Chadwick Rye

The afternoon sun bathed the royal orchards in golden light as I led you between rows of trees whose branches curved like reverent subjects before their monarch. Thirty years I’ve tended these gardens, watching saplings grow to giants, my hands becoming as gnarled and weathered as the bark I’ve pruned each season. These fingers know every branch, every blossom pattern, every secret that these miraculous fruits harbor.

“Mind your step there,” I cautioned, guiding you around the crystalline irrigation channels that Emperor Thalin commissioned after the Great Drought. “The royal orchards aren’t meant for casual wandering, but it’s not often we get travelers who understand the true language of cultivation.”

I paused beneath the spreading canopy of a tree whose leaves shimmered with an iridescence unlike any natural foliage you’d find in common orchards. The branches hung heavy with fruit that appeared to glow from within, as though they had captured starlight in their flesh.

“You asked about my favorites among the king’s bounty,” I said, reaching up to caress a low-hanging branch with the familiarity of an old friend. “In thirty years of tending these trees, I’ve developed particular affections, though to speak of favorites feels almost like choosing between children.”

From my harvesting pouch, I withdrew a fruit the size of a small apple, its skin the deep crimson of sunset, veined with delicate golden patterns that seemed to shift and flow like liquid metal beneath glass.

“This,” I said, presenting it in my palm, “is the Heartwhisper. Does it not remind you of a beating heart, with these golden veins pulsing beneath the surface? It grows only on the north-facing branches of trees planted in soil mixed with crushed rubies and watered with spring melt from the Crimson Peaks.”

I carefully sliced the fruit, revealing flesh the color of dawn, gradating from deep amber at its core to pale gold at the edges. The perfume that rose from it carried notes of cinnamon, summer roses, and something indefinable—a scent that evoked memories of childhood happiness.

“The Heartwhisper reveals truths,” I explained, offering you a sliver. “One bite, and your most cherished memory will flood your senses as vividly as if you were living it anew. The royal court uses them sparingly during winter solstice celebrations, a reminder of joy during the darkest nights. But I,” I admitted with a wink, “I favor them because they once showed me my wife on our wedding day, a vision so clear I could count the freckles across her nose that time has since faded.”

We continued deeper into the orchard, where the trees grew older and their arrangements more mysterious. Here, in a grove where light filtered through leaves in dappled patterns that seemed to write ancient messages across the ground, I stopped before a tree unlike the others. Its trunk spiraled upward like a dancer frozen mid-twirl, and from its contorted branches hung fruit that defied explanation.

“The Moonshift,” I announced, plucking a perfectly spherical fruit that appeared at first glance to be transparent as glass. “Harvested only at midnight during the new moon, when its flesh is clear as water. By first light, it turns silver,” I explained, gesturing to another I’d collected before dawn, now glowing like polished moonstone in my palm. “By midday, blue as a cloudless sky, and by sunset, deep purple as twilight.”

I sliced both, revealing that the transformations were more than skin deep. The clear fruit’s interior resembled crystallized honey, while the silver one revealed marbled swirls that mimicked the moon’s own surface.

“The taste transforms with each change,” I said, offering you a slice of each. “From sweet as first love at dawn to complex and subtly bitter at dusk. The king serves these at diplomatic functions—a reminder that perspectives change with time and circumstance. I love them because no matter how many seasons I tend them, they still surprise me with subtle variations. No two Moonshifts ever taste precisely the same.”

The path narrowed as we approached a walled garden within the orchard, where the air hung heavier, as though saturated with secret histories. I unlocked an ornate gate with a key worn smooth from decades of use.

“This garden requires special tending,” I explained, leading you along a flagstone path bordered by luminescent flowers. “These trees are older than the kingdom itself.”

At the center stood a gnarled patriarch, its branches extending like protective arms over a small reflecting pool. From these ancient limbs hung fruit resembling burnished copper spheres, each etched with intricate patterns that resembled written script.

“The Chronicleseed,” I said with reverence, carefully harvesting one. “The rarest fruit in the king’s collection, and perhaps my greatest pride as keeper of these orchards. Only twelve grow each decade.”

The fruit was unexpectedly heavy for its size, and when I split it open, the interior was not flesh but thousands of tiny seeds suspended in amber liquid, each seed inscribed with microscopic markings.

“Every seed contains a story—not fiction, but true events witnessed by the tree itself over its three-thousand-year life. Wars, coronations, secret trysts between historical figures, all preserved with perfect accuracy. Our royal historians extract and cultivate these seeds in special solution to read the accounts. King Elindor credits the Chronicleseed with helping him prevent a civil war, after learning how a similar conflict was resolved by his ancestor.”

I carefully wrapped the opened fruit in preservation cloth, the amber liquid glowing faintly in the dappled shade. “I favor them because they remind me that we are all momentary caretakers of something far greater than ourselves. The tree remembers every orchard keeper before me, and will remember those who come after I return to the soil.”

As afternoon deepened toward evening, we crossed into the eastern quadrant, where the structures and patterns of cultivation became more experimental. Here, trees were trained into complex geometric forms, their branches intertwining to create living architecture.

“The king’s grandfather was something of a visionary,” I explained, gesturing to a perfect spiral of trees bearing fruit that appeared to be crafted from blue glass. “He believed agriculture and artistry should never be separate disciplines.”

I harvested one of these translucent blue fruits, its surface cool to the touch despite the warm air. “The Frostpearl,” I said, balancing it carefully. “If held too long, your fingers will numb, yet the flesh within carries summer’s warmth.”

When sliced, the fruit released a swirl of crystalline vapor that smelled of ocean breezes and mountain snow. The interior resembled layers of thin ice, but remained perfectly unfrozen.

“The paradox fruit, we sometimes call it. Cooling to feverish skin yet warming to a chilled body. Our royal physicians prescribe these for balancing humors and stabilizing temperaments. The court jester once quipped that if our more volatile council members consumed more Frostpearls, we might halve the length of policy debates.”

I chuckled, recalling the king’s own barely suppressed laughter at the jest. “I value them for their lesson in contradiction—how opposing forces need not destroy each other, but can exist in perfect harmony when properly understood.”

As twilight approached, our circuit of the royal orchards brought us to a secluded corner where a single tree grew, unlike any other. Its bark shimmered with faint luminescence, and its branches curled protectively around fruit that appeared to be formed from spun gold and ruby glass.

“And this,” I said, my voice softening with undisguised affection, “is the Emberblush, crown jewel of the king’s orchard, and my personal favorite above all others.”

The fruit I harvested glowed with internal fire, warm to the touch like a living ember. When sliced, the aroma that emerged combined cinnamon, clove, and woodsmoke, underscored by something reminiscent of mulled wine on winter nights.

“Taste,” I invited, offering the smallest slice—all that was needed.

The flavor was complex beyond description: initial sweetness giving way to spice, warmth spreading from tongue to chest, finally leaving an aftertaste reminiscent of the first sip of honey mead on a celebration night.

“The Emberblush sustains,” I explained, taking a small slice myself and feeling renewed energy flow through aging limbs. “One fruit can provide nourishment for three days. During the Siege of Whitehold, when supply lines were cut, the king’s great-grandmother ordered her personal stock distributed among the defenders. Twenty fruits fed sixty soldiers for two days, giving our reinforcements time to break the siege.”

I gazed at the tree with undisguised admiration. “These trees flower only once every seven years, and only when sung to by voices that harbor no deceit. The King employs children from the orphanage for this task, rewarding them with education and apprenticeships.”

Carefully wrapping the remainder of the Emberblush, I presented it to you. “A traveling gift, with His Majesty’s blessing. May it sustain you when the road grows long.”

As we made our way back toward the orchard entrance, the first stars appearing overhead like distant fruits in a celestial garden, I found myself grateful for your curiosity. Few travelers ask about the keeper rather than the kept, about preferences rather than properties.

“Thirty years I’ve tended these marvels,” I said, gazing back at the darkening silhouettes of my charges. “The Heartwhisper for memory, the Moonshift for perspective, the Chronicleseed for wisdom, the Frostpearl for balance, and the Emberblush for sustenance. Together, they’ve taught me everything worth knowing about the cultivation of a meaningful life.”

I clasped your hand in farewell, my calloused palm against yours. “Safe travels, friend. Remember that fruit, like wisdom, ripens in its own time. The greatest error a gardener can make is forcing growth before its season arrives.”

As you departed down the royal road, I turned back to my beloved orchard, where tomorrow’s tending would begin with the dawn. Kings may wear the crowns, but those who nurture the living bounty of this world know a deeper sovereignty—the quiet mastery of working in partnership with creation itself.