Upon the shoulders of kings

Prologue: The paths we take

If there was ever a time when I was soothed by the cheering of my people—I have forgotten it.

I am not certain that they see a man when they cheer, but, rather, a god. I fear my power over them, for should it ever corrupt me, there is enough of it to condemn us all.

They are happy, at least. You see—thirty years have passed since any war had taken them, ever since I united the kingdoms under my banner. Some forcefully, but such is conquest. For ten years I had waged wars and won battles…this, as you might have guessed, adds up to quite the number of years. I am old, and none the wiser for it, I’m afraid. The wars had damned my health and taken my friends from me, but I do not mourn for either. It has all been a worthy price for peace.

I write this because I have learned much over the course of my travels and I have many tales to tell.

They are all drawn from my experience and the events transpired from Seventh Fordim, day 134th to Eighth Gardil, day 133th, on my journey to Blackport, over Waste and Rivelund, then to Ghar Magi, over Saelem, then, finally, over Manri Ju and Dirkoll to Velor Dīn, where I was greeted by my good friend Hiriard, the Veloran king.

I will try to transcribe the vital points of my learnings and mark them as my philosophy, for I have grown over the year that I spent trekking my empire. I would still put myself on the far side of wise, however, even though I am more so than I was. A man is not changed by his experiences, but by his learning from them—and so I write them down here, in hopes that others might learn something that no one could teach me.

My name is Teamaritt and I am emperor to all men.

I traveled across the Empire without my court, my sword, or my horse—my government were the winds and trees, my weapon—my word, and my mount were my two sandaled feet, now callused…I return home now, finally, to write down my story.

I learned one thing, above all others—I am less than the lowest of slaves, for I serve not one man, but the whole of my people.

    * * *

A poet from Mur, name Firi Gar, had once visited Zurdun and said that it was “the city where cities ended.” When asked what he meant, he answered: “It is as good a place as any to live, but once there, all others seem like towns.” He refused to give further explanation and went on to tame dreadwolves in the Varbean tundra. His book The Hounds of Winter tells of his adventures up north.

However, I find that his description is the best one we have in conveying the greatness of this capital of capitals, vague as it is. What the poet failed to say is how enormous the city really is. Zurdun stretches from the coast at Djagrah, all the way north to Dragon Hill—almost twenty square miles of land, with the palace looking over it, perched just west of Dragon Hill, on a smaller mound.

It houses over half a million people of all races, castes and wealth. They break the rock under them when they speak and move the mountains around as they walk. It is the very center of the world.

I awoke on thirtieth Unard, the anniversary of the unification, to a crowd of thousands formed under my palace. They cheered and yelled, basking in the morning sun, waiting for me to speak to them.

I then realized that I had grown to dread the speech. I was going to tell them that we are one nation, that united we are great and that together we are strong, but I had realized that I never actually believed it myself.

I had built an empire—with blood and sword—based on something that I didn’t believe in. You’re probably wondering why had I done it then—how had the idea even been formed, if not from my head? A story for another time, perhaps.

Then, on that morning, as I stood over my people, watching as they jumped and screamed my name, I had decided that they deserved someone who would know who they are before daring to rule them. I raised my hands high and let them quiet down before speaking.

“My sons and daughters”, I yelled over the vastness of Heredein, the palace square. “I come to you today—humbled! Not by our greatness, our unity, or our strength…but by you.” The crowd stood still. “I will not pretend that I am not to blame for this time of peace and prosperity.” They cheered at this. “But! It is your doing as well as mine. You—the people—know true greatness, true unity…true strength. This is your day. Celebrate!”

With this I left them. I arranged a messenger be sent to Hiriard and then tied up loose ends—leaving strict instructions not to be followed and, of course, delegating duties of rule for the time of my indeterminate absence.

I had read somewhere that it is not the destinations themselves, but the paths we take that matter. An old saying, I admit, quoted one too many times, but a good one, nonetheless.

    * * *

“It is with hard and solemn eyes

that my hopes are drained”, he said,

leaving behind his dreams gilded golden.

“I lay them here embroidered,

silken-sewn from memories and experience.

Leave them be, old friend,

for they bask in damp emotions,

ground with rocks made of fury.”

His voice was that of forests

and deep dungeons filled whole

with secrets and lies of men unworthy.

“Press lightly upon them”, he whispered.

“They glow when touched.”

He held a hand to them

and sure enough, they shone dimly,

releasing fog and mist

—smoke, no doubt, from talents

long since burnt out.

“Tread with care, old friend

for they are brittle things

—trifles, they are.

It is with solemn eyes indeed

that I lay my hopes by you.

They are old and moldy things, my dreams.

Take care of my dreams, friend,

They are yours, as they are mine.”

“Old friend”, by Firi Gar, dated Twentieth Hiril, day 45th b.u.—a favorite of mine.