Poxig was not feeling well. Ever since he went to Er. Seljuk’s tree house, he felt ill. Fortunately, there was a bed where Poxig could recover. He knew that he had to write a letter, but he did not know how. Er. Seljuk was supposed to teach him. The emissary was convinced that Poxig was a hypochondriac.
“I’ve had a doctor come by and examine you, and there’s nothing wrong!” noted the scholar.
“My head aches, and my feet hurt, and I can’t get out of bed,” said Poxig. “At least, not today.”
“We really should get started with your letter to the king…” Seljuk noted, almost as if to himself.
“Well, it can’t happen today, because I’m sick…. Maybe tomorrow,” Poxig said while moaning.
“Take some my herbal medicine,” said Er. Seljuk. “We’ll start in the morning if you’re feeling better.”
“I feel like my head is a swarm of angry bees,” replied Poxig.
That night it was almost impossible to sleep. The clockwork owl was hooting outside, and Poxig was suffering from insomnia. He knew that he was close to his goal. But sometimes the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak. Poxig could not bear to lift his hand to put pen to paper, but he knew that he had to. It was a race against time, and there was no certainty that his letter would reach the king. Yet, if he didn’t get up nothing would happen.
“Time is not your ally,” said Seljuk, “The king’s next audience is soon.”
Poxig couldn’t help but believe that Releven had put this burden upon him in order to test his will. If he were to write to the king, he would need to make the most assiduous efforts to get his attention. The king had not stepped outside his chamber in 20 years. This did not inspire Poxig’s confidence that he would get an audience with the king.
However, he remembered the Latin phrase from his time with Jongleur: “Qui annuit manu fortissimum est.” He who winks has the strongest hand. He would need to play his strongest hand if ever he could reach his goal of becoming the guardian of the orb.
Andrew J. Wolfram 