One day, a young boy came before the king.  His clothes were ragged and he wore no shoes, much less a hat.  The boy said, "Sire, your reign is at a crossroads.  If you choose the wrong path, you will lose your crown."

"Treason!" the mad king cried.  "Take him to the pit."

"Be wary, your highness," the boy called as the guards dragged him away.  "You stand at a precipice.  Worse than fire waits below."

***

For the rest of the afternoon, the king stewed over what the boy had said.  Of course, he assured himself, the lad was a spy sent by enemies of the state to rattle him.  The punishment had been just.  Just as it had been for the turtle salesmen thrown in the pit last week.  The king’s advisors agreed those turtles were obviously trained to steal royal secrets and report back to their master.

But the boy’s words would not leave the king’s mind.  Finally, in the dead of night, he undertook to discern the truth.  Wearing a dressing gown and his favorite pair of wool-lined slippers, the king padded from his royal bedchamber into the bowels of the castle.  The boy would be held in the dungeon until dawn and then cast into the fire pit.  The king enjoyed the symbolism of executing a man at the day’s first firing.

The boy lounged on a straw pallet in his cell, his hands behind his head and his feet kicked up against the cold stones.  When the king appeared on the other side of the thick iron bars, the boy did not look surprised.

"Why did you say what you said in there today?" the king demanded.  "Tell me the truth, and I will spare your life."

The boy smiled wryly, seeming unconcerned about his fate.  "I spoke the truth, sire.  A kingdom ruled by fear and madness has hidden faults.  A strong kingdom is ruled by love."  The boy sat up and put his hands on his knees.  "Some of your subjects fear you so much, they plot your downfall, and your subjects will flock to them by the thousands, as you’ve engendered no love among the populace."

And then the king could see it all: courtiers in purple hats whispering behind patterned fans, leering valets and serving girls, poison in his soup, turtles nipping at his toes.

"How can I overcome this?" the king cried.  He knew this boy held the key.

The boy stood, one hand casually in his ragged pocket.  "Unlock the door, and I’ll tell you."

A large iron key ring hung on a peg on the wall across from the cell.  The king thought a moment, then hefted the weight of those keys in his hand.  Iron flecked off on his skin as he shoved the metal into the hole.  The king was not a strong man, as he spent most of his days in the palace judging traitors and hiding from terrorists and spies.  It took all his strength to twist the key in the latch.  The lock shunted home and the door creaked open.  The boy stepped out, a piece of straw sticking from his unkempt hair.

"Tell me," the king begged, "where is the path off the precipice?"

The boy leaned forward, as if to whisper in his ear, then buried a thin shiv in the king’s stomach.  The king staggered back, blood streaking his white silk dressing gown with crimson ribbons.

"Guards!" the king croaked, but he didn’t have enough air to shout and the raucous guards wouldn’t hear him anyway.

As the mad king slid to the floor, the boy smiled again, this time with triumph.  "The truth is, you stepped off the precipice long ago.  I’m your fire pit."