The Fire In His Hands

“Tests?”

“Of course. I told you the Candidate must be tested. For courage, for wisdom, for... You’ll understand in time. My father was determined that there be no more kings like the Golmune Emperors. Come with me.”

Haroun wondered what the old man’s real stake was. His story became increasingly unconvincing. He seemed, deliberately, to be fostering the fragile, probably futile dream of a Royalist return. And certainly was pushing the fantasy of a resurrected Empire. That insanity could be left to El Murid.

Several levels down, Imp-Child lighted candles and stoked up a fire. The old man settled himself on a worn chalcedony throne. Haroun faced him across a dusty table. Atop the table lay three purple pillows. On those rested a bronze sword, a robe of ermine and, to the eye, nothing. But something heavy had crushed the third pillow deeply. The sword was green with verdigris. The ermine had been the home of generations of moths.

“We begin,” the old man said. “Take up the sword.”

Puzzled, Haroun grasped the worn hilt.

“This is the sword Ashkerion, forged by Fallentin the Smith, which bought the victory celebrated at Sebil el Selib. The man who bears this blade needs fear no enemy. It defends against all attack. It’s always victorious.”

Though Haroun had heard of the sword Ashkerion, there was no proof it had existed. He recalled that Fallentin was said to have cast the blade into the sea after securing the throne. He had feared it, for it had developed a will of its own. He thought it might deliver itself into the hands of an enemy.

Haroun let go. “No. Ashkerion had a treacherous reputation. And a man could grow too dependent on a weapon like that. He could grow too arrogant in his power.” He envisioned Megelin nodding. Megelin would say something like that.

“Pretty speech,” Imp-Child grumbled.

The old man was startled. “You reject the sword? But you have to take it.”

“No.”

“Take the robe, then. Take up the robe and the authority it represents.”

Haroun remained unconvinced that this man had waited four hundred years to crown a new emperor. He suspected motives unrelated to those proclaimed. He could not fathom what they might be, though.

Would it hurt to humor the fellow? That might lead him nearer the truth.

He slung the ratty ermine across his shoulders.

Imp-Child squealed delightedly. “It didn’t turn to dust! He is the One.”

The old man was less exuberant. “The Crown, then,” he said. “The Invisible Crown that will fit none but the One. The Crown so heavy only a man determined to fulfill its obligations can lift it. Take it up, Haroun.”

Haroun lingered over the third pillow, intimidated by the old man’s statement. Finally, he reacted. His fingers touched something his eyes denied. He tried lifting it. It yielded only slightly, slipping sideways. Its weight was astonishing.

“You have reservations,” the old man said. “The Crown can tell if you’re not wholly committed to people and empire.”

“No,” Haroun said. “I don’t trust you.”

Which was true. But the old man was right, too. Haroun faced a tough decision. Was he prepared to pay the dreadful price demanded of a king in exile? He had been too busy staying alive to face that question.

“A king must be responsible,” the old man said. “He is his people and kingdom. Kings are made to put the burden upon.”

Not the best argument to sway a wavering youth, surely.

Haroun surrendered. Not to that old man’s dream, but to his own. To a dream his father and Megelin Radetic had shaped.

He acknowledged himself King in Hammad al Nakir.

It meant guerrilla camps, grim deeds and murder done to little apparent purpose, but always with a hope that he would be moving toward peace, unity and restoration.

The vision both depressed and excited him.

He lifted the crown again. This time it rose as lightly as a wisp of cotton.

“It fits!” Imp-Child squealed, and danced a wild jig.

Haroun snugged the crown upon his head. It bore down so hard he staggered. It suddenly became as light as a silver circlet, then as tenuous as a forgotten obligation.

He had a feeling it would permit no forgetting. He had sold his freedom for a dream.

The old man said, “All men who have an interest in the affairs of Hammad al Nakir, be they friend or foe, now know that a King has been crowned for Ilkazar.”

“The King Without a Throne,” Imp-Child intoned. “The Lord in Shadow.”

Haroun felt the knowledge of himself leak into a hundred minds. He felt the rage swell in El Murid and his captains, felt the elation blossom in Royalist commanders riding hard with despair running at their stirrups. Nowhere did he sense a rejection of his right.

The moment faded. The contact died.

“You refused Ashkerion,” the old man said. “Beware, then. Turn your back on no man. Choose your successor wisely, and before you yourself depart this pale. Otherwise the Crown will go down with you, and be forgotten