The Empty Palace E-Book

Rowan Erlking

• Herausgeber: BookRix
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

The king and queen of Hebaron have been murdered by a dark magic and their only heir was secreted away by the captain of the guard to preserve his life. Nineteen years later it is time for the heir to regain the throne. But to discover the true identity of the prince, seventeen young men must under go a series of trials which will change their future and the future of the kingdom.

Who would it be?

Jotham Derrit, the dashing son of the Captain of the guard whom everyone assumes is actually the prince? Or Lord Allon Terbid, the fair dignified swordsman? Or perhaps the awkward Beten Dalmof, or the brash Tabor Gilbea, or the bookworm Jennam Etham? Or the swordsman's son, Remnon Billis?

Leseprobe

Rowan Erlking

The Empty Palace

Book One of the Knights of Light Series

BookRix GmbH & Co. KG81371 Munich

Something Like Chapter One

They were in the summer garden. I say summer garden, since the palace had several gardens for several purposes and seasons.  The king preferred the autumn garden. It was mostly stone walkways lined with trees; and though it was lovely in the summer, it was spectacular to look at in the autumn when the leaves changed colors and fell all around like a rainbow of rusty hues. The queen preferred the spring garden. Rows upon rows of flowers so bright and colorful, it was like walking through a river of light, refracted everywhere. Of course they were in the summer garden because the flowers in the spring garden were no longer in full bloom and the autumn garden had yet to show signs of color besides green. That, and the young prince loved the summer garden the most.

He had been born somewhere near or around that last year. No one said exactly when it was, because the servants were never allowed to tell, and it did not matter anyway since all the king and queen cared about was that their son had passed the age where early death took newborn babies. The child’s birth had only just been announced, though he had been around for a while now. And as the young prince played in his bassinet in the summer garden, reaching for the sparkling thing his father took out of his coin purse and dangled over his bed, it was just being noised abroad what a marvelous child he was.

Before his birth Her Highness, Queen Neah Jaspanette Wreden, had the midwife do all the tricks to check for gender. She had been hoping for a girl, but it had been well predicted she would carry a son. The wise men advised that the boy be taught by his mother in his early youth, but that his father ought to take over his lessons when he turned of age, nearing twelve at least. But the predictions and advice she most wanted to hear was from the seer, whose real job was to collect gold coins from people who wanted to hear all the wonderful qualities their children would have. His prediction for Her Highness was extremely long. But to be short, it said the child would be handsome (what mother did not want to hear that), he would be intelligent (also something she had hoped for), many people would love him (also an added hope), and he would be a fair ruler for his people (which relieved his father greatly). But then the seer added something both parents marveled and puzzled at. But to reveal what it was would spoil everything so I won’t tell—yet.

So, in the summer garden where the air was warm and sultry, and the fountain tinkled as water dropped from its edges into the pond below, and the breeze was pleasantly cool, a certain conversation took place.

“Your Highness, I must go now. I have informed my second in command to keep watch. All should be secure.” The captain of the guard dipped his head low in a bow, his dark hair gracefully flopping to the side off his shoulder in a tied-up braid.

The king smiled and lowered the hand he was using to hold the glittering chain over his son’s bed. The baby grabbed it and stuck the metal disk into his mouth. It made the king laugh. “Of course. Go. You really should be with your wife, caring for her and the baby.”

“Thank you, sire.” Smiling gratefully, though worry dug lines into his face as he lingered, the captain of the guard backed away. “I was much desiring that. The baby has been quite ill. The doctors said I should return to be with her in case—”

“Don’t say another word. Just go.”

The captain nodded briskly and practically leapt at a run, turning a corner with a skid and diving down the stairs towards the outer palace gardens.

“Poor man,” the High Chancellor said, coming down the three steps from the covered archway of the palace doors into the garden. “I don’t think his child will live.”

“Have more faith in that,” the king said, dangling the chain over the bassinet again, watching his son’s little fingers reach out for the bauble strung on it, calling “Pretty! Pretty!”

“Faith, I have sire, but in things that are attainable. I’m afraid that his wife or his child will—”

The king’s usually cheery disposition clouded. “Faith, Chancellor Ophrah, is the opposite of fear.”

“I want it!” the baby cried, reaching out. He sat up, attempting to rise from his bed.

Placing his hand on the child’s head of growing hair and teasingly shoving his son back onto his rump, the king’s smile returned. “If you want it, say please. I won’t raise a naughty boy.”

“Sire, there is also an order of business I wish to discuss with you,” the High Chancellor started into his long lecturing voice, the one that made the king want to roll his eyes and pretend he didn’t hear a word.

Generally speaking, the king was a man of light interests. Not that he was light-minded, but that he did not see the point on dwelling on grave matters, though there were plenty of grave matters to attend to. The first was the war. The second was what to do for the orphaned children of his killed knights because of the war. There were more issues, such as taxes, indentured servitude, and the growing discontent among the wealthy class because of all of the above. But midsummer, in his summer garden, all the king wanted to think about was how clever his son was for speaking a full sentence at such an early age, and what he could have for lunch that afternoon.

Not that he dismissed the other issues. But that he took care of them and then went on with his life. The orphans were taken care of, given homes where they could grow up in relatively normal lives. The war was winding down anyway. Mostly they were dealing with border disputes and small skirmishes. The other issues were only there because the wealthy class never let go of issues even when the king made fair decrees. After all, there was always something they were dissatisfied with simply because he was king and they weren’t.

So when his High Chancellor started to discuss one of the grave issues with him, His Highness, King Rekem Larjen Nameah Wreden rolled his eyes and continued to play with his son, only pretending to listen. His eyes were on the sparkling light that reflected from the chain and the medallion hanging from it onto his son’s forehead.

“…here. And also….”

The High Chancellor droned on like that. Often King Rekem thought that the man just loved to hear his own voice. Chancellor Ophrah liked to sound important.

Trading a smile with his wife Queen Neah as she looked over a book she was reading under umbrella shade, shifting her legs and turning a page, the king sighed then turned his gaze over the garden. The roses were growing long, too long. He would have to speak to the gardener about clipping back the best and bringing them in for Her Majesty. She loved roses.

But his eyes fell onto the shadows under the bushes. Something had stirred there. And though the king welcomed birds, butterflies and the occasional fuzzy animal into his garden, this looked like none of the above. Blinking, he withdrew his hand from his son’s bassinet and stood up.

“…matter. Did you see something?”

The king barely heard his High Chancellor. He turned once to acknowledge him. “I’m not sure.”

“Daddy! I want it!” his son called out again, adding, “Please!”

But the king had already stuffed the chain and the disk back into his pocket, staring at the shadows that rustled near Her Highness.

“Neah!” He leapt forward, knocking his own chair backward as he darted across the garden tile to his young wife. She had dropped her book. Her lips were going pale. Her long fingers groped her neck, trying to release whatever she felt wrapped around her throat.

Diving into the shadows, his own cheerful light gone out of his face and he paled when he reached her. Clutching her to his chest, the queen lay limp in his arms. Her hands fell like petals to the ground, no longer feeling anything.

“No! Neah!”

His baby began to cry. “Mommy!”

Turning, the king stared at his son. His boy leaned out of his bassinet, the shadows quivering underneath him.

“Not my boy!”

The king seemed to fly then.

But as he leapt for his son, the ominous darkness that had been under the umbrella shade chased after him, wrapping around the king’s own shadow like a snake in a choke hold. What breath he had was gone. He dropped to his knees.

Clenching his neck, stretching for air and staring at his weeping boy, he gasped out his son’s name. “Rekah!”

It was the last thing he said.

The shadow stirred again. This time they turned towards the young prince who wailed his head off, screaming “Daddy! Daddy!”

And the shadow went in closer, sliding across the ground as if something flying high above was stalking the poor child.

“Daddy!” the child wailed, reaching out for his father who lay on the ground.

“I forgot—” But the captain of the guard who had returned immediately forgot what he had forgotten upon sight of his king and the shadows that slithered towards the child prince. He drew his sword and dashed into the courtyard. “Your Highness!”

Slashing at the shadows on the ground, nothing happened. Following where the demon shadow was going, he leapt ahead of it, snatching the child from out of his bed. The demon shadow chased him, reaching out for his shadow underfoot.

Hefting his sword, clenching the wailing child close to his chest, Captain Japor Derrit stabbed into the dark creature as light flashed into the air around him.

Darkness dissipated like a puff of smoke.

He lived. And so did the child.

That is pretty much how the story is told. The rest is hazy. Most people said that soon after recovering from the horror of seeing the king and queen die before his eyes, the High Chancellor put out a search for the conjuror that had sent the shadowy assassins. He was a very thorough man. Unfortunately, so had been the opposition. All they knew was that the creatures in question had been a shadow imp, and somehow the captain of the guard had managed to kill them.

As for the prince, due to the danger to the heir to throne of Hebaron, Captain Derrit hid the boy where he was sure the child would be able to grow up unscathed, ready for the day he would reclaim rule. And though many attempted to discover the whereabouts of the hidden prince, none were able to find him. Only the captain, or perhaps one other, knew who and where the prince was…even to the day of Prince Rekah’s adulthood when the High Chancellor called once more for the throne to be filled.

Actually Chapter One

Jotham Derrit was a strong, strapping lad of about nineteen years of age. Dark hair like his father, he was the eldest of six boys. Some said the boys gave their mother much trial with the snitching of food and the rambunctious scrambling about the house, but she never complained except to say that her boys needed to learn to clean behind their ears more. She said that aloud often, including about Jotham. But her eldest held a special place in her heart. She called him her miracle child.

“He could have died! All the doctors said he would have.” She nodded as she scrubbed a bucket full of potatoes, making her sons peel them for the dinner that night. “But then one morning, just as I had a long nap, he was right and healthy as if nothing had been wrong with him.

“And look at him now.” She pointed out the front window as Jotham mounted a horse, hearing his mother brag as always. His wooden training sword was strapped to his side along with the metal one he wore to feel the real weight on his hip. It was tough work learning to be a knight. “There was never a stronger young man. The king wouldn’t have wanted a finer son.”

The king. Yes, people still talked of the king as if he were still alive. Jotham grew up hearing about how wonderful their former king was, everyone singing his praises—even those people who had refused to honor his call to war a generation ago, and even those that criticized his policies. King Rekem Wreden was the dead saint everyone praised—if anything to avoid the wrath of a certain High Chancellor who was running the country as steward for the prince-yet-to-be-revealed. Of course, the king deserved most of the praise. He was said to have been a light of example for so many. It was just a shame few followed him in life as much as their words praised him in death.

But Jotham had no taste for hearing the rest of the gossip his mother had to share. He had heard it all before. Besides, it was getting late and he had some business to attend to before the trials began the next day.

He rode to the Etham’s home first.

“Jennam! Come out! It is your last chance to prove you are a man!” Jotham was laughing, lifting off his saddle as he stood in his stirrups and craning his neck to see if Jennam was in his usual spot.

He was. Jennam Etham lifted his head from his bedroom window where he kept a desk and a pile of books on top. “Don’t be stupid. Sneaking into the empty palace is not proof that someone is a man.”

Jotham laughed again, expecting that answer. He called out again, “Come on! We’re bringing Beten today! You don’t want to be left out!”

“Baaah!” Jennam leaned out of his window now, making a face. “You are such a sheep. Why should I care about being left in or out? We’re grown men, Jotham. Not children.”

Sitting back into his saddle, Jotham gave up. He didn’t really believe Jennam would come anyway. The man was terrified of the ghost stories and would not even set foot near the palace.

Everyone said the empty palace was haunted.

Perhaps that was why all the young men of his generation dared each other to sneak into the palace grounds. It was like an initiation into manhood, something only the daring would do. Cowards (as they liked to say) stayed far, far away.

But were there ghosts?

Jotham had never seen one, and he had gone to the palace several times. What he did see were moving shadows, and of course, servants walking about keeping the palace clean on the orders of the High Chancellor. His father had told him that the High Chancellor wanted the palace to be ready for the prince’s return. And that would be soon.

Without another word to Jennam, Jotham rode on. He stopped once at Gibeon Lebath’s house. The Lebaths were prosperous merchants that raised children of deceased knights. Gibeon was one of the many orphans. He didn’t look a thing like his father, unlike Lord Allon Terbid whom he was talking with in front of the stone courtyard near their horses. Allon was the mirror image of his father, a man who had also taken orphans into his large estate forty miles from the empty palace.

“There you are!” Allon waved Jotham over. The young lord carried two sets of swords like Jotham did. One was the usual wood training sword, but the other was steel and more fitting for the kind of swordsman Allon was reputed to be.

“Why are you late?” Gibeon gestured for Jotham to dismount.

Riding over, Jotham halted near their horses but did not get off yet. “Oh, you know, I had to try again.”

Allon snickered and looked the other way.

Gibeon rolled his eyes, exhaling roughly before speaking. “Give up on him, already. You don’t need a shadow tonight anyway. Besides, Tabor is bringing Beten.”

“Tabor?” Jotham frowned, dismounting now. He strode over to them over the cobblestone and spread out sand, placing his hand on his steel sword hilt as if ready to take on Tabor. “Why him? Tabor makes fun of Beten all the time. I bet the guy is going to chicken out because of him.”

But that just made Gibeon shrug. “I suppose. But Tabor insisted.”

Speak of the Devil is a term they all should have used, because like bad coins, the man turned up immediately. But Jotham was wrong in his prediction. Beten did come—red in the face and scowling with embarrassment at Tabor, but he came.

Tabor Gilbea was a stocky strong man of about nineteen from a southern village. Ruddy hair and cheeks, he was built like an ox, and he often walked into places like an ox would. One of his biggest failings was not clumsiness though. It was something oxen are not well known for—his mouth, unless it was one with hoof-in-mouth disease. Tabor just didn’t know when to shut up.

“Come on, you loser. They’re waiting for us.”

Beten tried to ignore Tabor, but the man continued to jabber like that.

Beten Dalmof was like Gibeon. It was pretty obvious he was not from the family he was raised in, short where his father was tall. Though temperate and often hesitant, Beten still looked people in the eye with a steady gaze. But he was clumsy. His sword hung awkwardly at his side and he struggled with horse beneath him, just hoping the animal would not run off with him still on top. Most of his peers wondered how this eastern townsman’s son could possibly qualify as a knight of the future king. And since he (besides Jennam Etham) was the last of their group that had not yet snuck onto the palace grounds, he was considered one of the most cowardly and inept of the candidates for king.

“So, are we going?” Gibeon walked straight to his horse, mostly to cut Tabor’s snide remarks short. He climbed on. Allon followed suit.

Tabor glanced at Jotham and nodded, giving him more regard. “If the captain would hurry up, we can go.”

That was the other thing. Son of the captain of the guard, Jotham had received deference from Tabor and the others that normally he would not have had if he had been raised in another family. It sometimes annoyed him, and more so during training when he met the rest of the orphans of the loyalists.

“I’m ready.” Jotham climbed back into the stirrup and heaved his leg over the saddle. “Let’s hurry up at meet the others.”

But Tabor looked around. “You didn’t get the bookworm to come. Typical.”

Jotham glared. But it was already getting too dark for Tabor to see it.

“Let me guess. He is too busy reading about life to live it.” Tabor snorted aloud.

Narrowing his eyes, Jotham called to his horse. “Haw!” and he rode on ahead without answering.

“Haw!” the others echoed him, riding into the rural road under the trees. It was nearing autumn and there were already a few yellow leaves here and there. In the setting sun it looked charming. But they were not riding to the setting sun, but to the shadows of the empty palace.

Five others met them at the far gate. The road up was in some need of repair, and part of the wall had crumbled. This was how they snuck in.

They didn’t know who discovered it first, but a boulder in the rock wall was loose, and somewhere, somehow, someone rolled it out of its spot and shoved it under the bushes, leaving just enough crawlspace to go in. There was more space to get through when they were children, but now grown they had to hold their breaths and slide through the dirt to get to the other side. On the other side was a bush, and if one sat up too quickly, they always ended up with a head full of sticks and a mouth stuffed with leaves. Besides that, not one of them got through without getting his chest smeared with garden soil.

Crawling out and stepping aside, Jotham crouched down behind the drying leaves of the flowering bushes. Allon followed him, shaking out his riding cloak as soon as he was free from the bush. Tabor shoved Beten ahead of him, and crawling behind him followed three of their friends, Jerik Karkor, Berath Tola, and Sarid Gibberd, all three from the north east village of Tolan. Gibeon scooted in after. Taking up the rear were two boys barely eighteen but just as eager to prove themselves. Neil and Elon Avim. They grew up as brothers in a village thirteen miles to the north, but like so many of the knights in training, they were adopted into their families. Of course, as the youngest of the group, they were more eager to prove themselves.

“Ok, where to now?” Allon asked, waving over the garden bushes and glancing at Tabor.

Tabor seemed to be calling the shots. Normally they didn’t let him take charge in operations such as these, but in this case, Tabor had taken charge early. He was the one that had challenged Beten to come.

“Over there, in the ballroom,” Tabor said, stepping through the bush.

“How about the king’s hall?” suggested Sarid. He was another one of the few they knew that was the son of the man that raised him. Sir Larece Gibberd was one of those public men that announced births on the day of, not fearing bad luck or plagues. But then the Gibberds were generally luckier than most. With four daughters and him as the only son, their father never hid his joy at Sarid’s arrival.

Tabor shook his head. “No. The ballroom is my choice, and Beten couldn’t handle the king’s hall anyway.”

He jabbed Beten in the back, finally aware of the man’s scowls at him.

“Come on, coward. It is your fault for picking the last day to take a look. Next week this place will be crawling with servants preparing for the prince’s return.” Tabor turned, leading the way.

Neiel and Elon exchanged looks, following Tabor and Beten. Jotham went soon after, followed by the rest of the group, sneaking in a crouch below the bushes among a maze of bushes.

Looking left and then right and all around into the shadows, the men crept from bush to tree to pillar to column until they passed through the covered entrance that opened into the outside hall. The doors were unlocked. They always were.

In the old days, the palace locked the doors at night and often in the day. In those same days, guards stood at every corner and in every gateway. But looking about, Jotham knew those days had long been gone. There was nothing of value to guard anyway—unless one counted the paintings in the king’s hall, a hall in the palace that was so creepy with the staring eyes of departed rulers following wherever you stepped that no one liked to walk through it even in the daytime. Or perhaps the silk curtains and jewel studded chandeliers in the dining hall, the ballroom, and every other large passageway, all of them so high one needed a tall ladder just to dust them. Or possibly the library full of priceless texts so large and ancient that the servants didn’t even dare dust them in case they crumbled. Or maybe the treasure chamber—but that door was locked and sealed, the entrance buried by an enormous stone monolith in the far northern garden, a stone that some said was enchanted. Actually, the palace seemed to guard itself. Some said it was ghosts that truly watched the palace, but Jotham suspected the treasure was counted and numbered by the High Chancellor, and if even a crumb were out of place he would spot it and skin the perpetrator. Despite that, it was simply easy to walk inside. They just didn’t dare touch anything while there.

The path to the ballroom was Tabor’s real purpose. It was a long winding passage with multiple doors and intersections that cut straight through the entire complex to the other side. Jotham knew that Tabor just wanted to make Beten squirm. And Beten did. He was looking left and right at the shadows underneath the tapestries, inside archways, and from beyond curtains. The high stained glass windows shining moonlight against the far wall cast an eerie color of blue. At one time it might have been considered peaceful, but now it was seen as ghostly. Everyone held their breaths as they continued through, all of them looking up and around, though Tabor acted as if nothing frightened him.

Gibeon turned with a look back at Jotham and winked one eye, then he righted and lengthened his stride so that he was walking right behind Tabor. His steps were as silent as the dust that had gathered on the high sills, muted. And with one long arm, he reached out and placed one hand on Tabor’s shoulder.

Tabor jumped with a shout, springing back.

So did Beten, turning around and staring at Tabor who was now clutching his chest and panting.

The men burst out laughing, their voices echoing in the empty halls. Gibeon cackled as he backed away from the both of them.

“Stop that!” Tabor whipped back around, marching ahead again. “You’ll let people know we’re here.”

“What people?” Beten asked, pulling his arms into himself and looking to the shadowed doorways.

Elon was about to answer, but Berath beat him to it.

“Ghosts.”

Jotham rolled his eyes. They were baiting him. It was the same shtick they used with everyone. Moladah Kimner was the one that played him when it was his first time in the palace. He and Jether Lebath (Gibeon’s ‘elder brother’ in the same way Elon and Neiel were brothers) had dragged him along when they were barely in their teens during one of Moladah’s visits to the village. They had tried to drag Jennam along too, but Jennam kicked such a fearful fit (practically hyperventilating when they got to the hole in the wall) that they left him behind. Of course, that was years ago. Today Jennam would not have kicked a fit. He would have said what he had said at his window that evening: that it was a waste of time, and childish to boot.

Beten was not easily goaded either. He gave Berath a dry look. “Ghosts? I’d be more afraid of the High Chancellor finding us here. I heard he sleeps in the king’s chambers.”

“He doesn’t,” Jotham cut in, walking past them to the large iron gilded door at the end of the hall. Turning, he lifted the shined brass latch and pushed on the door. “The High Chancellor stays in his old quarters. I think he is afraid of the king’s ghost strangling him in the night if he ever lie on his bed.”

“Why would the king do that? Dead or alive?” Sarid followed after him, ducking back into the shadows as if someone might be watching.

Beten rushed to be with them, anything to get away from Tabor. He suspected the purpose of the game in bringing him there. It was to embarrass him and then, give them reason to laugh at him. Only after that he would be accepted.

Jotham shrugged, leading the way into the next passage. There were in fact six passages they had to pass through in order to get to the ballroom. Coming from that far garden, it was a long ordeal. If they had come from the summer garden, it would have been a hop and a dance from the ballroom to the open area outside. They were divided only by a large set of doors with iron hinges.

“I was merely thinking that the High Chancellor is too high strung to change his ways. Besides, I don’t think my father would approve of him moving into the king’s chambers. The High Chancellor is only interim ruler until the prince returns. I think your fathers along with mine would throw him out of rule if he even set foot in the king’s chambers.”

Eventually they came to the last door. Tabor rushed ahead of the rest to open that. Waiting for the others to follow, he reached out for Beten and pushed him right in.

Everyone stayed back.

Taking a breath, Beten walked further into the room. The only light was from the doorway.

Each step he took echoed. With each echo bouncing off the ceiling with much repetition, he could feel how large the ballroom really was. It was like hearing the sea with the waves rushing over and back again. A distant drip-drip-drip from a tiny spot somewhere beyond the far wall ticked in his ears. The scuff of his fellows’ boots as they stood there disturbed the silence only once. Tabor’s voice echoed hollowly into the room as he spoke—too grave for him.

“You can hear it. The water. It comes from the dried up fountain in the summer garden just beyond that wall.”

Beten turned, looking back at them. “I can.”

“But the fountain hasn’t run for over twenty years. Not since the day the queen died. It just dried up,” Tabor said.

The dripping was consistent, still distant and ethereal, like the sound of the wind blowing through the cracks in the far doors. Beten felt his throat go dry just thinking about it.

“It is the spirit of the queen, waiting to catch her murderer. All she needs is an opportunity to find him.”

The doors slammed shut. Immediately engulfed in the darkness, Beten’s heart raced. He backed towards the door.

“This is not funny!”

A wet hand touched the back of his neck.

Howling, Beten probably jumped so high he could have landed in the chandelier and stolen a few of the precious stones in it—though no one really saw since it was pitch black.

But someone laughed and another lit a match, setting it to one of the lamps near the door.

“Not funny!” Beten snapped again. His hand was at his chest. He was panting, leaning over on his knees.

Everyone else was laughing. Neiel and Elon were bent over, clutching their stomachs. Allon smothered his laughs with his hand, smirking mostly. But the others were in full choruses with their laughter, though Tabor’s took on his usual mocking tone.

Tabor flung the door open again while Gibeon slapped Beten on the back with his damp hand.

“Are you done yet, laughing at my expense?” Beten’s voice was getting bitter.

Jotham decided that was enough of that and he calmed his laughter to snickers again, crossing over the broad floor to the brass handles of the garden door. Tugging on the lock, he sighed. That was perhaps the only door that had been locked, and possibly it would remain so for a long while yet.

“Don’t be such a sour face,” Gibeon said. “You proved you are a man. And tomorrow, you will stand as a man at the trials with the rest of us.”

“With one boy.” Tabor snorted.

Jotham turned around. “No. All men.”

“A coward is not a man.” Tabor turned and walked back to the door. “That loser is terrified of the empty palace. Now let’s go. I hate to linger.”

A snort came from Allon. Everyone looked at him. The man followed Tabor, but he shook his head as he passed by. Yet he didn’t say anything.

Crossing the wide floor, Jotham passed Tabor also but with a glare that said he’d slap him silly if he spoke another word.

Tabor clapped his mouth closed as if obeying. Already he stared back at Jotham, suddenly the tamed ox once more. That was how he was really. So full of bluster and yet Tabor was not a fighting man, not with him anyway. If Jotham rated bravery and cowardice among his peers, he would have put Tabor somewhere around the bottom. Beten was just above Tabor. The rest of the seventeen candidates he did not know well enough to rank.

Sneaking out was often as enjoyable as sneaking in. It was strange how they always saw more servants on the way out than in anyway. Perhaps it was because the noise stirred the servants up. Or maybe it was that their eyes had adjusted to the dim light in the palace halls and it was easier to see them going about. But by the time they had reached the outer wall of the gardens to squeeze out the hole to get into the open countryside again, they had seen around six of them, two of which gave them dirty looks and shouted for them to get out. No threats to call guards. But then, perhaps the servants knew the only guards available were their fathers and would only laugh at their boyish games.

Gibeon waved good bye to Allon before parting with Jotham back down the road. The others rode in their groups as they had come, excluding Beten who traveled with Berath back to their part of the village where they were both staying in an inn. Tabor had ridden on ahead anyway, though Beten had no desire to return with him and was glad he had gone early.

“I think Beten handled it well,” Gibeon said as soon as they were back on the road.

Nodding, Jotham sighed. “Yes. Better than some. Remember when Remnon Billis started to cry? That was pathetic. I wonder why Beten waited this long to go?”

Shrugging, Gibeon said, gazing over the moonlit trees, “He never cared for it. He thought it was a stupid boy game.”

“Then why go now?” Jotham seemed to laugh at the thought.

With yet another shrug, Gibeon yawned. “Maybe he didn’t want to be left out after all.”

They rode their horses slower than when they had come, giving their animals some rest. It was too dark to be charging through the roads anyway. Normally, Jotham would have galloped home, but he had learned that running fast when he couldn’t see was foolish. Besides, his mind was full, and riding slowly with Gibeon allowed him time to think.

They had grown up together in the same village with Jennam, Jether, and Remnon, though Remnon Billis was a recent move in. They were locals that knew the most about the empty palace and the mysterious deaths of their king and queen. Since the other loyalists’ children had all arrived in that last month for knight training, informed of the upcoming trials to find the prince who was hidden among them, things had become complicated. After all, as the captain of the guard’s son, many looked at him differently than the others. For starters, it was his father that hid the prince. And though his father had all boys, only Jotham was included in the trials. He was the only one born around the time when the prince had been taken away. Of course he also had heard the rumors before spawned from that.

But Jotham had no thought that he was the prince. He knew he was his father’s son, feeling the bond strongly within him. Besides, he had no desire to rule or even to imagine ruling. It was his goal to serve the newly crowned king as honorably as his father had. But including him in the trials made him a candidate all the same, and he worried.

“You’re more quiet than usual,” Gibeon said, his own voice cracking from keeping silent.

Jotham sighed, listening to the clip clop of his horse’s hooves.

“I was just thinking, what kind of things will they ask us at the trials? The first part was supposed to be a test. Right?”

Gibeon echoed his sigh. He just shrugged. “Good question. If you don’t know, then how am I supposed to? Your father gave you the details, right?”

“As much as you,” Jotham said.

“Maybe Jennam knows,” Gibeon suggested, glancing once toward that part of town.

Nodding with a chuckle, Jotham agreed. “Yes, but he would have gone to bed right after supper. You know how he is when it comes to tests.”

Gibeon grinned. “He’ll have studied all the answers in those books of his and then he’ll be ready to tell us what he found out. I suppose it will pay to just listen to him when we meet tomorrow.”

“That’s right.”

They stopped at Gibeon’s home first. Jether was standing outside talking with another local man about something in private. He looked up and waved Jotham over.

Both Gibeon and he dismounted.

“What is it?” Jotham glanced at the man with Jether, recognizing the local blacksmith.

Jether grinned and nodded to Gibeon. “Are you ready for tomorrow? I hear the trials will take over three months to complete, and it includes several endurance tests, a journey and a final test. They say magic will be involved.”

“Magic?” Gibeon murmured aloud. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

Nodding sharply, Jether said, “Of course I do. Legend has it that the prince has a magic power, like his father. Legend has it that the prince, not your father, killed the shadow demon.”

Jotham smirked. “Then why have the trials? All we have to do is find out who can do magic.”

Jether laughed, placing his hands on his hips. “Because, the prince doesn’t know he has magic. I predict that the prince will be just as shocked that he is the new king as any of us would.”

But Gibeon shook his head and glanced at Jotham. “How is that possible? Magic? I think that legend is made up.”

“I agree.” Jotham turned and looked towards the road again. He had to get home soon or his mother would scold him for staying out in the cold air too long. Despite being a ‘miracle child’, she always worried that his childhood condition would return, putting him on the brink of death once more. “Besides, I believe the prince already knows who he is and is merely biding his time until it is right to reveal to everyone else that he is to be king. I vote on Beten myself.”

Both Lebath brothers turned and stared at him. “Beten?”

“You don’t mean Beten Dalmof?” Gibeon almost laughed.

Jotham smirked. They saw the twinkle in his eye, knowing he was kidding now. “Why not? He’s mature, doesn’t look like his father, and he has black hair like the king.”

“So do you and half the other candidates,” Jether cast back, waving a hand out with a fling. His own hair was a rich brown.

“Lord Allon is blond,” Jotham said with a shrug.

“And Tabor, thank heaven, is as brown as rust,” Gibeon added, glancing at his own dark hair as if considering briefly that he himself might be king.

Laughing at that, Jotham walked back to his horse. “Yes, let’s be glad of that. I’d hate to have to call him ‘Your Highness’.”

He mounted once more, took hold of his reins and steered his charge back towards the road. Gibeon and Jether followed him.

“But if you were king, I don’t think I’d mind.” Jether was smiling.

Feeling the hotness in his cheeks, Jotham merely shook his head. “Don’t think it. I have every intention of captaining the king’s guard as soon as my father retires.”

“The trials might change things,” Gibeon said.

“I hope not,” Jotham replied.

He rode off before they could answer. It was the same awkwardness as before. Even his friends looked at him as if the trials were a waste and all they had to do was bring him forward and set a crown on his head.

Forcing himself into the dark, Jotham hurried. Going alone in the dark was not a thing to be done leisurely, even for the captain of the guard’s son. Bandits were out and about, often waylaying roadside travelers and even sneaking into villages to steal from the ill prepared. Taking the quick route, he galloped through the village center and pulled the reins for the horse to halt near the fence. The geese crossing the road scattered, hissing at him. Riding in more of a trot, Jotham guided his horse around to the stables, climbing off.

Leading his horse in through the large doors, he heard voices speaking above a whisper, private enough to not be a conversation for the public but interesting enough considering the stable boy had gone home.

“…soon. You can’t hide him forever. Someone is going to find out before the trials are over, and then what? What about his enemies? They are still out there, waiting to kill him.”

He heard his father answer. “I am not worried about the prince. He’ll hold his own. Besides, if I know my son, he’ll make sure nothing evil passes his eye.”

Deciding to make a bit of noise to announce his presence, Jotham coughed, tugging on his horse’s reins. The animal clopped forward.

Both men turned somewhat startled, and looked back at him.

His father smiled first. “Jotham! You’re back! Good. Go wash up and get supper. Your mother has been worried you got robbed, or worse, snuck off to the palace again.”

He looked down at the Jotham’s shirt. It was covered in soil, muddy from the garden bed.

Pulling his cloak closed with a blush, Jotham led his horse into the stall and tossed over some hay, taking off the bit so it could eat. He walked around and removed the saddle and blankets. “I’ll hurry and clean up. What’s for supper?”

Smiling still, his father waved over to the door. “Corned beef and potatoes. I think she has some pie still left if your brothers haven’t snitched it already.”

That gave him incentive to hurry and put away the saddle and bridle. Jotham jogged through the stable aisle and hung up everything as fast as he could.

“With care, boy,” his father called out to him. “Not too hasty!”

“If I don’t, the pie will be gone!”

Jotham dashed back out the door and skidded around the corner to the back entrance where the cook was already throwing out the dishwater. Sliding by her rounded figure, he gave her a passing grin before sneaking through the kitchen and up the servant’s stair to the upstairs where his room and clean shirts were stashed. Grabbing one and throwing the other underneath his bed, he skidded back down the hall to the stairs. From here he had to walk.

Jotham’s father often said that fools rushed when a good pace was warranted. Haste, the Captain always reminded, was for when need was in speed for arrival, not in showing off at how fast one was. His father often talked of speed and haste to his son since Jotham was mostly running around the house. His mother’s favorite saying was ‘Running is an outdoor activity.’ But for Jotham, speed was his ally. It was what he was best at.

“And where have you been?” His mother’s voice sounded all-together chiding and at the same time triumphant that she had caught him.

Turning with his shoulders scrunched up to his ears, Jotham gave her a sheepish grin. “The stables?”

“All day?” She had her arms folded—a bad sign. She tapped her serving spoon on her shoulder as if an angry twitch. Her apron was ruffled. He could see she had been busy at work that evening.

“No. Just recently.” He didn’t dare move.

“Jotham,” her voice started into warning him better than words. “If I hear you have been sneaking off with those boys at the empty palace again, so help me I’ll—”

“Mother, from tonight on you will never hear of any one of us sneaking into that palace again. You have my word on that.”

A smile returned to her eyes, despite that she knew he was teasing her. She knew as well as the rest of the land that the trials started the following day. His mother was as anxious as everyone else was to see the outcome.

“Oh…go wash up and get your supper, you rascal.” She waved her spoon as if it were a cudgel, but Jotham knew she would not hit him with it. She never did. Her threats were hot air unless she brought in his father into the argument. That was when he knew he was truly in trouble.

Jotham rushed down the stairs before she could tell him to walk. On the table a bowl of food with the last piece of pie were set neatly with a napkin over them. His brother, Kiddar was reaching for it, lifting the corner.

A leap, a snatch, and Jotham stuffed the piece into his mouth with his hand.

“Not fair! You’re way too late coming home. That should have been my piece!” Kiddar said, but he was not really angry.

Jotham had to swallow to answer him. “Maybe, but slow hands make empty stomachs.”

“Someday,” Kiddar said walking from the table and out of the room, “you are going to eat those words.”

But Jotham continued munching, smiling to himself.

Regret that? His speed was what every one of his peers admired the most about him, besides him being the captain of the guard’s son. There was no way in this life or the next he would regret moving fast. Speed would be his trump card in the trials. And though he would not come out as king, he would come out top as the new captain, which was exactly what he was counting on.

The First Day of Trials A.K.A. Chapter Two

The gates to the grassy garden were open. The palace suddenly had guards standing about it once more, all of them bringing their sons and adopted sons to the green lawn where nine strict and strange looking men and women stood in gray robes to greet them. Palace servants stood around the small front area as if they were a wall meant to keep the candidates from looking too far ahead onto the grounds. But despite that, all of them could see continuous grass leading up to a magnificent building with arching stairways on both sides leading up from a tiled courtyard to a balcony above with flags on the parapet. The spires over the domed center and the gabled peaks of the extending roofs had flags of their kingdom flying once more. The palace almost looked inhabited again.

“Children of the loyalists, come forward!” the youngest of the elders in gray called to them.

They hesitated. Jotham drew in a breath and took his step forward. The rest followed suit, joining him on the stone in front of the lawn.

“I will call your name and you will line up here in order.” Another man directed the group, pointing to a spot on the lawn. “Elon Avim, Neiel Avim, Remnon Billis, Beten Dalmoth, Jotham Derrit, Tabeal Dotrim, Jennam Etham, Sarid Gibberd, Tabor Gilbea, Jerik Karkor, Moladah Kimner, Gibeon Lebath, Jether Lebath, Jair Shindon, Nobah Skidders, Allon Terbid, and Berath Tola.”

Each one of the seventeen eligible sons of the loyalists took their place in line. Looking back down the line, Jotham felt his nerves abruptly grow tense. Under the inspection of the eyes of these elders, he felt unexpectedly very unworthy to even set foot on the palace grounds. And looking at the others with him, he could tell they were all feeling much of the same thing, including Allon who seemed to feel slighted that they did not use his title of lord when calling out his name.

“All of you will follow that man up to the stairs of the palace. Your interviews will be in the upper entrance. One candidate will go at a time. Once one has gone up, the next will stand on the step until his name is called. When your interview is over, you will descend the steps and follow the servants to the front gate to return to your lodgings. Not a word is to pass from your lips when you leave the interview. If you speak, you will be permanently disqualified.”

“But what if the prince is the one that speaks?” Remnon asked, always a bit too outspoken when he should remain silent.

Every one of the elders in gray turned with a stern glare.

“The prince would know to keep his mouth shut,” that man said.

Remnon looked pale, closing his mouth and ducking his eyes as he hunched over.

“Now, follow me.” The man in gray turned, lifting his head and walking with an air much too stuffy for the open garden. It was like this man had been kept in the closet all those years and only now was he let out.

In the courtyard in front of the pair of stairways to the enormous palace entrance was a set of four granite benches. The candidates were bid to sit down as they waited their turn. They called Elon’s name first. The young man walked up the steps as if he were going to see an executioner. Neiel watched him sympathetically as his ‘brother’ trod up and up to the balcony, clenching his own fists in his lap.

“What kind of questions do you think they’ll ask?” Jair Shindon, one of the older candidates of the group said aloud.

Beten hissed for him to shut up, keeping his own eyes on the ground in terror that any speech or false move would get them thrown out.

“I suppose,” Jotham replied in a would-be calm voice, “they’ll ask things that only the prince would know.”

“How does that work? The prince was just a baby when he was taken from the palace,” Berath said.

Allon nodded. “Only a baby, and traumatized. What are they thinking they’ll find out in the trials? Isn’t there a more direct way of finding out who the prince is? Like asking Captain Japor Derrit? Didn’t your father hide the child?”

He looked directly at Jotham.

Taking in a breath and letting it out again, Jotham nodded. “Yes, he did.”

“Maybe you should just ask your father why we have to go through all this then,” Allon said. “They obviously don’t think a direct way is sufficient. What reason do they have for this show?”

“Perhaps it is to gain loyalists for the king,” Sarid said, glancing at Jotham. “After all, the king to be should be a man that people admire and trust.”

Jotham could feel all eyes fix on him again.

“That is a good point,” Jennam said, also turning his eyes toward his childhood friend. “Maybe this is a show created to gain the trust and give proof to the people meant to follow the king that what the captain of the guard claims is true.”

“But what are they looking for?” Jair asked again.

Jotham sighed with a shrug. “Don’t look at me. I don’t know. Ask somebody else.”

But they still watched him. All except for Gibeon who turned and said to Jennam, “What do your books say? What are they looking for?”

Tabor huffed, leaning back on the bench in a way that teetered over the grass behind him. “Sure, the loser knows. Come on, wormy. Tell us what we’re up against.”