The Prince and the Key

The Sorcerer and the Djinn

Once, there was an evil sorcerer. He lived in a village named P’tol in the centre of the world, far to the east of the Green Country, but just as distant from the Lautan Tedau, the Peaceful Sea to the west, and so the land was called the Middle Kingdoms.

Each of these was ruled by a king or queen, often competing with one-another both peacefully and in war. While he was truly wicked, the sorcerer did not have any real power to subdue others or force them to his will. That is, until one day he bought a lamp on the bazaar of his home town.

It was made of brass, without ornamentation and cheap, as he was poor, having no spells of power to his name, only being able to sell love potions, amulets and other trinkets. He took home the lamp and began polishing it, as he was too reduced in means to even be able to afford a servant. As he rubbed the metal, something strange happened: Much to his surprise, a djinn from the realm of the spirits began pouring like smoke from the spout of the lamp! The sorcerer dropped the lamp in fear, making his way backwards on all fours until he found the back of his head bumping against the rear wall of his pitiful little cottage.

“Who dares waken me?” the creature, that by now had begun to fill the room in its entirety, boomed in a voice as deep and loud as a bell. “Instantly, I will have thy name!” it demanded.

“Ha-Hazin,” the sorcerer stuttered.

“Hahazin thou hast awakened me! I will now hear thy reason for doing so!” the djinn boomed in reply.

“I-it’s Hazin, actually,” the sorcerer answered demurely, holding his hands above his head in expectation of some drastic form of reproof, which, however, failed to come.

“Hazin then. Oh Hazin, hear me!” the djinn stated, “I have slept in this lamp for a hundred times a hundred years. The first five hundred years I vowed to grant the man whosoever freeth me every wish, but during the second five hundred years I was filled with wrath at my imprisonment, and so have vowed to destroy the man who frees me! Prepare to die, Hazin!”

Shaking, the sorcerer clenched his eyes tightly shut, holding up his hands in fear in the hope of somehow stopping the mighty djinn from performing its vile dead. To his own surprise, nothing happened, the spirit suddenly having paused. Slowly, the sorcerer opened up first one eye, then the other, only to see that the djinn, whose form had solidified from the thick smoke that had erupted from the lamp, was now sitting back on its haunches, its body all but filling the tiny house.

“If you wish to kill me, then do so swiftly!” the sorcerer finally said, but strangely enough, all the djinn did in response was bow deeply, until his forehead touched the compacted clay of the floor. Shaking his head in disbelief, Hazin said, “I-I thought you wished to kill me? Why have you stopped?”

“My sincerest apologies, oh master of wizardry,” the djinn replied. “I saw your amulet and knew you to be a man versed in the lore of magic. I would not contend with such a powerful wizard.”

Taken aback, the sorcerer looked at his hands: And indeed, hanging from his left wrist was a love-inspiring amulet he had fashioned earlier that week, but had failed to sell, as most the people of his town had by now heard his spells and devices were no more than trickery for the gullible.

“I am a sorcerer!” Hazin exclaimed, brandishing the bracelet woven of glass and silver beads, feathers and bits of fur. “The mightiest!”

“I apologise, my master,” the djinn replied, bowing down even deeper. “Your will is my own, my arm is yours to use, your wish is mine.”

“Thou art mine to command?”

“I am indeed, my master,” the djinn answered.

The sorcerer rubbed his chin. This all had been too easy, he thought to himself. This djinn was a mighty spirit indeed and had nearly killed him moments ago. He needed to bind him, so his powers were his and only his to use. Finding his initial fear quickly being replaced with his customary wickedness, Hazin said:

“I command thee to obey me, for one hundred years, until I think of further demands I would make of thee!”

“To hear is to obey, my master,” the djinn replied in a subdued voice, once again bowing deeply.

And so, the djinn granted all of the sorcerer’s wishes. Within a short time, Hazin had gained control of P’tol, subduing all of its citizens and putting them to his evil work. With the aid of the djinn, in a mere span of years he had made all the cities of Pajjiz, the part of the Middle Kingdoms he lived in, submit to him.

And so Hazin ruled his subjects with an iron fist, tolerating no disobedience or questioning of his authority. And thanks to the djinn, while he aged, he remained hale and healthy, with neither his body nor his will suffering any decline. But then, before Hazin realised, the span of one hundred years was up and the djinn presented himself to his master.

“For one hundred years I have served you, my master, not one day more, not one day less. Now I would take my leave to bid you farewell,” he said, bowing deeply.

“Farewell?” Hazin cackled, who was now no longer referred to as a mere sorcerer, but as ‘your majesty’ or ‘lord’ or the like. “I will not let thee go, djinn! Quite the opposite, in fact! I still have plans, I do, and thou wilt help me with them!” and he laughed mirthlessly at the look of disappointment and despair in djinn’s face.

“I will be truthful with you, my master: I have bowed to your each and every whim, for ten times ten years. But a djinn must roam, or he will lose his powers. And without them, what use would I be to you?”

While he was not sure about the first bit, the second was only true, Hazin thought to himself, stroking his chin absent-mindedly. Where would he be without the mighty djinn? Back in his cottage selling trinkets and love-potions probably, he realised. He needed power, more of it! And soon, before the djinn forsook him!

“I will agree to let thee go,” he began, instantly causing the djinn to smile beatifically. “Under one condition,” he added, causing the smile to evaporate as soon as it had appeared. “I require a new familiar to serve me. If thou findest one, thou shalt be free!”

Surprisingly, the djinn smiled as he bowed deeply, only to stand up again and hold a feather before him. It was fully as long as the sorcerer’s arm and he was taken aback at the thought of the beast it came off, but quickly managed to subdue any semblance of apprehension.

“A feather?” the sorcerer said, “What am I to do with such baublery?”

“This is not just any feather, my master,” the djinn replied, “large as it may seem, it is but one of the smallest feathers from the wing of the mighty Roc.”

“The Roc?” came the reply, “I thought the bird mere myth!”

“No, my master, the bird is as real as I am,” the djinn answered, with the slightest hint of mockery, which, however, luckily for him went unnoticed by the sorcerer. “The Roc sheds only one feather every year. With the correct spells, in whose possession I am, he who finds it can gain power over the bird’s magical abilities.”

“Give it to me, now!” Hazin commanded, reaching out with a claw-like hand.

“Alas, while I can of course do so, the spell that is necessary to bend the Roc to your will must be given of free choice – which I of course no longer have,” he added, bowing deeply to hide the broad grin erupting from his face.

Hazin scowled at his current familiar, gradually nodding as he realised the cunning behind the djinn’s plan. Giving in to inevitability, he said:

“So be it, my servant. I will set thee free if thou givest me the spell to bind the Roc.”

“I would bid you to swear to this, lest you forget your promise by mishap,” the djinn replied.

“A wicked spirit thou art, djinn!” the sorcerer answered. “So be it then, by all spirits of land, sea and sky, I swear to set thee free, for the price of commanding the Roc! Now: the feather and the spell!” he demanded.

“Thank you for finally setting me free,” the djinn began, with nearly all of the traces of respect gone from his voice at once. “Now I shall keep my part of the bargain,” he continued, handing Hazin the feather in a fluid gesture befitting a creature made of smoke. “To subdue the mighty Roc, you must burn the feather in a fire of amber, speaking the following words: Bow to me, oh Roc, and be mine for a hundred times a hundred years!”

“A hundred times a hundred years?” the sorcerer repeated.

“Or less. Though far greater than my own, sooner or later, the Roc’s power is spent. But I am sure you will find a new familiar in that time.”

And without further ado, the djinn laughed at his newfound freedom, evaporating before Hazin’s eyes until he had literally gone up in smoke. Toying with the huge feather, the sorcerer made a gesture of good riddance at his erstwhile servant’s departure, wondering what exactly amber was and where he would be able to obtain it.

The Stone Idol and the Momo’e

Once, there was a girl whose name was Kura-Kura. Her people, the Shardana, which means ‘Sea People’ in our tongue, lived as fishers and traders on the Peaceful Ocean, far to the east of the world. After losing her parents to a storm she had been adopted by Tawhito and Tua, an old couple who did not have any children of their own. Sometimes, when Kura-Kura could not sleep at night, she would ask her father to tell her a story.

“Can you not sleep, Tamaiti?” Tawhito would say to her, and Tamaiti, means ‘child’ in our tongue.

“No, ayah,” she would answer, and ‘ayah’ of course means ‘father’. “Will you tell me a story?”

Her father would sigh, pretending to be busy, tired or both. But then he would always sit down beside her and begin telling her a story.

“What story would you like to hear, Tamaiti? Maybe the tale of the Korua Raksasa” he asked and smiled, for he knew that this was her favourite.

“No, another one,” she replied. “I have been wondering: Where do the shamans learn of the momo’e?”

The shamans were learned men and women on board the mighty vessels of the Sea People, who knew all there was to know, or at least all the Shardana knew. But the momo’e, that was the power only few of them had, and that is the power to enter the Spirit World. Tawhito scratched his head at this request, for the origin of the momo’e was an old tale, nearly forgotten, even by him. In the end, after a few moments of contemplation, he nodded and said:

“Once there was a daimon, a spirit called Kohatu. He was of the family of spirits of dryland who are not directly subject to Mother Ocean or Father Sky, but rule themselves.”

Kura-Kura nodded, she had of course heard of the spirits of the land, the Wairua Whenua, but being the People of the Sea, her folk did not have much to do with them.

“Well, this Kohatu turned out to be a bad sort,” her father continued. “He loved to play tricks on the men and women of dryland, turning their milk sour, causing their crops to fail and sometimes even making friends turn on one-another, out of spite and love for trouble.”

“That is bad,” Kura-Kura said earnestly.

“It is indeed, Tamaiti,” her father answered, nodding. “And while we Shardana can simply sail on if we find a stretch of the sea under the influence of a bad spirit, the men and women of dryland can of course not. They must remain and tend to their fields and orchards and animals. And so, after a particularly evil prank in which the Kohatu had caused so many crops to fail so as to let the people of dryland go hungry for a year, the other spirits of the land decided to punish him.”

“Can a spirit be punished?” Kura-Kura asked in surprise.

“Oh yes, Tamaiti,” her father replied. “While we are beings of the material world, the spirits are of course beings of the immaterial world. What would be the worst punishment for such a one, do you think?” he asked his daughter.

“To make it… material, maybe?” she guessed, at which her father nodded, pleased that he had such a clever daughter.

“Indeed; and so, it was decided and so it was done. The other Wairua Whenua gathered round and cast spells on the evil Kohatu, trapping him in a giant stone idol, which they removed to a remote valley, in a remote part of dryland. And so, he slept inside his stone.”

“And the Kohatu was there all alone?” Kura-Kura asked.

“Yes, Tamaiti, he was, for many a lifetime as we Shardana measure things. But then, one day, the valley was discovered by a tribe of Pirumbi,” and these are the dark-skinned people of dryland, the cousins of the Shardana. “The plants were lush and there were many animals to hunt or husband, and so they settled there.”

“But what about the Kohatu inside the stone idol?” his daughter wanted to know.

“Oh, he was still there. And as soon as the Pirumbi had made the place their home and their plants and livestock prospered, the Kohatu awoke from all the bustle around him and he began influencing their minds from within the stone statue he inhabited, playing his evil tricks on the men and women once again, even if he was of course much less powerful than before, being trapped inside the idol.”

“Did he do much harm?” Kura-Kura asked.

“As much as he was able,” Tawhito shrugged. “He had been trapped in the stone for so long after all that this was all he was able to think of: doing bad deeds.”

“That is sad, ayah. I feel sorry for the Kohatu,” his daughter said.

“It was a sorry time,” her father said, stroking her hair in affection. “Things had not been going well in the village for some time, and it had gradually become clear to the men and women this had something to do with the stone idol. But as I already said, the people of dryland cannot easily leave…”

“Because of their fields and animals,” his daughter completed the thought.

“Exactly,” Tawhito nodded. “And the stone idol was huge, as large as several men, if not larger. And as they could neither leave, nor move it, they tried to placate it with gifts and sacrifices.”

“Did that help any?” Kura-Kura wanted to know.

“Alas, no. It only made the Kohatu more powerful. And he immediately used his powers to wreak yet more mischief and evil. But then the Dancing Fool came.”

“The Dancing Fool?” Kura-Kura said, smiling at such a strange name.

“Indeed, the Dancing Fool. Nobody knows if he was Kersang, Pirumbi or even Shardana,” Tawhito said. “Some claim so, others differently, but no-one really knows for sure. What is known, however, is that he danced, all the time when he didn’t eat or sleep.”

“Like a fool?” his daughter asked, grinning.

“Like a madman possessed,” Tawhito replied, grinning back. “Now the interesting thing is that when the dancing fool danced, his spirit was able to leave the material world…”

“And enter the immaterial one,” Kura-Kura completed the sentence.

“Yes,” her father agreed, nodding. “So, the Dancing Fool danced his way into the village, much to the surprise and wonderment of the inhabitants. And then one of the men or women living there decided to lead him towards the stone idol, in the hope of… well, in the hope of placating the stone idol, I suppose.”

“Did the bad spirit in the stone change for the better, ayah?” his daughter asked.

“No, in fact the opposite happened: The Kohatu became angry and jealous of the Dancing Fool’s capability to enter the spirit realm that was barred to him. And so, he summoned all the power he had derived from the sacrifices and gifts of the villagers, left the stone idol he had been trapped in and possessed the Fool’s body.”

Kura-Kura’s eyes grew wide with this description: A man whose body was taken over by a spirit, and an evil one at that!

“That was bad,” she said in a hushed voice.

“It was indeed,” her father agreed seriously, only to then begin to smile, “but not for the Dancing Fool! He simply carried on dancing, twirling and turning, his eyes blissfully void at the world around him, seeing only the world the spirits inhabited. But the Kohatu, he was not used to such a great amount of movement, of course.”

“Because he had been trapped inside the stone idol,” his daughter suggested.

“Exactly: because he had stood there motionless for the span of many lives. And so, instead of himself being able to enter the spirit world once again, or at least gaining possession of a human life to bend to his own will, after a short while, the Kohatu became quite sick from the spinning and springing of the Dancing Fool. He attempted to force the Fool to stop, but the dance simply carried on, throughout the whole month of days…”

“And a month of nights,” Kura-Kura said. “But did the Kohatu not try to get back into his stone idol?” she asked.

“He did, but found he had spent all of his remaining power to enter the Fool’s body, where he was now trapped.”

“What happened to the Dancing Fool, with the Kohatu inside of him, ayah?” his daughter wanted to know.

“In the end, he shed the Kohatu,” Tawhito answered, smiling.

“He shed the Kohatu?” Kura-Kura asked, “how?”

“No one knows for sure, Tamaiti,” came the reply. “Something to do with the combination of the dance and the fact that the Dancing Fool was part of the immaterial world just as much as the Kohatu was now part of the material world, I suppose. All of sudden, towards the end of his dance as the Dancing Fool twirled and pranced for a last time, a kind of mist began to surround his body, and a young man stood there beside him.”

“The Kohatu!” Kura-Kura said in an excited voice.

“Indeed,” her father agreed. “After leaving the stone idol, the dance of the Fool had fully made him part of the material world and he became human.”

“What did he do then?” his daughter asked, intrigued at this change of events.

“The Dancing Fool?” Tawhito replied. “He fell into a deep sleep, and after he awoke, the villagers gave a great feast in his honour, because he had freed them from the power of the stone idol. And then he simply left, dancing along on his way.”

“And the Kohatu?”

“Well, he was now a man. And although the men and women of the village were somewhat in awe of him, he now had to work if he wished to eat. After all the dancing, whatever mischief there had been inside him had gone and he gave up his dastardly ways. But because he had been a spirit of the land so long, he was able to influence the crops in the field and the animals in their pens. And so, the village in the valley prospered. Nobody ever went hungry again as long as he lived, he cured man and beast when they were sick from his knowledge of herbs and plants and helped the people of the village wherever he could.”

“And so, all were happy?” his daughter asked.

“I suppose so,” Tawhito said, stroking her hair. “He married a girl from the village and they had many children. But the important thing is, these boys and girls had in them the blood of the spirit world, the blood of the Kohatu. And so, all of his descendants had the power to become shamen and enter the spirit world through the momo’e.”

“Like the Dancing Fool had done by dancing,” Kura-Kura said.

“Exactly,” her father agreed. “But because of course the Kohatu was a man, he needed a name of men and not one of spirits, and so the people of the village called him ‘Saudeleur’, which means ‘master shaman’ in our tongue. And so, the Kohatu became the first shaman in the world.”

“If his children were able to enter the spirit world, was he also?” his daughter asked, yawning, as it was already late by now.

“Yes and no,” Tawhito replied mysteriously, “not while he was alive, and not through momo’e at least. But that is a different story for another night, Tamaiti,” her father said and he kissed his little daughter and tucked her into her blanket.

And Kura-Kura sighed contentedly, for now she could sleep.

The Prince and the Key

Once, in the kingdom of Réimse there was a king who had two sons. They were twins and their names were Chéad and Dara, which means ‘first’ and ‘second’ in our tongue, and their mother had died when they were only children. They looked exactly alike, and only those who knew them very well could at first tell them apart. However, it soon became clear that they were otherwise very different. Where Dara was patient and thoughtful, slow to anger and quick to make friends, Chéad was impatient and heedless and swift to take offence. Still, one of the two would rule one day when their father, King Rialóir died.

And so, time passed and the two boys grew up to be men, while their father ruled the kingdom wisely and fairly, as good kings do. But all knew he would not live forever and so the people of Réimse began speaking about his successor. Most preferred Dara to become king, as he appeared to be the better man.

“He is good and he is peaceful,” they would say. “Who better to rule than one who thinks before he acts and gathers good advisors around himself?”

Others, on the other hand, wanted Chéad to rule.

“Indeed, he is sometimes quick to anger,” they would say. “We need a king who does not simply speak and listen, ruminating endlessly, but who is willing to act should the need arise!”

And so, as King Rialóir gradually grew old and weary, it became clear there was no successor whom all would be content with. Dara would have gladly conceded the throne to Chéad, but his friends and advisors insisted he became king, pointing out his brother’s flaws. And so, he often perused the library of the castle in search of a solution for the problem. One day, he found and ancient manuscript entitled ‘The Princess and the Key’.

It contained a tale about a brave prince who climbed a mountain top where there lived a princess who held the key to happiness. They married and had children, and their offspring and the offspring of their offspring settled in all parts of the Green Country, founding their own kingdoms. And one of these had taken the key with him and deposited it under the keystone of their own castle! According to the manuscript, at the foundation of the castle there was a room, the door of which could only be opened by this mysterious key. And the room was called ‘the Chamber of Desire’, in which all wishes became real.

Dara nodded to himself: This was what he wished, this was what the kingdom needed. His greatest desire was for the realm of his father not to be split asunder by a contention of the brothers and their supporters for the crown. And so, he approached his brother and told him about his findings.

“And all we desire will come true?” Chéad asked, “For thou knowest I desire for the better man to become king,” and of course he wished to succeed his father, as he thought of himself as the better of the two.

“So it says,” Dara replied, holding up the ancient parchment scroll. “We should find key and chamber together, brother,” he said, offering his hand.

“So we should,” Chéad answered, taking the proffered hand.

But while Dara wanted them to succeed together in their search, Chéad actually wanted to safeguard himself from being cheated by his brother, not believing a word of the strange old tale. Their father King Rialóir was by now was bedridden from old age and wanted to see the succession settled peacefully. And so, he beseeched both of them to work together.

And so, they searched the castle. The keystone would be somewhere at the top, while the chamber had to be right at the bottom. For days the two brothers explored, discovering new vaults and secret chambers, but they did not find the key. This went on for several weeks, until Chéad had finally had enough. He was now convinced his brother had simply invented the whole story to keep him from gathering more supporters behind him. However, he was also afraid that the tale might be true and his brother would find the key and discover the chamber. And so, he saw no other way out but to kill Dara.

They agreed to spend one last day alone together searching and then they would abandon their quest and concentrate of deciding who should become king, as their father was by now on death’s door. In secret, Chéad had planned to undo one of the stones above them and strike his brother down with it, declaring the matter a tragic accident. Dara on the other hand realised they had not searched one part of the uppermost reaches of the castle and was still hopeful for them to find the key.

They ascended the upper battlements, scouring everything, but by dusk they had found nothing. And then, just as the sun began to set, its light shone onto a stone spire on one of the roofs above them, highlighting a crack in the masonry.

“The day had ended,” Chéad said, shaking his head, “and so does our search, brother.”

“It has not,” Dara replied, pointing to the sun. “Let us check under this stone one last time, I bid thee.”

Shrugging, he nodded and Dara climbed up the section of roof. Above them the stones were indeed loose, and so he dislodged the topmost one, handing it down to his brother. Chéad smiled at this: his own sibling had now handed him the means to do away with him. And so, he stood up behind Dara, lifting the stone to strike his own brother down. But then the sun picked out something glistening inside the masonry, blinding him so he was unable to carry through with his wicked plan. And lo and behold, Dara held up a key!

They had found the key, the tale was true, Chéad realised, carefully putting down the keystone of the castle. And so, the chamber also had to exist! His desires would be fulfilled and he would become king! Dara handed him the key: It was a lot smaller than what he would have expected, its golden sheen scratched and dusty, but still beautiful. There were several openings in its bow, making it look like one of the stone window frames in the grand hall of the castle.

“And now we must find the chamber!” Dara said enthusiastically, and this time his brother nodded eagerly, handing him back the key.

As it happened, the key itself seemed to show them the way. Drawn by forces they did not know, it pulled then in the right direction, sensing if they took a wrong turn, tugging this way and that to direct the two. After descending back into the deepest depths of the castle vaults, the two finally arrived at a blocked passage.

“There is nothing here,” Chéad said impatiently, “here, give it to me,” he added, taking the key from his brother’s hands and handing him the torch they had used to light the way.

But they had reached their destination. The key tugged and pulled them back when they attempted to leave the walled-up corridor. In the end, Chéad threw the key against the wall in disgust, unwilling to waste any more time with the ridiculous pursuit. To both of the brothers’ surprise, the key not only stuck to the wall, but also inside it. And all of a sudden, what had moments before been an impassable wall turned into a massive stone door.

Dara looked at his brother who simply stood there dumbfounded. Shrugging, he stepped closer and turned the key. Creaking and groaning, the door opened inwards and they saw a lighted room behind it. Just as he was about to cross the threshold, Chéad tugged him aside and hastily went in. Instantly the door closed, the key locking it in Dara’s face, dropping on to the ground and leaving him standing there. His brother had gone, and only the key lying on the paving stones at his feet gave any indication of what had occurred.

For some time, Dara stood there, waiting, but nothing happened. Finally sitting down, he fell asleep, his torch gradually fading, leaving him in the dark except for the faint light emanating from the golden key. And then, all of a sudden, the door opened and Chéad appeared once again. As Dara attempted to embrace his brother, he was thrust aside roughly. And then Chéad began to laugh: not a laugh of happiness or mirth, of serenity or contentment, but of madness. His brother had gone insane inside the chamber of desire.

Dara shook his head in astonishment. Chéad collapsed at his feet, quickly falling unconscious, his mad laughter ending abruptly. He swallowed hard, looking down at the key and back up at the open door. And then, straightening his shoulders, he decided he had to find out what was behind the door and inside the chamber. And so, he plucked up his courage, picked up the key and walked inside.

Immediately the door clanged shut behind him as it had behind his brother, trapping him. He carefully placed the key in his pocket so he would be able to get out again and looked around. He was inside a room, not small, not large, just a room. There were no windows as they were deep underground and no doors or other openings. He slowly walked into the centre of the room, but there was still nothing there. For a moment he just waited and then suddenly he felt the key growing warm inside his pocket. He quickly took it out, only to find it had become both heavy and hot, so as to scald his fingers. And so, Dara hastily dropped it on the ground.

Much to his surprise, a mist rose from it, turning into the image of a young girl.

“I am the Princess of the Key,” she said, smiling warmly. “And thou hast achieved thy desire.”

At this Dara looked back in surprise. How could that be? He had asked for nothing, told no-one, especially not this strange appearance of his desires. And what were his desires in the first place, what did he wish for himself?

“Thou knowest the answer to such questions, oh prince,” she said, reading his thoughts.

As she said nothing more, Dara pondered the matter, looking down at his hand, but saw it was unharmed. So he had achieved his desire, she claimed.

“I want the kingdom to have a good ruler,” he finally said.

“It has,” the princess replied. “It is thee.”

“But what of my brother?” he asked, “If he has achieved his desire, then why is he lying on the ground outside, maddened from what he must have witnessed here?”

“Because that is what he desired,” came the reply. “He desired wickedness and power, and the ability to twist others to his wishes.”

“But why then is he sick then?” Dara demanded.

“Who can ingest such wickedness without going mad?” the princess replied sadly. “He longed for evil and malice, and he received it. It is not the fault of the chamber he was unable to deal with it.”

At this, Dara hung his head. His brother, whose faults had always been only too clear to him, was broken. Sitting down on the flagstones of the chamber he wept for Chéad, for he had always hoped his brother would in time become a better man.

“Why dost thou weep?” the princess asked.

“It is my brother,” he answered, “If thou art right, then he will never be himself again.”

“No, he will not,” she said, shaking her head.

“I cannot become king with my brother in this state. He will need me if he is to live. I will abdicate,” Dara said earnestly.

“That is sad. For then the kingdom will fall apart, torn between the men of thy brother and thine own,” the princess said in a sad voice. “And thy father’s legacy will be lost forever. As will the key,” she added.

“But is there nothing I can do?” Dara asked.

“Oh, there is,” she replied. “But for that your brother must re-enter the chamber.”

“I will not be able to persuade him to do so,” he replied.

“Then he will remain as he is,” the princess said.

“Then so be it,” Dara nodded. “If that is the only way,” and he got up, wiped his face and the door opened to let him out.

He picked up his brother, who babbled like an infant, his hands and feet moving as if he were asleep, and dragged him inside the chamber. Immediately his demeanour changed. Realising where he was, he began to weep out, lying on the floor, holding his hands over his eyes in terror. The princess approached him and gently touched his shoulder. Within moments, he calmed down and began to sleep, peacefully and quietly.

“He is healed,” the princess said, “as thou hast desired. But he will not be the same, as I said.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Dara said, bowing to her. “He is a man of many faults, but he will always be my brother. But what shall now become of Réimse? Who shall rule after my father’s passing?”

“Thou knowest the answer to such questions, oh prince,” she said, laughing gently. “And now I must go.”

“Will I see thee again?” Dara asked hopefully.

“Not me, no,” she answered, shaking her head, “but one of my daughters, or grand-daughters, or grand-grand-daughters.”

“Will we be happy? Will the kingdom prosper?” he asked, even as she began to fade before his eyes.

“If that is what thou desirest, oh prince,” she said, and was gone.

Dara looked down, and the key cast a slight sheen on the chamber, now empty except for him and his brother, who was groaning and attempting to get up. He helped him onto his feet and the two looked at one-another. And Chéad embraced him and wept.

“I was a fool,” he said, “and all I desired was my own gain, by wicked means.”

“That is in the past,” Dara said, shaking his head.

And so, the two returned to the light, carefully closing the Chamber of Desire behind them and placing the key back underneath the keystone at the spire of the castle. After they had performed these tasks, without dispute this time, they returned to their father’s side. And as they drew near, they saw he was all but gone, soon to pass away. Dara wanted to speak with his father, but his brother quickly stepped forward.

“Dara must be king,” Chéad burst out, and knelt at King Rialóir’s side. “I am unfit. I know this now.”

And at this the king smiled and embraced his son.

“There was a time I would have favoured your brother over you. But as I love you both I could never choose between either of you,” the king said in a tired voice. “But with these words you have proven to be a worthy successor.”

At this Dara stepped forward, kneeling and said:

“I agree, Chéad must be king. That is what I desired, father, for the right one of us two to become king.”

“Oh, there you are wrong, my son,” King Rialóir said, and they knew his end was drawing close. “For there will be two kings,” and with these words he passed away embracing the both of them.

And so, the kingdom of Réimse had two kings. One would later be known as King Dara the wise, while the other gained renown as King Chéad the steadfast. And as the Princess of the Key had said, Dara encountered one of her grand-grand-daughters. They married and were happy, and had three daughters together, but that is another tale.