslaving both him and his sister. If it hadn't been for the accident that put it in Cal's power to save the king, he would still be a slave. Instead, the king freed him and gave him to a knight as a squire. Cal wasn't grateful to the king for freeing him. It didn't make up for enslaving him in the first place, and it definitely didn't make up for turning his sister into a whore.

He had finally tracked his sister down and earned enough money to buy her freedom, only to discover that she was now the mistress of a local lord and perfectly content to remain as she was.

Cal ground his teeth together as he crossed the bailey when his feet stopped on their own accord.

If he left, what would become of the princess?

_I don't care_ , he told himself firmly as he forced his feet to move again.

He made it three steps before the disturbing thoughts returned. Cal knew what was happening to Bethany now. Prince Féderic had come to the dungeon and taken her away for the night. "To have their wedding night before she's beheaded," he had said to Cal as he had hoisted her limp body to his shoulder.

How many times had Cal's sister, Catrina, endure the same treatment? How many times had her masters forced themselves on her to make her what she had become?

Whatever the princess' faults and crimes, she doesn't deserve this treatment. No one did.

Cal swallowed the frustration making its way up from his gut before turning back to the castle. He might die for the choice he had just made, but it was better than living a long life with the guilt of leaving a woman behind to be raped and beheaded. Besides, his escape would be more likely to succeed if he had a few provisions.

Cal slipped back into the castle, using a narrow door which led directly to a set of stairs that wound up to the highest levels. He ran up them as fast as he could, his breath coming in gasps by the time he reached the top-most level of the castle where his quarters were. He stole down the hallway and into his room where he scooped up a spare cloak and flung it over his shoulders before kneeling beside his bed and digging amongst the numerous boxes and chests. He found the small one he wanted tucked behind a trunk of seldom-used summer clothing. He pulled the key out from its hiding place and quickly opened the chest. Mostly he stored documents in this chest relating to his search for his sister, but he also kept a small bag of coins tucked under the papers.

His day-to-day life seldom required money. Therefore, most of the wealth he had procured over the last decade or so of being a knight in the king's good graces was kept with a banker in the city. He wouldn't be able to get it now, but at least this little bag of gold would allow him to bribe the guards at the gates. He grabbed a few coins from the bag and hid them in his boot, letting them slide until they rested uncomfortably against his ankle.

Though he wanted to grab a few other items from his room, he didn't know how long the guard would be unconscious. He didn't have time to pack up silly memories. He had his chainmail on his back and his own weapons were beyond his reach—likely stored in the king's own chambers. What else did he actually need?

Cal hurried out of his room and raced back to the narrow stairwell. Though the slaves often used it as the fastest way from one level to another, it was abandoned at this late hour. He reached the level where the royal family kept their chambers and entered the corridor. Unlike his own level, this hallway was brightly lit. It made it easier for the royal family to have "guests" in the middle of the night.

The knight slipped up to the corner and peered around the edge, happy to see that Prince Féderic had dismissed his guards; evidently, he didn't want any more witnesses than necessary to his indiscretion. Wolfric would not be happy if he heard his son had taken a prisoner from the dungeon, whatever the reason.

Cal slipped up to the prince's door and cringed as he heard the cries of the princess. In one swift motion, he slipped into the room and drew his borrowed sword. As he expected, he found Féderic on top of the princess, oblivious to Cal's sudden entrance. Cal grabbed the prince by the hair, pulling him off his victim while his other hand brought the sword down onto Féderic's back. The sword, while dull from improper care, opened the prince's back until Cal thought he caught a glimpse of bone. Without immediate care, Féderic would bleed out within minutes.

Cal didn't feel any remorse.

He glanced up to look at Bethany. The skirting of her dress was torn and her legs were bare to the world. He quickly pulled his gaze up to her face, which was red and streaked with rivers of tears that had made tracks across her temples toward her hairline. Her elaborate braids were mussed and half torn out. Cal spotted a quiver in her bottom lip and knew she was about to break.

"Come," he ordered softly but firmly, hoping movement would keep her from falling apart. He couldn't get them to safety if she didn't hold it together.

Strangely enough, it had a different effect. The princess suddenly looked peaceful as she lowered her head onto the feather-down mattress and sighed. She was giving up, he realized.

"What're you doing?" he demanded as he grabbed her shoulder and propelled her off the bed.

He saw fresh tears begin to make new streaks down her cheeks, but he chose not to worry about how she perceived his rough treatment. He needed to keep them moving. He could apologize and coddle the princess once they were safe.

"We have to run."

She followed him, but he suspected her mind wasn't in control. She moved like someone sleepwalking.

_At least she's moving,_ he told himself as he poked his head out the door to make sure no one had heard the clamor.

The hallway was clear.

They scurried toward the slave's stairwell, but before they could make it, Cal glanced back to find Bethany leaning against the wall and staring at her hand. Her small fingers were covered in blood. It took him a second to realize where the blood had come from. The blood was the result of her recent trauma. It would heal with time. Cal pushed his focus to her face.

Her bottom lip was quivering again. He clapped a hand over her mouth and pressed her against the wall.

"Listen to me, Ann," her ordered, out of habit using the name she had given when she was a slave. "You are alive. The bleeding has stopped. Hold it together and we BOTH live."

Cal was surprised to watch her nod mutely. He hadn't expected his admonition to have any effect on her muddled brain. She was still crying, but she was doing it quietly. Cal took her arm and dragged her toward the stairwell. Seconds late they arrived in the bailey, near the stables. He hauled her to the stables and pushed her toward a corner.

"Stay here. If someone finds you, scream. As loud as you can," he ordered.

He wasn't sure if she would be able to handle being left alone for a few minutes, but it would be safer for her in the dark corner than in the stables where the workers slept.

He didn't wait to see how she would respond but slipped into the long building. He jogged to Éimhin's stable, grabbing his saddle and bridle as he passed.

"Sorry, boy. Wish I had time to groom you," he whispered to his horse, who nuzzled him affectionately.

Cal saddled his horse in record time and led him out of the stable to the sound of the worker's loud snores. On the way out, Cal grabbed an extra blanket.

Bethany was still hiding in the little corner. When she emerged, he draped the blanket over her shoulders before hoisting her up to Éimhin's back. His war horse was one of the largest he had ever seen. There was no way she would manage the climb herself. At least not in her current state.

Cal didn't have the time or inclination to worry about her terror; he mounted his steady horse, wrapped an arm around her tense body, and urged Éimhin forward in the direction of the lesser-used back gate. At the gate, he spotted the single guard and tossed him the bag of coins.

Just as he expected, it was a guard known for taking bribes. The man didn't even look up. Instead, he flung open the iron gate, just large enough for a single horse, and closed it behind them. It was a long, dark journey to the other side. Wolfric's castle walls were thick as well as tall.

A few minutes later, they emerged from the tunnel. Cal kicked his horse into a canter as they crossed the wide swath of land between the walls and the beginning of the city of Tolad.

As they entered the narrow streets, Cal breathed a sigh of relief.

They were through the worst.
Chapter Two

Lyolf rolled over, yet again. He normally slept soundly from the minute his head hit the pillow to whenever he needed to wake. It was his father's recent remark that kept him awake. Usually, the snubs from his family didn't bother him, but today was different and he couldn't figure out why. Throughout his life he had endured the comments about his black hair and rounded nose—features no one else in the family had. Both his parents had been blondes and all their children looked just like them; except for Lyolf. He was the black sheep of the family.

But this was business as usual for him. He had been allowing his younger brothers to precede him since he first started joining the adults at the dinner table. So why was Wolfric's recent comment about his odd looks keeping him awake?

Lyolf sat up, pushing the heavy covers away from his body.

He slipped his feet into his boots, shivering as the cold leather touched his bare feet. He grabbed the wool sweater he wore when he spent days in his small room. In the privacy of his own room, he didn't have to worry about keeping up appearances. Warmth was much more important and, despite the miniature size of his room, his fire was often barely adequate.

Garbed in the pants he wore yesterday and his warm sweater, he emerged from his room and glanced around. Something was wrong, though he couldn't figure out what. Surely it wasn't just his father's snide remark that had kept him awake. Then he realized the real cause of his anxiety.

Sir Caldry.

The scarred knight was a fierce man, prone to make even the bravest of warriors quake in their boots. He was also the only person who treated Lyolf like others treated his siblings. And he was currently residing in the castle dungeons.

Lyolf swallowed the bile rising in his throat. What was his father thinking? Could he really believe Cal, of all people, would set their weapons depot on fire? The man wasn't that daft! He knew the risk of fire within the bailey. Cal wouldn't light a candle to see by if he thought it would risk the castle.

And what was this about Cal being Bethany's lover? Ridiculous! Lyolf was one of the few people who knew just how much Cal hated the princess. Lyolf wanted to go to his father and explain it all, but he couldn't explain why Cal hated Bethany without revealing how Cal hated all people of noble blood.

The knight had revealed his true feelings to Lyolf once because he felt Lyolf shared similar feelings toward the royal family. Some strong alcohol had also helped to loosen his tongue. Granted, Cal had been right. To some extent, Lyolf did share his distaste and distrust of the royal family.

It would be foolish of him to think his odd looks were a matter of chance. No, Lyolf knew his mother had had an affair. He even had a suspicion as to who his real father was. All this, combined with the way his family handled the situation, produced a certain disdain for them.

Lyolf trudged forward, his arms wrapped around his chest to conserve heat. Even in the height of summer, the mountain city of Tolad was cool. Now, being the middle of November, it was downright glacial. Lyolf marched onward, letting his feet take him where they chose. He was walking in an effort to numb his mind enough to sleep. He didn't want to think about Cal's fate or his dissatisfaction with his own life.

Without planning on it, Lyolf found his way to the door of his oldest brother's room. Prince Féderic, heir apparent and fiancé to Princess Bethany. His brother didn't deserve her.

Lyolf hadn't spent much time with the captive princess, but what he saw in her he liked. She was fire and dry wood and strong wind, ready to sweep through the strongest city and reduce it to rubble. Any man caught in her path would have a hard time standing against her. Even as a prisoner of war, she swept through the castle, dominating all those in her path. Lyolf had often seen her put his mother and sister in their places with a mere glance or soft comment.

He didn't want to see her die, but the facts were the facts. Whether Cal had helped her or not, she had most assuredly set fire to the weapons depot. She had to pay for her crimes.

Lyolf looked down at his feet and noticed a dark liquid seeping slowly from beneath his brother's door. He glanced around, wondering where Féderic's guards had run off to. A sense of fear and dread welled up in Lyolf before he even realized what he was looking at—blood.

Without knocking, the bastard prince flung the door open. He spotted his brother lying on his stomach, his back flayed open, and a pool of blood growing across the floor. Lyolf didn't stop to think; he fell to his knees while grabbing a fist full of the blankets hanging from his brother's bed. He wadded up the blanket and pressed it against his brothers back before placing his hand against Féderic's neck. A pulse fluttered against his finger.

_He's alive!_ thought Lyolf. "Help," he shouted over his shoulder as loud as he could. "Help!"

From a distance, he heard a door open and footsteps resound toward him. A second later Cedric, one of his younger brothers, rushed into the room. At the site of their oldest brother lying prone on the floor with blood quickly soaking up the blanket, Cedric froze his eyes growing wide.

"Cedric...look at me!" snapped Lyolf when his brother continued to stare at the blood.

The young man's eyes jerked to Lyolf's face.

"Go get the healer. As fast as you can!"

Cedric jerked his head down in a nod before racing away.

It felt like an eternity passed before he heard the fast, urgent tread of his brother and the slower steps of the old healer. Finally, the two entered the room. Cedric dropped to the floor beside Lyolf, the healer's case still clutched in his hands. Fenrir was slower to lower himself to the ground, though Lyolf suspected it was due to old age than a lack of urgency.

"In my bag, Cedric, get me the gray case."

The young prince obeyed instantly, his hand shaking as he handed the healer the requested item.

"We need to get the king," said Lyolf.

Cedric was about to jump to his feet and obey when Fenrir stopped him. "Wait. Not till I have him stable. They will be no help to him now. Lyolf, go to the door and stop anyone from entering. Cedric will help me."

Lyolf hesitated a moment, his hands still pressing the blanket into the wound to stem the bleeding.

"You have to remove the blanket if I'm to sew up the wound," the healer said, answering Lyolf's unspoken concerns.

He nodded once before releasing the pressure and going to the door to stand guard. Their commotion was beginning to draw attention. He spotted his sister at the far end of the hallway coming toward them. She was wrapped in a warm shawl, her feet clad in knitted slippers.

"What's going...?"

Her questions turned into a scream as she spotted her brother's limp body and the healer furiously working over the long gash that ran from just below his right shoulder blade to his left hip. Lyolf grabbed her by the shoulder with one hand while the other came down to slap her across the face. The slap left a small streak of Féderic's blood on her cheek. He would pay for that later, his sister would make sure of it, but Fenrir did not need her hysterics.

"That's not helping. Either go back to your room or stay silent," he ordered.

Though she did obey, her scream had awakened the rest of the castle. Within minutes, Lyolf had the entire family clamoring to get in.

"Fenrir said no one is to enter. Remain silent," Lyolf said, repeating himself so often that he finally pulled Féderic's door shut.

Before he could get the door fully closed, his father stormed up to him, demanding to know what was going on.

"Féderic is badly wounded. Fenrir is with him, but he says no one is to enter until Féderic is stable."

"Get out of my way," commanded Wolfric.

"No father. The healer," and Lyolf emphasized the man's title, "says _no one_ is to enter."

Wolfric glared down at his son, anger turning his face red. After a long confrontation, Wolfric sighed. "Tell me what happened."

Lyolf tried to hide his relief as he told his father how he had stumbled upon the wounded prince. Wolfric asked detailed questions while Rulfric, another of Wolfric's many sons, joined them. Rulfric was just two years younger than Lyolf and looked every bit like his parents as Féderic and Cedric. They began discussing who the attacker could be as they waited for the healer to allow them to enter.

It was a far shorter wait than Lyolf had expected. About fifteen minutes later, Cedric opened the door, his face smeared with blood and his eyes wide with shock.

"Just a few," Cedric said as he opened the door just enough for one person to enter at a time. Wolfric slipped in, followed by Rulfric and Lyolf.

Féderic still lay on the floor, the long gash expertly stitched up with an odorous poultice smeared across it. Lyolf glanced at his father, whose weather-beaten face had turned a disturbing shade of white. Wolfric wasn't one to show fear or anxiety. In fact, Lyolf had grown up wondering if the king ever even felt these emotions. Now, though, Lyolf realized Wolfric knew what it was to be afraid.

Despite the fact his eldest son had recently endured a frightening fall from his horse, resulting in months of recovery, Wolfric never considered losing his heir. Now he was having to face the harsh truth that Féderic just might die. What would he do?

Lyolf tried to drag his mind away from these sobering thoughts. Despite being the second oldest son, he knew his father would never consider him a potential heir. Lyolf almost felt tempted to confront his parents on the issue. He was tired of living the life of the bastard without the actual title. If Wolfric acknowledged his parentage he would be treated just as he was, but he would also gain the freedom of not being a prince.

_Tempting. Very tempting_.

Lyolf dragged his mind back to the conversation at hand.

"I've closed the wound, but he's a lost a lot of blood," Fenrir was saying.

"Will he make it?" asked the king

"I can't be sure. It's up to him now."

Before the king could respond, they heard a murmur from the floor. Each one dropped to their knees as fast as they could. Féderic's eyes fluttered open and a groan escaped his lips. Fenrir scooted around until he came into Féderic's line of sight.

"Féderic, you're hurt. Try not to move."

"Bethany?" he whispered.

Lyolf suspected the healer and Cedric were the only ones to not understand the significance of Fed's message. Before they could question him further, he collapsed back into unconsciousness. Lyolf was on his feet before his father could give a command, Rulfric a mere step behind him. They rushed out of the prince's room and over to where the rest of the family waited anxiously.

"He's still alive," Lyolf said as he glanced around the growing crowd to where a small mob of guards waited. "You two, with us."

The two guards followed them as they rushed down the stairs as fast as they could. A few minutes later, they reached the dungeon level. The four of them burst into the small quarters used by the on-duty guards. Their noisy entrance brought the sleeping guard to his feet in record time.

Lyolf ignored his transgression of sleeping while on duty to focus on the bigger issue. "Where's your partner?"

The guard blinked a few times as he glanced around the empty space. Finally, he shrugged. "Don't know, sir."

The bastard prince pushed passed him and barged into the dark dungeon, charging forward with the aid of the guard's torches. He glanced in each cell, doing his best to ignore the suffering that filled the dungeon. Mostly he found prisoners so far gone with disease or starvation that they didn't respond to the passing light.

Finally, when they began to near the end of the long row of cells, Lyolf spotted one cell left open and a pair of feet sticking out into the walkway. He slipped in to find the other guard unconscious and the two sets of manacles empty.

"Shit!" Lyolf exclaimed loud enough to produce a rumbling response from the inmates. "Shit! You, go sound the alarm. No one is to leave the grounds until I give the all-clear." Lyolf pointed to the second guard he had brought with him. "You, get these two guards into a cell. We will deal with them later."

"I'll go tell Father," announced Rulfric as the guards raced away to accomplish their tasks.

"No," said Lyolf without thinking. "Don't tell him. He needs to be with Fed. We'll deal with this. Let's go wake the captain of the guard. We'll get a thorough search of the castle started before we bother him with this."

Half an hour later, Lyolf had the entire castle guard awake and systematically searching through the castle and the outbuildings. The slaves were awake and corralled in their dormitory, the lords and ladies-in-waiting were lingering in the great hall. Finally, with a sense of dread, he trudged back up to family level. He found his mother sitting on the floor, her slender arm draped over Mirabelle's plump shoulders.

"Where are my ladies? I've been waiting for an eternity for them to fetch us some pillows and blankets."

"They're in the great hall. Rulfric, please get them some blankets. The nobles are waiting for the search to be completed."

"Search? What search?"

"Cal and the princess escaped."

"You think Cal did this?" demanded his mother as she climbed awkwardly to her feet. "He would never."

"To save his own skin?" asked Lyolf to make his point.

"But why attack Fed in his room? If Fed was in the dungeon that would make sense, but not here."

"If Fed had taken Princess Bethany up to his room, and Cal was coming to save her, it would."

"Why would Fed take Bethany up here?" asked Mirabelle from her place on the floor.

Lyolf stared at his mother, not wanting to put his thoughts into words. If Mirabelle didn't understand these things he wasn't going to be the one to explain them. The queen pursed her lips and nodded.

"I need to go inform Father."

"Inform me of what?" asked Wolfric as he emerged from Féderic's room.

"Is he alive?" asked the queen before Lyolf could answer his father's question.

"Yes. Fenrir thinks he'll pull through but it's a little early to say for sure." Wolfric turned to his son. "What's going on?"

"Cal and Bethany have escaped. I have the castle locked down and guards searching for them. Can Fenrir give us an idea of when this happened?" asked Lyolf as he nodded toward his brother's closed door.

Wolfric shook his head. Lyolf had a suspicion that only half of what he had said resonated with the king; his mind was still in the sick room with his son.

"Go back to Fed, Father. I'll take care of this."

Wolfric turned and rejoined the healer at Féderic's side.

