Every master a king

 "When you know the fourfoil in all its seasons root and leaf and flower, by sight and scent and seed, then you may learn its true name, knowing its being: which is more than its use."

--Ogion the Silent, A Wizard of Earthsea

The important part, when you are hanging by the neck from a tree in the woods, is that you tied the rope knots yourself. You bound yourself here. You will be reborn in this place, of this place, one with this place. You will be Real.

There are other paths to power. Power from other people, from connections high and low. I don't know you well: you first may have pledged to tend a forest, or run a city block, or defend an oath to honor or glory. Ideas and places are interchangeable--the important bit is that you know the weight and cost of every inch of where you stand.

Here I am. This is Mine. I ken the flowers, every house, all the implications, all the days past. I am resolute, I am committed.

Resolve makes me a pebble that will not break. Commitment shows itself in my actions every day--I tend my place, I defend my place, I live my oaths. I am a King, and the health of my people is my word made manifest.

Mortals hang labels on the different ways Kings meet their Oath: druids, rangers, paladins, mafiosa, country lords, monks. Druids and rangers marry one lovely place at first, then more as they grow in strength. Paladins have only the one oath to keep, but it ricochets through their lives, weighting their choices forever. Many a rogue and lord has grabbed onto a place, a keen eye on all that moves within it, and found unexpected power. And monks? Monks descend down through the labyrinthine layers of self, Kings of one vast hidden kingdom, unlocking door after door until the universe opens.

The titles you earn will announce themselves: King of the Woods, Lord of Underhill, Master of the East Valley. Once you become a warden of a place, you need nothing but its health and your safety, in that order. Wealth is nothing but a means to those ends. Anything more is a distraction: if you want power, hire wardens to guard your place, buy a sharp spear, and then throw the gold away, into the crowds or bushes, away away away. Only the oath matters, and the kingdom. The better you know it, the more you grow.

Hold tightly to your promise and your power: do nothing but what you must do. Kings make for terrible tyrants, if their oaths lead them down dark paths, but a forsworn King is a raging calamity, a mad dog that must be put down. Regret and anger are sparks to burn a soul to ashes. Ashes.

I once held in my hands the flowers of the woods of Loso, and I knew her mould as my bed and bower. She is burnt now. One tree remains, high and tall, but with one sturdy limb jutting to the side. I know what I must do. I know. And yet here I am.

—Transcribed mutterings of a street vagrant, City of Glass, Year of the Yellow Hawk.

*For the previous entry in this collection, see 'Every hero a legend'. The next entry is "Every wizard alone."