The Empty Palace, Rowan Erlking [tools of titans ebook txt] 📗

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