"Maedyn the Wise" by Garon E. Whited

Come and listen to a tale, a tale of times long past, when a King sat on the throne of gold in the high castle of Parmentalium.  See the castle, worn and wearied by Time’s implacable onslaught.  Imagine it as it once was, so long ago.  A place of high towers and graceful minarets, of bright-colored pennants and singing birds.  Hear the sounds of trumpets and drums, laughter and singing from the ancient court.

Come back with me and see and hear and feel those ancient days once more.

*   *   *

In the reign of King Lucius the Just, there was an advisor in the court by the name of Maedyn.  Maedyn was one of the Cathyr race, dusky-skinned and dark-eyed, but his wisdom and sagacity were justly deserving of their fame.  He served the Royal line with Lucius’ father, King Osric, and so was inherited as a preeminent counsel by the son.

When Lucius took the throne in his twenty-fifth year, Maedyn was already old; yet his wisdom was much needed in the court of the young King.  His voice, always soft and undemanding, never argued or debated.  Maedyn spoke only the truth, and in such a way that there could be no doubt.  Maedyn spoke Truth when he would speak at all—which was seldom.

This won him no friends within the court of the King.  While the King valued his wise and hoary counselor, the King was yet a young man and given to the passions that sometimes rule the young.  His court was filled with youth and vigor, strong drink and ambition.  So it was whispered in the King’s ear that the quiet Maedyn, the ancient and all-too-knowing Maedyn, was plotting for his own ambitions.

It is a curse of mankind that the honey of lies will often go down easier than the sharp, bitter taste of truth.  The King did not believe these whispers.  Yet, when these whispers returned to him, again and again, from more mouths and more mouths—for rumor is not slow to spread—then did the King give ear to them and begin to wonder.

Yet Maedyn, the soft-spoken, said nothing against these rumors and ill-starred words.  He took his walks in the gardens of the palace.  He took his simple meals at the King’s table.  He spoke not at all unless questioned, and then spoke only the Truth.

At last, after a year and a day of rumor upon rumor, the King was ripe for the whispers of treason.  Those who had plotted against Maedyn planted evidence of treachery against the King.  No more would Maedyn have the ear of the King; no more would the ancient counselor speak uncomfortable Truth in the court.  The plotters would seal the doom of Maedyn.

Indeed, it seemed so.  For the King wept openly upon being presented with papers and bloodied garments, declaring that Maedyn should be summoned by the Royal Guard and brought before him in chains.  This was done, and quiet Maedyn knelt on the cold stone of the floor, shackled in black iron.

“I have been given proof enough to damn a dozen men,” said the King.  “This evidence of your guilt is such that there can be no possible explanation, apology, or expiation.  On the morrow, you will be cast into a pit with the fiercest dogs in my kennels and be devoured, a traitor to the Crown.”

Maedyn spoke not a word, but bowed his head.

“Have you nothing to say,” demanded the King.

“With your royal leave, your Majesty, I would beg one final boon for an aged servitor of your father’s.”

The King frowned, but such was the custom:  An old servant, nearing the end of his days, might ask a boon of the reigning monarch.  The King was not pleased with the evidence of treason, nor with the required ending of Maedyn’s life.  But the law declared that Maedyn must die.  If the law also permitted the King to let Maedyn live… 

“Very well.  Name it.”

All around, courtiers of cunning were considering the old man’s request.  Surely, Maedyn would ask for his life.  A banishment would serve almost as well, but those banished might be recalled.  An accident on his journey, perhaps.

“Give me leave to set my affairs in order,” Maedyn asked, “ to bid farewell to my children and grandchildren, and to dispose of that property which is mine.”

With disappointment and a heavy heart, the King granted the request.

“But understand me now, Maedyn, that you must not attempt to flee your execution.”

“My lord king, take my sons and daughters here within the city and hold them as your guests.  When word reaches my grandchildren in more distant lands and they come to mark my passing, take them as well and hold them all.  I will not flee your decree of death, my king.”

“Strike off his chains,” commanded the King.  “He will walk free for as much time as it takes a courier to bear his message to those relations born of his lineage and return.”

And so his chains were struck off and Maedyn set free.  Maedyn himself summoned all his family within the city and they came to the palace, there to guest at the King’s pleasure in sumptuous rooms.  From platters of gold, they ate the finest fruits and sweetest of sweetmeats.  Like kings themselves, they lived in great luxury and wonderful splendor.  More and more of Maedyn’s children and grandchildren came to the palace, gathering together to mourn their ancestor and to offer to the King fresh pleas for Maedyn’s life.

Maedyn, the humble Maedyn, went to the huntmaster of the palace and gave into his hands a hundred pieces of gold.

“Huntmaster, while the King may wish no more for my counsel, I would still serve him in what manner I might.  Therefore allow me to tend his hounds while I have yet life within me.”

The huntmaster was reluctant to do so, but a hundred pieces of gold is no small sum.  For three days he tended the hounds with Maedyn, watching him closely.  Maedyn fed them and tended them with care, groomed them and petted them with his own ancient hands.  At last, the huntmaster was satisfied that no harm or neglect would mark his hounds, and he left Maedyn to the work.

Many times did his descendants come to the kennels and ask him to come forth.  Each time, Maedyn came forth and kissed them and said, “My children, go and enjoy the hospitality of the King.  It is not our fate to be wealthy.  Eat of his meats, drink of his wines, and be merry for me.  I have work yet to do in the service of the King.”

Weeping at their ancestor’s steadfast devotion, they returned to the chambers they had been given, there to eat and drink until they could eat and drink no more.  Many were the diversions and entertainments of the royal palace, and of these they partook in great abundance.  Yet the shadow of Maedyn’s doom loomed over them, darkening their days, and spreading like an ill cloud through all the palace.

At length, the last of Maedyn's descendants came to the palace.  The messenger of the King reported them the last, and that all of Maedyn's family was now assembled.

The King struck the end of his scepter on the floor, saying, “Then on the morrow, let all who would witness gather at the fighting pit.  There, Maedyn will die.”

In the morning, all who could assemble in the tiers about the pit were there.  Courtiers and lords, knights and merchants, and all of Maedyn’s descendants.  The sun shone brightly on the hard-packed ground of the circular pit, illuminating the iron grates that would swing up and loose the dogs.

Maedyn was led into the pit without a shackle or chain upon him.  He took his place willingly at the central stake and was bound to it, hand and foot with lengths of rawhide.  The servants who bound him bowed to the King and hurried from the pit, closing the iron grate behind them.

For a long time, the King looked down into the pit and listened to the snarling and barking of the dogs.  He regarded Maedyn.  Maedyn, the ancient, swarthy Maedyn, who looked back at the king with warm affection and understanding.

At last, the King lifted his hand.  The grates flew open and a dozen hounds howled and thundered into the pit.  Screams of terror and blood-lust rent the air from a thousand throats as they crowd watched the mastiffs close upon the frail, bound man at the stake.

The dogs did nothing to harm him.  They leaped upon him to lick his face, circled him and lay down about him, rubbed their bodies against his legs.  Tails wagged like furry clubs and many of the dogs rolled over at his feet, presenting bellies to be scratched.  One thrust his great head under Maedyn’s bound hands.

Maedyn scratched the offered ears.

Every throat fell silent in wonder.  For many heartbeats, none spoke, none even breathed.  At last, the King broke the silence:

“Maedyn, what witchery is this?”

“No witchery,” Maedyn answered, his voice old and soft as always, yet clearly heard in the silence.  “I was once high in your favor and served you with all my heart, as I served your father before you.  You cast me down, yet still did I serve, even these lowest servants of all your estate—with all my heart.  Yet for all the years I served your royal father and your royal self, only these still hold me as their friend.  If you will permit me, my lord king, I will serve your hounds until the end of my days.”

“Unbind him,” commanded the King, “and bring him to me.”  This was done, and Maedyn knelt once more before the King.  “How can I be parted from a man of such wisdom and humility?  How can I do other than reward such loyalty?  Serve me and my family, Maedyn.  You will stay by my side and guide me in wisdom and learning. If it may be so, you will also guide my sons in these matters for all the days of your life.”

The King then summoned before him those who had accused Maedyn, saying, “Let it now be written into the law:  Though treason be a crime that deserves only death, it is only with the word of the King that one so accused shall be slain.  It is my will that Maedyn live.  You who have accused him will now depart my court and be known forever as whisperers in the shadows, poisoners of friendship.  Begone.”  And so they went, never to return.

*   *   *

Maedyn remained in the court King Lucius for thirty more years, guiding and advising and speaking only the Truth—when he would speak at all.

That is the story of how King Lucius became known as King Lucius the Just, and of Maedyn the Wise.