Read Online Heir Apparent by Vivian Vande Velde - Free Book Online
Authors: Vivian Vande Velde
Tags: Ages 9 and up
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I ordered him.
He took a few more steps, and I wiggled my fingers at him to keep going, until he was practically at our neighbors' pigpen.
In a lowered voice, Father continued. "When your birth mother died, and she didn't have any relatives to send you to, your uncle Mayer, who was the king's gardener, suggested to the king that we might take you in. The king knew that at court your life would be in danger because the queen was obviously not pleased by the idea of your competing with her own children."
"And the king favored you," my mother said, "because he'd loved your mother so, and because the queen brought up her sons to love only her, not him."
That explained some things.
Father glanced at Deming, who was feeing the other direction and was a good thirty yards away. Still, Father lowered his voice to a whisper. "So the midwife brought you here, but she also brought something else."
"Yes?" I prompted.
He nodded. "A ring."
"Really?" I said. "Imagine that."
"It's a magic ring," Mother told me.
Now, that was interesting. I'd been assuming it was just a keepsake to prove I was the king's choice. "What kind of magic does it do?" I asked.
Father said, "The midwife didn't say. She just said it was something your mother had asked with her dying breath to be given to you if you were ever summoned to court."
When that seemed to be the end of his story, I said, "Which I just have been."
"Which you just have been," he agreed.
"So ... where's the ring?"
"The midwife has it. I decided it would be safer with her, just in case the queen knew of its existence and tried to get it from us. I didn't even tell Solita here."
OK. That made sense. Sort of. "Where's the midwife?"
"She has become a hermit," Father said, "in service at the Shrine of Saint Bruce the Warrior Poet."
I'd heard of it, but no memory stronger than name recognition surfaced.
"So I need to go to the shrine," I said.
"If you want the ring," Father agreed.
After what felt like a dozen false starts because I
didn't
have it?
"Be safe," he told me.
"Be good," my mother told me.
I kissed them both. I kissed my brothers and sisters. This time I really felt as though I were leaving my true family behind. I was tempted to go back up the hill and kiss Dusty, but I was sure Deming would ride off without me if I tried.
"Are you
finally
quite through?" Deming asked
Father stepped to within a nose length of him and said "She's your new king, little man. Treat her respectfully."
For some reason—maybe because Father was about a foot taller and about two feet wider—Deming bobbed his head and stammered, "Yes, of course. I meant: Does it please you to go now, Highness?"
My father winked at me as Deming lifted me onto the horse before he mounted in front of me, the first time he hadn't left me to scramble on by myself.
"Good-bye, good-bye," my family and I called out. I kept looking back and blowing kisses until I could no longer see them.
Maybe the people at Rasmussem need to develop a new game called something like Happy Family, where there's no gathering treasure or fighting hostile warriors or solving puzzles, just nice people who speak kindly to you and don't make you feel like one of those Christmas trees you see by the curb on December 26. I bet other people, besides me, would be interested.
Maybe.
OK, probably not.
When we got to the crossroads beyond the boundary of St. Jehan, I told Deming, "We need to go to the Shrine of Saint Bruce the Warrior Poet."
"Why?" he demanded, his newfound respect strained.
"Because I'm your new king and I command it," I told him.
Deming sighed but turned down a different road from the one we had taken in all the previous games. "I don't even like poetry," he complained.
It was the first thing he'd said that I could relate to.
T H E R O A D led into the woods, where Deming chose a path that more or less followed a stream. He insisted that, though not a lover of poetry, he knew the way. I wondered if we were going
He took a few more steps, and I wiggled my fingers at him to keep going, until he was practically at our neighbors' pigpen.
In a lowered voice, Father continued. "When your birth mother died, and she didn't have any relatives to send you to, your uncle Mayer, who was the king's gardener, suggested to the king that we might take you in. The king knew that at court your life would be in danger because the queen was obviously not pleased by the idea of your competing with her own children."
"And the king favored you," my mother said, "because he'd loved your mother so, and because the queen brought up her sons to love only her, not him."
That explained some things.
Father glanced at Deming, who was feeing the other direction and was a good thirty yards away. Still, Father lowered his voice to a whisper. "So the midwife brought you here, but she also brought something else."
"Yes?" I prompted.
He nodded. "A ring."
"Really?" I said. "Imagine that."
"It's a magic ring," Mother told me.
Now, that was interesting. I'd been assuming it was just a keepsake to prove I was the king's choice. "What kind of magic does it do?" I asked.
Father said, "The midwife didn't say. She just said it was something your mother had asked with her dying breath to be given to you if you were ever summoned to court."
When that seemed to be the end of his story, I said, "Which I just have been."
"Which you just have been," he agreed.
"So ... where's the ring?"
"The midwife has it. I decided it would be safer with her, just in case the queen knew of its existence and tried to get it from us. I didn't even tell Solita here."
OK. That made sense. Sort of. "Where's the midwife?"
"She has become a hermit," Father said, "in service at the Shrine of Saint Bruce the Warrior Poet."
I'd heard of it, but no memory stronger than name recognition surfaced.
"So I need to go to the shrine," I said.
"If you want the ring," Father agreed.
After what felt like a dozen false starts because I
didn't
have it?
"Be safe," he told me.
"Be good," my mother told me.
I kissed them both. I kissed my brothers and sisters. This time I really felt as though I were leaving my true family behind. I was tempted to go back up the hill and kiss Dusty, but I was sure Deming would ride off without me if I tried.
"Are you
finally
quite through?" Deming asked
Father stepped to within a nose length of him and said "She's your new king, little man. Treat her respectfully."
For some reason—maybe because Father was about a foot taller and about two feet wider—Deming bobbed his head and stammered, "Yes, of course. I meant: Does it please you to go now, Highness?"
My father winked at me as Deming lifted me onto the horse before he mounted in front of me, the first time he hadn't left me to scramble on by myself.
"Good-bye, good-bye," my family and I called out. I kept looking back and blowing kisses until I could no longer see them.
Maybe the people at Rasmussem need to develop a new game called something like Happy Family, where there's no gathering treasure or fighting hostile warriors or solving puzzles, just nice people who speak kindly to you and don't make you feel like one of those Christmas trees you see by the curb on December 26. I bet other people, besides me, would be interested.
Maybe.
OK, probably not.
When we got to the crossroads beyond the boundary of St. Jehan, I told Deming, "We need to go to the Shrine of Saint Bruce the Warrior Poet."
"Why?" he demanded, his newfound respect strained.
"Because I'm your new king and I command it," I told him.
Deming sighed but turned down a different road from the one we had taken in all the previous games. "I don't even like poetry," he complained.
It was the first thing he'd said that I could relate to.
T H E R O A D led into the woods, where Deming chose a path that more or less followed a stream. He insisted that, though not a lover of poetry, he knew the way. I wondered if we were going
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