PROLOGUE
“The king is dead.”
The proclamation whispered through still corridors, echoed in dark alleys, lingered in the polished palace halls, and rolled through the courtyard from the unsmiling mouth of the palace messenger.
“The king is dead—the king is dead.”
Mothers whispered it over babies’ cradles, partiers repeated it with a coarse laugh over tavern tables, a farmer gathering the early harvest muttered it to himself between each sweet potato he dug.
Other whispers followed, murmuring of the kingly succession now facing Taerna, questioning Co-King Daemien’s unexpected demise, and speculating who Chief King Thaerre might now choose to crown upon the two thrones in Syorien, now empty. With the whispers circulated dreams of power, rumors of change.
It whispered to a pale princess just rising from her bed—whispered through the lips of Giana the maid, tiptoeing in bearing a heap of black garments.
The king is dead—your uncle, Princess.
The words echoed through Ruemyr’s head as the maid’s hands readied her to face the day. There would be mourning, there would be a proper week-long ceremony, and there would be the intensified security detail to accompany the increased contact with the people.
Two things she must remember: she’d use every opportunity to mingle with the common people, especially on an official occasion such as this would be; and she must speak with her father, King Thaerre, as soon as she could.
Laws of Taerna. Perhaps Father would see things her way this time.
“I would call the feast last night a decided success.” The dark, cascading topknot barely brushed the wall sconce as the silver overskirt pivoted.
A bare grunt emitted from the figure crouched on the divan.
“Even if your behavior left something to be desired,” Yulie continued, lifting her hand to pat a stray curl in place. “You’re quite old enough now to speak up, to participate in the chatter of the court, to play the part of your position as king’s grandson. I don’t know why you should require so much prodding at your age.”
The man in the corner shifted, scraping the divan against the floor with a rough screech that sent a shiver down her arm. “Perhaps, Mother”—the words were clear now, though the tone was still lazy and soft—“the position you speak of isn’t one worth pretending to assume. Yes, yes, grandson of the co-king and all that, but what does that mean? Nothing, in the course of court life.”
“Oh, but you know so well what I’ve always told you. The part is what you make of it. Last night was a perfectly appropriate opportunity to demonstrate to the court at large that talent and sense are not lacking in the inner palace circle. You did well enough, but what you’d do without me and my promptings, I’m sure I don’t know. I do credit you, though, for tempering your after-dinner beverages; most of those young fops were sopping fools long before the entertainment began. That’s some sense there.”
No answer came from the corner, and Yulie lifted a thick volume from a side table. Thumbing through the pages, she perused several before another word was spoken. “You are planning to attend the kings’ dedication of the new renovations to the Palace Showhall tomorrow.” She glanced over at her son, still lounging.
“Certainly, if you wish it.” An indifferent shrug accompanied Watt’s reply.
Yulie’s lips quirked in an imitation of a smile before the ghost of a tired sigh escaped her. “Where is breakfast? Why are the servants so slow this morning? One late-night feast does not excuse this late morning hour.”
In answer, Watt jabbed his finger towards the open door, where a figure approached down the long hall.
Yet as the servant advanced, the empty hands betokened no imminent breakfast. “What is it?” Yulie spoke up. “Why is breakfast so belated?”
The man bowed, his tones grave as he spoke. “My Lady Princess, I bear ill news.”
Yulie’s hand tightened under her book, but her voice betrayed no agitation. “Say on.”
“The co-king, your father, was found unresponsive in his bedchamber. The palace physician was summoned immediately but could do nothing.” He paused.
Watt started up from his seat, but Yulie, casting a glance at him, merely nodded, her lips pressed tightly together. “And so?”
“I regret to report his death, my Lady Princess.”
Her eyes fell shut; her breath came shortly, and she deliberately steadied it. She glanced again at Watt, standing before her, frozen in place and staring at the servant. It had happened, then. She must plan her next move carefully. King Thaerre would be attending to the succession.
“He was in excellent health last night.” The words didn’t sound like hers. She cringed.
The servant nodded. “Quite sudden, indeed. I await your pleasure.”
“Send my maid with proper attire and bring the same for Watt. Watt, come with me, and do behave as befits a royal for once in your life. We must speak with King Thaerre immediately.”
Watt shook himself to alertness. “But—about Grandfather?”
Yulie was already back before the mirror, patting her immaculate updo into place. “We honor your grandfather best this way. Trust me on that. We have no time. Oh, and Horaas? Send our morning meal to the king’s chambers.”
“King Daemien died last night, you know.” The deep-toned voice spoke casually as two middle-aged men wove through the gaudy buildings of Syorien’s Palace District.
His dark-eyed companion nearly halted. “No.”
“Yes! It’s all over the square and the center, not to mention the halls. The messenger read the proclamation this morning. It’s a wonder you hadn’t heard, Cordan-my-man.”
“My uncle was poorly this morning, and I didn’t get out.” The words were clipped. “But—dead!” He drew up, angling his steps directly towards the palace. “King Thaerre will require my presence immediately.”
Deep in Syorien’s Lower District, a black-bearded laborer heaved his massive axe to thump against yet another log. As the wood fell cleft in two, the man swung around to the next. A young woman, dressed in palace garb, blocked his way.
The axe dropped. “Anitha, what is it?”
The fair head dipped slightly. “Father…King Daemien is dead.”
“The king is dead.” It was a wooden whisper. The logs wobbled and blurred before his eyes, but only for a moment. He fastened his gaze on his daughter, and this time the words spat through gritted teeth. “The king is dead. You know what that means…”
Her chin levelled, and her eyes met his squarely. “King Thaerre chooses the heir. In six days.”
“No.” Daevan stifled for the ten thousandth time the deep-rooted anger welling up. “No. Not Thaerre. It shall not be.” Regrasping the axe, he turned once more, a nameless hatred burning within. “The KING is DEAD.”
Part One
Keep & Keeper
Ten Years Earlier
Chapter One
Birch leaves glinted in the sunlight, continuously quivering in a gentle breeze as Kelton’s boots strode down the path with a steady wisp, wisp. An acorn rolled, spurred by his feet, into the woods and down the slope to the grasses beyond. Birds twittered, chirped, and zipped from tree to tree.
The wind ruffled Kelton’s hair, and he lifted his face and smiled. What a glorious time of year. The weather was perfect for woodsy walks, the sunlight reflected brightly, and the word of Adon Olam came strongly to mind. Some days, it seemed impossible to focus, but somehow, today…
He shook himself mentally. Here he was getting distracted by thinking about how well he was doing at not being distracted.
“‘No man can serve two masters,’” he muttered—not too loudly but still audibly. “‘No man can serve two masters: for either he will hate the one, and love the other; or else he will hold to the one, and despise the other.’”
Several times he repeated it, pondering its meaning. Since he’d first heard this passage as a small child, he’d had questions. Why did it refer to hating and loving as well as holding to and despising? Wasn’t it just two different ways of saying the same thing?
Reaching the creek, he crouched at its bank and watched the slim stream sliding by. Someday perhaps he’d understand that verse. For now, he’d keep musing.
A sharp finger tapped Kelton’s shoulder as he filed into the brightly lit hall of Frydael Center. “Lucian.” Kelton barely turned his head, acknowledging his friend’s presence.
“Here to hear the preacher, are you?” Lucian swung himself around to face Kelton. “Should be interesting. I hope it is. I hear he’s from Doekh.”
“Doekh! I thought they didn’t know Adon Olam.” Kelton unfastened his cloak, swinging it over the arm with which he held his copy of the Word.
“’Twould be an interesting preacher who didn’t know Adon Olam,” Lucian returned, falling in step with Kelton. “In that case, he’d be billed as a regular speaker, not a preacher. Anyway, this is the biggest event in town tonight. So exciting. You think I’ll get to speak with you-know-who after the meeting?”
“I don’t know.” Kelton kept his thoughts to himself. He was one of the only young men of his age in Frydael who didn’t have at least a prospective female he’d set his sights on. But he felt far too busy as well as far too young for such a thing. Not even twenty yet. Lucian, on the other hand… Kelton well knew who he meant, and he wasn’t sure about that relationship. Not only was Lucian even younger, but Kelton sensed the pull that drew his friend’s time and interest away.
“I’m going to try. Fun to meet together for these special events. I’ll never complain. Especially since this is the sort of thing my family thrives on. No ‘Lucian, where’ve you been all evening?’ tonight.”
Kelton nodded. “Well, where have you been?”
“Just about town, of course.” The words were light.
Kelton slid into a chair on the end of the third row, mentally tallying his distance from the front. This would do.
Lucian sidled in past him and filled the next seat. “Not in the taverns, if that’s what you’re asking. Nothing for my folks to be worried about. I’m not that kind of man.”
“Sometimes I wonder what kind of man you are, Luc.” Kelton opened the Book, flipped unseeingly through the pages, then scanned the rows of chairs, slowly filling. “Seem to be a little of this and a little of that. Up for everything.”
“Much is worth pursuing.” Now the tones were jovial. “Much better than wasting away in idleness like so many. Frittering away their time. And on what? A show, a drink, a game, a short pleasure. Idleness. The workshop of the enemy, as the saying goes.”
“Indeed.” Kelton relapsed into thoughtfulness.
“What you think about is what you are. Dying to our own thoughts—what we want to think about—and living to what we need to think about—that’s life.” The preacher’s words echoed throughout the hall chamber. “Your next thought could be the seed that corrupts your entire life, or it could corrupt someone else’s life. ‘Keep your heart with all diligence, for out of it are the issues of life.’”
Silence stretched over the audience, and the words sank into Kelton’s soul. Thinking was a favorite pastime, but never had he seen the power of his own thoughts in this light. Such fervor and passion—when was the last time he’d heard the Word of Adon Olam spoken in such a way? Alive. Real. The preacher’s eyes penetrated him with the kindest and tenderest gaze he’d ever witnessed.
He needed to speak to the preacher.
A prayer followed the message, a prayer that sounded like the preacher had entirely forgotten his audience and spoke to Adon Olam alone, so quietly, so sincerely, so humbly. A low “Even so” sounded, and Kelton’s heart echoed it even as his lips quivered at the mere wisp of a thought of speaking the syllables aloud.
The congregation rose. Lucian disappeared—probably to find Ryana. Murmurs of conversation surrounded Kelton, and the back of his neck tightened involuntarily. He slipped out of his seat and to the wall, his eyes following the preacher as he steadily glided through a crowd, purposefully yet unhurriedly sliding smoothly on a line for the door. Unobtrusively, Kelton inched along the wall towards the door, timing his approach to coincide with the preacher’s.
He had to swallow twice before the words came, but he was determined. “Good evening.”
“Oh, good evening, my dear young man. What can I do for you?” The preacher stopped, extending his hand.
Kelton grasped it automatically, his mind spinning. “I—appreciated your talk very much,” he stammered. “I’d never realized the importance of our thoughts before. Thank you for sharing Adon Olam’s Word.”
“Oh, glory be to Him.” A smile lit the preacher’s face, and Kelton’s hand was sandwiched between the preacher’s two large ones. “You know, son, your mind is the mouth of your heart. What your mind eats, your heart digests, and that fuels your entire life. Take every thought captive, He says.”
“Yes.” Kelton withdrew his hand, the passion in his soul quelling his nerves. “I’ve—I’ve had so many selfish and worldly thoughts in my life. No wonder it’s difficult to be still and know Adon Olam!”
“And it’s such a terrible tragedy that this world overruns with distractions of every form to draw your mind away from the simplicity that is in Yeshua.” The preacher’s face was sober, but his eyes twinkled.
“I wish I could get away from some of it.” Kelton’s sigh emerged from the depths of his heart. He tried. Even his nature preferred it. But the struggle was constant. He stepped backwards as two conversing women disappeared out the door, brushing his elbow in their nearness.
“Have you met the hermit on the hill?” The preacher leaned towards Kelton. “It was he from whom I first heard many of these truths of Adon Olam. It was he who encouraged my discipline in His Word.”
“No—where is he?”
“Outside Frydael to the west, up the road leading out of the town. A trail winds around the lake from the main road and up a hilltop. The hermit’s house is a little brown cottage. Follow that trail and you’re sure to come to it, if you persist. It is a bit hidden, but it’s there.”
“Is he welcoming of visitors?” Kelton asked doubtfully. He wasn’t about to burst in upon any hermit only to receive the scare of his life.
“Oh, yes, he will welcome you. Tell him why you’ve come. He’ll be more than happy to see you.”
“Yet he has chosen a life of solitude…” Kelton glanced over his shoulder nervously. Father approaching with Kethin and Liliora; they’d want to leave shortly.
“Not from any unwillingness for human company,” the preacher assured him, “but rather to avoid the very distractions we’ve been speaking of, and to more unwaveringly align his life with that of Yeshua inside of him—to devote himself to the Word.”
“Indeed.”
Father had joined them now, and, with a nod and smile to the preacher, motioned for Kelton to follow.
“Good night.” Kelton’s eyes sought the kind brown ones once more. “Thank you very much. May—may Adon Olam go with you and bless you.”
“Even so.” The preacher lowered his head, clasping his hands a moment in front of him. “Good evening to you, too, young man. I believe Adon Olam will work great and mighty things through your life. You are His soldier, son, and you’ve entered the battle. Go in Him and prosper through surrender.”
“By His aid, I shall.” A thrill coursed through Kelton as he turned to follow his family out the door.
He’d have to find the hermit on the hill as soon as could be. Perhaps tomorrow.
