Sing, and the hills will answer;
Sigh, it is lost on the air;
The echoes bound to a joyful sound,
But shrink from voicing care.
Rejoice, and men will seek you;
Grieve, and they turn and go;
They want full measure of all your pleasure,
But they do not need your woe.
Be glad, and your friends are many;
Be sad, and you lose them all,
There are none to decline your nectared wine,
But alone you must drink life’s gall.
Feast, and your halls are crowded;
Fast, and the world goes by.
Succeed and give, and it helps you live,
But no man can help you die.
There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a large and lordly train,
But one by one we must all file on
Through the narrow aisles of pain.
-Ella Wheeler Wilcox
I sighed as I read the poem. It was one of my favorites from before the breaking of the world. It seemed to define my life. The court sycophants were all too happy to surround me when I was in favor with the King, but when the wind blew the other way they disappeared like chaff on the wind. I had learned that lesson early.
“And do you wander ‘through the narrow aisles of pain’, Your Royal Highness?” a musical deep voice asked.
I jumped and turned. Behind me stood a man of Moorish descent, his skin a chocolate brown, his eyes bright with good humor. Master Tarek was the Head Librarian of the Great Library and frequently served as tutor to the King’s children. His physique, however, was not that of a scholar; his shoulders were broad, his arms corded with muscle and he towered even over my almost-six-foot frame. I had seen him wield a longsword in the practice yards as if it were a toothpick.
“Master Tarek,” I acknowledged before carefully returning the tome to the shelf beside me. I would never disappoint my mentor by disrespecting a book.
“I am sorry you were not able to visit Greece,” he said quietly. “I know you were quite excited to see the land of your mother’s birth.”
“That has to be a record, even for your network of gossips,” I said, smiling slightly. “How did you find out so quickly? I’ve only just come from the King’s chambers.”
He shrugged slightly, his long saffron color robe brushed the floor, just above the leather boots he wore that were dyed to match.
“Knowledge is my purview,” he said, spreading his hands in a deprecating fashion.
“You have better informants than the Spymaster does,” I said conspiratorially. “Perhaps you should consider applying for the job.”
