Upon the shoulders of kings

Apples

To quote a Veloran scholar, turned philosopher: “Fordim is a time of rebirth, and the most productive of the five years in a Cycle. Gardil, who follows, is hot and dry and Darim is wet and transitional. Hiril, who is called temperamental by the Clergy, is the year best spent inside, preferably by a nice fire. Fadom is a mystery to most scholars of note, as it is difficult to tell when Hiril starts to melt, or, for that matter, when Fordim starts its growths.”

A very scholarly look at the Cycles.

I’m much fonder of a poet’s view of things.

Here now bled are we, anew,

For Fordim comes with trees and flowers.

Here now burnt are we, again,

For Gardil scorches sweet, yet—sour.

Here we drenched and wet become,

In Darim’s bleak and misty meadow.

Here we freeze and ice become,

In Hiril’s iron-fisted shadow.

A truest form of birth is death…

But not that of kings or priests,

Rather end to thoughts or breath.

Thus, Fadom comes to melt the beast.

“Cycles”, by Darrion, dated Seventeenth Fordim, 27th day b.u.

    * * *

In this, of all things, lies my resolve—I am a tyrant. A man shaped by his blade and his crown, weighted down by the lives and deaths of millions.

I had realized that if I were to rule as my people would, I must become one of them. I must be shaped by their words, their wisdom and their lives. Herein lies my resolve.

My empire would not fail and I would not fail my people.

    * * *

I had left the palace at Zurdun dressed as a beggar, taking with me a satchel with some money, a waterskin, a small knife, charcoal pens and a blank book, in which to write down my memoirs; I had also taken a staff from my personal rooms…a staff carried by a man I think of as my greatest teacher and a friend. It is a lanky piece of ashenoak, smoothed to a shine by knobbed and callused hands of a man long dead.

These, along with some ragged clothing and a merchant’s kerchief, were to be the whole of my possessions for the length of my trip.

It was late Fordim when I left the palace—day 134th. The winds were strong, but warm and dry, and the spring fruits were ripe.

Immediately upon my exiting the palace walls, the guards stopped me, thinking me a beggar thief.

“Halt!” one of the men had shouted. The pair ran up to me and then, having recognized me, retreated almost at once. They looked bemused to say the least. Why was their monarch dressed as a beggar? Where were the guards, the court? What was going on?

Smiling to myself, I set out, across the Heredein market, buying fruit for the road and talking to the vendors.

   * * *

“Ho there, friend!” a man called as I was just about to buy some apples. I turned, intrigued. I was met with the sight of a man of considerable girth, great belt strained against his blue hemp shirt and brown trousers.

“Yes?” I said, bemused. The vendor waiting for my money—a short and thin man—scowled, but I paid him no mind.

“You should not buy from Falik, there—he pisses on his apples,” he said, smiling under his lengthy moustache, curved slightly upward.

“I do not, Kijha, you bastard!” The man went red in the face and spat on the ground in front of the fat merchant. Kijha waved a hand dismissively, letting out a “bah!” sound. “You wanted to buy these?” the thin man said with contempt, pointing at the apples I was holding.

“Just half of what I intended,” I said, returning three. I paid the man and then turned to walk away.

“Why half?” the fat man, Kijha, asked.

“I assume you want me to buy from you?” I said. When the man nodded, I continued: “I’m not going to deprive that man—Falik, was it?—of a sale on your word. But, I am going to try and see who has the better apples.”

Kijha smiled at this, obviously delighted to be able to show how uncovered with piss his apples truly were.

I followed him to his stand, where his apprentice was tending the sales. “Marko, polish the pears—troubadours are coming through here today and they attract parade followers. We sell!” He laughed heartily and pounded the youth’s back, sending him stumbling towards the pears.

“Now, my friend, let us see what kind of apple is for you,” he said, jabbing a finger at my chest. He then turned from me and started rummaging around the bags and crates at the back of his makeshift store, muttering to himself. I stood there, waiting, listening to the sounds of the crowd around me.

I watched them—the men and women I was supposed to be leading, teaching, inspiring. They seemed wrapped up in their own worries, paying no mind to the sound of horses clopping on the paved streets, carts rattling their wheels on the stone, feet stomping. They didn’t seem to notice their place in the bustle of the city, in the soft chatter of the crowd…If they would only have stopped to look around, to really see—someone might have noticed me. Recognized me.

Yet, no one did.

“Ah, here we go,” Kijha said, turning. In his arms he carried three apples. “This one, my friend, I give you for two marks.” He handed me a green apple, it really did look better and juicier than the ones I had already bought. “This one I sell for five—this I must, for my wife, she will yell and this we must avoid, yes?” He handed me a small red apple, flecked with yellow dots. “This one…” He laughed a bit. “Well, this one I gift. Not for sale.”

He handed me an apple I had only read about until then. A Rottona, from the Riverhills. It was blue, with purple blotches all over, not unlike a cow’s. It smelled sweet.

“My friend,” I said. “I am lost for words…this is a very rare gift.”

“It is nothing.” He waved his hand in the same way he did with the thin vendor, Falik, letting out another “bah!”

“What have I done to deserve this?”

“You are new to apples, strange little man,” he said. “To learn apples, you must eat them, no? I give you real apples, not overgrown berries.”

I stared at the man. “My name is Jazia, my friend,” I said, choosing a name of an old acquaintance.

“It is good name,” he said. “Mine is better, but yours is good, all the same. I am Kijha, as Falik had called me, but to friend I am Kif, if you wish.” We shook hands and laughed.

 “When are you leaving town?”

“I am going this day,” he said. “Am leaving for Varbea.”

“I should like to accompany you, if you would have me. Perhaps I can pay for the third apple with poems and stories.”

“I would like this thing. It is done! We leave after the troubadours come through. Marko! Where are those pears?!”

We spent the remainder of the day talking and drinking a bit. I helped him and Marko pack up late in the evening and we were on our way.

If there is one thing I learned, it is that people are kind. Not always and not all, but some and at times. They are also fair in their judgment…they tend to see what is, rather than what they think should be. In these things, I think, my rule must be founded. There must be fairness and kindness in the calls I make.

Benevolence and justice shall be the foundations of my teachings and the bases for my rule, and the rule of those that succeed me.