The Empty Palace by Rowan Erlking (book series for 12 year olds txt) 📖

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.”