The King Who Held the Keys
Each and every one of them.
Once upon a time, there was a powerful king. He slew his enemies and favored his friends. He grew hungry for peace, so he waged war on his rivals. He craved prosperity, so from the nobility he stole riches and to the common people he flung them.
In his success, he built a magnificent castle. He gave the castle’s keys to those he cared for most: his two sons and his majesty, the queen.
But the king grew old and cunning, and he began to fear for his life. What if his many enemies were hiding with patience, sharpening their knives? One day, he’d had enough. He demanded from his sons and wives their keys, who fearfully gave the man his due. The king spent the day emptying the castle and locking doors. Finally, it was done.
The king rejoiced! He had all the keys to the castle, and none could threaten his reign. For three days, he shouted instructions from his tallest tower, which no archer could reach and no solider could climb. For three days, his people did as he bade.
During this time, the king grew lazy and indolent. He feared nothing and no one. No one challenged him. Nothing aroused him. His armor was so impenetrable, he might as well have buried himself alive in it.
On the fourth day, the king did not emerge from his tower. Why bother? Even if the kingdom fell, he would be safe.
From that day forward, the people nervously deferred to the queen, who looked at the tower daily for signs of his majesty. But of him, she saw no sign.
Days turned to months, months turned to years, and years turned to memory. This is the only story of the king that anyone remembers. He had all the keys to the castle, and he locked himself up with them.
