Solomon’s
Journey
James Maxstadt
Solomon’s Journey
Copyright © 2019 by James E Maxstadt
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing, 2019
ISBN: 9781704499772
James Maxstadt
Visit at jamesmaxstadt.com
Cover art: SelfPubBookCovers.com/SF covers
To Marty, a buddy for life.
Other titles by James Maxstadt
Solomon’s Exile
The Travels of Solomon, Book 1
Tales of a Nuisance Man
The Duke Grandfather Saga, Part 1
Duke Grandfather Saves the World*
*or at least a small part of it
The Duke Grandfather Saga, Part 2
Duke Grandfather Hears Voices
The Duke Grandfather Saga, Part 3
Duke Grandfather Unleashes Hell
Duke Grandfather: The Whole Story
Death Lessons
Lilly the Necromancer, Book One
Rejected Worlds: A Short-Story Anthology
PROLOGUE
The ruler of the Greenweald sat in his darkened room, staring at the walls. He hated the dark and the things it hid. The vile Soul Gaunts and those from the secret House. The ones that betrayed him and tried to usurp his throne.
But the light outside was too bright. If he drew the curtains wide it would flood the room, exposing all the hidden corners, especially those in his mind. The ones that hid his father, staring at him disapprovingly. The way he had always looked at Jamshir, from the time he was a boy and Jediah first knocked him sprawling when they played.
“No tears,” Roland had said.
Lord Roland. Let’s not forget that. He was always Lord Roland. Never Daddy, or Dad, or even Father. Always always always Lord Roland.
“No, Lord Roland,” Jamshir had muttered, climbing to his feet and casting a grateful glance at Jediah, who helped him up with a kind smile and words of encouragement.
Words that reached Lord Roland’s ears, of course, as Jediah had known they would.
“There,” the ruler of the Greenweald smiled, “that’s how a gracious victor should act. Remember that, Jamshir.”
And he tousled Jediah’s hair before walking away, off to the important business of ruling. Jamshir couldn’t remember the last time his father had touched him at all.
“Enough,” he whispered to himself, his voice cutting into the silence of the room. No one was there to hear, other than him and his memories. No one else, neither his father, nor his dead friend, in the corner of the room. He should get up, throw back the curtains, and let all the sunlight in.
But he didn’t. He stayed seated in his chair, staring at the wall, muttering to himself.
♦ ♦ ♦
Hours passed. Servants came with food, which went mostly untouched, and wine, which was finished quickly. They said nothing to him, and none of them attempted to open the drapes, or commented on the smell in the room.
Even he was beginning to notice that. A sharp, rank smell. It came from him and his refusal to leave the room for days now. The bucket in the corner that he used when the occasion called for it was near to overflowing. Servants had attempted to remove it, but he screamed at them to leave it.
Who knew what those in the hidden House could do with his precious fluids?
♦ ♦ ♦
The room grew darker as night fell over the Greenweald, and still he sat. His back ached, and his legs throbbed. He itched all over, and his eyes felt gummy and hard to keep open.
“Enough of this,” he thought. “It’s night now. It’s okay to open the drapes and look out on my realm. The moonlight through the trees isn’t enough to bother me.”
He sat for a moment more, and then, slowly, trying not to groan loud enough for the guards posted at his door to hear, he stood. The back of the chair supplied much needed support as he let his legs stabilize under him. He slowly shuffled to the window and opened the curtain.
The moon was full, a thought that hadn’t occurred to him, and lit up the gardens below far better than he expected. Members of his House strolled the paths, enjoying the warm summer air. Lovers held hands, friends laughed with one another and servants hurried on their way.
Life, in other words, continued as always for Glittering Birch. It wouldn’t last. It couldn’t. When word of his allegiance with the Soul Gaunts got out….
He shuddered and turned from the window. The light of the moon illuminated his bedchambers, showing the mess he created over the last several days. Clothes thrown in heaps, bedcovers soiled and in disarray. Books were scattered across the floor, some ripped in half, their pages spilling out of them like fallen leaves.
And there, in the corner, was a man cloaked all in black. A man who stepped forward and bowed as Jamshir stared at him and tried not to scream.
“Greetings, Lord Jamshir,” the man said.
He was tall, as all the Folk were, but the rest of his body was concealed by the long, black robe. The hood was deep enough to keep the face within hidden in shadow. Jamshir didn’t know this man. The only member of House Subtle Hemlock he had met was the one who called himself the Advocate. A ridiculous name or title, whichever it was supposed to be.
But that one had been killed, cut down by Solomon at the end of the debacle that was supposed to have been his triumph.
Well, served him right. That was the price for failing to please your ruler, secret House or not.
“What do you want?” he demanded, or at least tried to. His voice, which he hoped would be strong and commanding, instead came
