Emissary by Uvatha the Horseman

Chapter 1 - The Foundling

The Haven of Umbar, TA 2932

Urzahil's[1] mother slid out of bed and crawled toward the door until her arms collapsed beneath her. She lay on the floor, and her breath came in wheezing gasps. After a time, she struggled to regain her hands and knees, but fell again, and lay still.

Urzahil abandoned the warmth of the blankets and toddled over to her. He clung to her all night, waiting for her to wake up while her body cooled in his arms. By the time the horizon lightened to grey, he was desperately hungry and needed to nurse. He began to cry.

After a time, the door opened and filled the room with light. Urzahil looked up. The woman from next door stood in the doorway, her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide. Urzahil clung to his mother even more tightly, the woman had to pry his fingers loose before she could pull him to his feet and lead him outside.

That evening, Urzahil sat at the big farm table in the neighbor's kitchen, his feet dangling over the hard-packed dirt floor. The room smelled of smoke. A few coals burned on the hearth, enough to warm the room and drive off the chill of the ocean fogs that blanketed the city in winter.

Urzahil pushed pieces of bread around the plate that had been placed in front of him. The murmur of women's voices flowed over him, the chitchat of the neighbor ladies from up and down the street. He caught a number of words that were familiar to him, but he couldn't put together their meaning.

"My husband went to her village and talked to her people there, but they don't want him. They disowned her when her pregnancy started to show, and they've no use for the bastard. They won't take him, they don't even want to see him."

"Will the rug makers take him? The finest rugs have the tiniest knots, which can only be tied by the smallest hands. They're always looking for children to sit at the looms."

"Children, not toddlers like him. He was only born two winters ago."

"Can he be sold into servitude, then?"

"He's too young. The slave traders won't take them before they're at least six."

The women fell silent. Someone was chopping vegetables on a butcher block, and an ember popped on the hearth, but otherwise the room was silent.

"Do we know who the father is?"

"She said it was Tar-Lintoron. He's from an ancient house, one of the Great Families of Umbar. I hear he's been supporting the two of them all this time: the rent on the cottage, an allowance for food, everything. He even visits sometimes."

"Would he take the boy, then?"

"I doubt it, he has a wife and family of his own, and a reputation to protect."

"Even so, the boy has nowhere else to go. It can't hurt to ask."

A few days later, Urzahil climbed the marble steps up to the grandest house he'd ever seen, his small hand completely enclosed in his father's. There was a portico over the double door, and stone balconies at each of the upstairs windows.

Before they reached the door, it was opened for them from within. They entered, and a servant took his father's cloak and walking stick.

He looked around. As his eyes adjusted to the dim interior, he saw a floor of polished white stone with an inlaid pattern that looked like waves. A long walnut table dominated the room. Under it was a thick red carpet with a complicated pattern of flowers and animals. Recesses in the wall held silver vases with flowers. A sculpture of a fish sat on the table.

He realized they were being watched. A woman with hair the color of honey stood in the entry hall, her body stiff and her mouth set in a hard line. Behind her, a girl a year or two older than Urzahil, with the same honey-colored of hair, poked her head around the woman's skirts and smiled.

"I don't want your bastard in our home, Eädur," said the woman.

"I have no choice, he has nowhere else to go," said his father.

"The rumors that you took up with a farm girl when I was huge and clumsy with our first child were bad enough, but displaying the evidence where all our friends can see it is too much."

"He's just a child, Vanimeldë. He's blameless in all this," his father said.

-o-o-o-o-o-

By the time he was eight, Urzahil struggled to remember his mother's face, even though he still loved and missed her. That fragment of memory was all he had of her, and it was precious to him.

One day when he was walking in the marketplace with his sister Aranelaith, he saw her. It was her, he was sure of it. He let go of Aranelaith's hand and ran to her. The woman gathered him in her arms and kissed him.

"You've gotten so big, I missed you so!"

"Mother, it's really you."

She laughed and kissed him again.

"No, it's Nanny. Don't you remember? I looked after you when you first came here," she said. Aranelaith was laughing too, but Urzahil hung his head, blinking hard. He had no memories of his mother at all.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Urzahil thought he heard voices and came downstairs. It was late for a ten-year-old to be up. He thought everyone else in the household had gone to bed, but a lamp still burned in the dining chamber. Urzahil pressed himself against the plaster wall just outside, holding his breath and listening hard.

"… he's a constant reminder that, barely a year after we were married, you fell in love with a sweet and pretty girl who gave you a son. Every single time I see him, it's like a slap in the face." Lady Lintoron's voice rose well above its usual pitch.

His father murmured something in response. Urzahil couldn't make out the words, but the syllables were low and soothing.

Urzahil was glad his father was never far from home. The fathers of his friends were often away for months at a time, hunting down the enemy's ships at sea, or riding with a caravan through the desert along the spice routes.

Without his father acting as a buffer between himself and Lady Lintoron, he didn't think they could live together under one roof. He was sure that if Lady Lintoron had her way, she'd have his things tossed into the street and the door barred against him.

-o-o-o-o-o-

When Urzahil was sixteen and his two brothers had reached the age at which boys begin school, a tutor was hired to teach the three of them. Pellardur was the younger son of a noble family. He had a University education, but since his family's estate was entailed to the first-born heir, he had to make his own way in the world.

He lived with Urzahil's family as a teacher and companion to the children, a common occupation for the younger sons of noble houses with no property of their own.

Urzahil realized Pellardur would be with them only until his family secured him a position as a ship's captain or an advisor at Court. That's how it had always been with younger sons, first sons ran the family estate and younger sons entered the professions. Urzahil didn't even want to inherit the Lintoron fishing fleet, he wanted to become a scholar.

As the oldest of the three boys, and having a love of learning like his father, Urzahil got the largest share of Pellardur's attention. His brothers were more athletic, and preferred playing sports to studying.

The young tutor tried to teach them enough astrology and geometry to navigate by the stars, and enough geography to travel cross-country, but the younger boys had no interest in the history of Númenor or in ancient languages.

"Urzahil, you're a natural. You should consider staying on at the University to teach, after you finish your course of study," Pellardur said.

Urzahil was flattered, and the more he thought about it, the more he thought that's what he wanted to do.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Urzahil picked his way down the steep road that led from the seaward gate to the harbor below. He reminded his younger brothers to hang on to the railing and watch where they put their feet. The road from the city to the waterfront was so sharply inclined that, here and there, the steeply sloped cobblestones had been replaced by stairs.

The day was already hot, but in the shadow of the walled city on the cliffs hundreds of feet above them, they were shielded them from the sun. Wildflowers grew from cracks in the stone bluff and stirred in the breeze from the ocean, glittering in the west.

The walled city of Umbar dominated the harbor below. Behind the city, on the highest part of the bluff, a stone pillar[2] held a crystal globe that glittered in the sun. It was said that on a clear day, the pillar could be seen miles out to sea.

The Haven of Umbar stretched out before him, an inlet of the Bay of Belfalas and one of the most important strongholds on the coast of Arda. From this height, the hundreds of ships in the harbor, fishing boats and cargo ships and the ocean-going vessels of the Corsairs tied up at the quay or anchored further out, looked like model ships that children launched in the shallow waters of sandy coves.

Of all the havens on the coast, the Númenorians had chosen Umbar for their stronghold when they decided to extend the reach of their power into the mainland.

Urzahil stood up a little straighter. Umbar was a mighty city. With its double ring of walls and so many ships to resupply it from the sea, it could withstand any siege.

The steep road gave way to the level quay surrounding the harbor. By the time they reached the quay, Urzahil's calves ached and his clothes were sticking to his skin. The harbor smelled of salt spray, dead fish, and mud flats. Urzahil breathed it in, it was the smell of sea voyages and adventure.

To their left were the waterfront grog shops, shuttered at this time of day. They turned right instead, and followed the quay along the well-appointed storefronts of Merchants Row where the moneylenders and import-export firms had their offices.

"Do you think he'll let me hold the tiller?" Aldamir spun around to look at him.

"Only if he wants you to capsize us." Urzahil was unsure about the whole adventure. He only went along because, as someone of Númenorian descent, he was supposed to like boats.

Every day when the weather was fair, the fleet left before dawn and returned in mid-afternoon with their catch, great quantities of fish spilling out of the nets, tails flapping and panting through crimson gill slits.

The boys weren't normally allowed on the family's fishing boats. Even Tar-Lintoron usually stayed on shore when the boats were working, saying he didn't like to get in the way. His brothers begged for weeks before their father finally agreed to take them on a pleasure trip on the bay after the boat returned to the wharf and unloaded its catch for the day.

A great ocean-going vessel was tied up at the pier opposite Merchants' Row. Strong men were carrying crates down the gangplank and loading them onto a cart that had been driven onto the pier.

Further up the quay were the smaller vessels, including the fishing boats.

"It's one of Father's boats!" Aldamir shouted. He ran to the edge of the quay, close enough to risk falling in. Urzahil looked at the stone curb, the pilings sharp with barnacles, and the approaching vessel. He leapt forward to pull his brother away from the edge.

The boat dropped sail, turning nimbly and coming to rest against the quay. Coils of rope tossed over the side unwound in the air towards the quay, where dockhands caught them and cleated them down. Urzahil and his brothers watched the boat unload its catch, the silvery fish spilling from the nets like silver coins.

To his brothers, it was just an exciting day at the waterfront, but Urzahil had heard the adults' conversations, and he knew that, along with the rents from a few farms somewhere up north, the fishing boats were the main source of the family's wealth.

"Are you ready to go sailing?" Urzahil turned around, and saw Tar-Lintoron, dressed in old clothes. He helped the younger boys climb aboard. Urzahil, with his long legs, stepped across the gap between dock and boat, trying not to look down at the water, which looked oily and cold.

They found places to sit along the bow, where they would have the best view. The deckhands cast off, and a crewman raised the sail. The boat heeled over as it caught the wind, and they headed out to sea.

They cleared the harbor and reached the relatively open water of the inlet, where cliffs pressed in from either side. The bow rose and dropped, spray dashed his face. It was exciting.

It was hot, and the smell of fish began to bother him. Or perhaps it was the bilge, with its odor of mildew and rotten eggs. He wondered how long it would be until they turned back. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand, his mouth was filling with spit.

"Are you all right? You look pale." His father frowned, a chisel-line between his brows.

"Come on, Urzahil. Númenorians are a seafaring race, we don't get seasick, " said Aldamir.

Urzahil laid his head against the gunwale, feeling completely miserable.

-o-o-o-o-o-

"How dare you take that tone with me!" Lady Lintoron spat out the words, then turned on her heel and slammed the door behind her.

Urzahil sighed. He'd chosen his words with care, addressing her by her title and inquiring after her health. The trouble was, he'd spoken them in an amused, contemptuous tone. She hadn't liked it any better this time than she had in the past.

He stormed up to his room, a small space under the stairs to the attic. It was on the same floor as the rooms of his brothers, but it lacked a fireplace, and it had a view of the blank wall of the house next door rather than the gardens and the sea beyond.

He flung himself onto the narrow bedstead. The ceiling over his feet was close enough to touch, if he stretched and pointed his toe. He kicked it a few time while his eye moved over the plain furnishings, a table and chair, an oil lamp, a shelf for books, and a clothes chest that doubled as a place to sit.

Urzahil and Lady Lintoron had never gotten along. He understood why she resented the daily reminder that, in the first year of their arranged marriage[3], Tar-Lintoron had fallen in love with a pretty farm girl, who'd not only won his heart but given him a his first son, a son he seemed to prefer over their legitimate children. But even though he knew what she was feeling, it didn't seem to stop what came out of his mouth.

To her credit, while his father's wife was distant and cool towards him, and treated him as a poor relation, she'd never been cruel. Most of the time she just ignored him.

Chapter End Notes

[1] Urzahil of Umbar was later known as The Mouth of Sauron

[2] "…on the highest hill of the headland above the Haven they set a great white pillar as a monument. It was crowned with a globe of crystal that took the rays of the Sun and of the Moon and shone like a bright star that could be seen in clear weather even on the coasts of Gondor or far out upon the western sea." Christopher Tolkien, The Peoples of Middle-earth

[3] I modeled arranged marriage in Umbar after the experiences of my neighbor, a Brahmin from India who came to America as a small child. She vetoed the first engagement, which her parents set up for her without her knowledge, with no bad consequences other than some yelling. Later, she had a role in selecting the candidates, and held the deciding vote. Ten years later, she's obviously in love with her husband.

An Aristocratic Upbringing

Urzahil sat on the stone steps to the garden, watching his father teach his two brothers how to handle a sword. After the first few bouts, sweat plastered their hair to their faces. From his perch in the shade, Urzahil felt hot and dusty just watching them.

Unlike his father and brothers, Urzahil wasn't required to bear arms to protect their city, the Havens of Umbar. Nothing prevented him from training in swordsmanship, he could have been a hired blade when he came of age if he wanted to, but he wasn't interested. He did wear a sword on his belt on formal occasions, but if he'd pulled it out, he would've dropped it.

The drills weren't as interesting to watch by the tenth repetition, and Urzahil started to get bored. He picked up a sword his brother wasn't using and swung it back and forth to see how it felt. He felt very dashing. His father came over, holding his own sword and smiling.

"Would you like to spar for a few rounds?" his father asked.

They circled each other, holding their swords away from their bodies, tense and alert. It was harder than it looked, and Urzahil didn't really know what he was doing. His father swung his sword, and Urzahil flinched away.

"Oh, come on, It's just a practice weapon, it can't hurt you," his father said.

The next blow landed on Urzahil's hand, and his sword fell to the ground. His fingers tingled, and drops of blood beaded along a line on his wrist. Urzahil clutched his hand and wailed.

"That's nothing, it's barely a scratch," his father said, but he wrapped it in a strip of linen when Urzahil insisted. The wound stung. Urzahil expected blood to soak through the bandage, but it didn't.

Urzahil was glad he wasn't expected to go into battle[1]. He wasn't a swordsman, he wasn't good at any sport. He would serve from within the city, writing documents or adding columns in a ledger book. Or possibly he would navigate the complex political waters of Umbar. Men standing around talking could be as dangerous as men wielding swords, maybe even more dangerous. Alliances, conspiracies, intrigue, that's where the fortunes of the great rose and fell.

Urzahil had a gift: he could read men's thoughts by watching their hands, the muscle in their jaw, their posture. If he was called upon to defend the city, politics, not warfare, would be his realm.

-o-o-o-o-o-

"It's cruel to raise him as a nobleman, Eädur. You're putting him in a terrible position."

The voices wafting from the dining chamber stopped Urzahil in his tracks. He flattened himself against the wall next to the door and held perfectly still, listening.

"What will happen when he comes of age and realizes that all the professions he's ever considered are reserved for the nobility? Or that he can't marry any of the girls he grew up with?" Lady Lintoron's voice sounded shrill.

His father answered, but Urzahil couldn't make out the words.

"His only skills are going to school and conducting himself at Court. He can't even handle a boat; he gets sick on the water. He has no titles and no lands; he won't be able to support himself when he grows up. You should have apprenticed him to a blacksmith or a shipwright," said Lady Lintoron.

"I've left him enough to finish school and set himself up in business afterwards," said Tar-Lintoron.

"Oh? Does he have a head for business? Because I've never seen any sign of it. Please, do you know anyone in the skilled trades? Maybe it's not too late to get him an apprenticeship," said Lady Lintoron.

Urzahil leaned against the wall and clenched his teeth. She was trying to get rid of him. Let her try, he was under his father's protection.

-o-o-o-o-o-

During the Summer Solstice festival, Pellardur took Urzahil and his brother and sister on an outing to the oldest part of the city to watch students from the University perform a play. At seventeen, Urzahil felt he was too old for a tutor, but until he entered University, Pellardur was responsible for his education.

The square where the play would be performed was inside the original city walls, which in addition to the Temple, enclosed several dozen houses and shops. The buildings inside the walls were small and crudely built, sometimes just a single room with a loft above it. Some dated back thousands of years, to the time when Umbar was a colonial outpost of Númenor.

Urzahil stopped in front of an ancient mud-brick house, preserved as a historical site. He bent down to study the brass plaque beside the door.

Home of Er-Mûrazor, First Captain of the Haven, SA 1900

Behind him, Pellardur was reciting interesting facts. Interesting to him, maybe.

"Er-Mûrazor, the Black Prince, was the younger son of Ciryatan the Shipbuilder, twelfth king of Númenor. He was one of the founders of Umbar, and the first Captain of the Haven." [2]

Urzahil sighed heavily. Pellardur could turn anything into a lesson, even a holiday at the Summer Solstice festival.

"Er-Mûrazor sailed from Númenor and led the early coastal campaigns. A great general, he captured huge swaths of the coast, but the most important, strategically speaking, was this port, the Haven of Umbar. High above the harbor, he built a fortified city and made it his capital."

The door to the ancient structure stood open. Urzahil stepped through to escape the lecture, but Pellardur followed him, still talking.

"No, really, it's an interesting story. Er-Mûrazor was fiercely loyal to his father, the king. They say he led the military campaign hoping to win his father's approval. But instead of being impressed, his father ordered Er-Mûrazor to gift Umbar to his older brother, who already stood to inherit the throne. Er-Mûrazor refused to give up the Haven, even at the risk of being disowned. And that's how Umbar became independent."

Urzahil ignored him. By now, his eyes had adjusted to the dimness. The primitive space had a hard-packed dirt floor and a huge walk-in fireplace built from round stones. The low ceiling was supported by beams black with smoke, and a ladder led to the attic.

The dwelling resembled something a homesteader would make for himself using simple tools, yet the furnishings inside this primitive shelter were spectacular. The table and chairs were made from imported hardwood, carved with more skill than modern craftsmen possessed. A casket inlaid with ivory sat on the table.

In the far corner of the room, there was a magnificent four-poster bed. The embroidered silk hangings were finer than any he'd seen in the home of wealthy friends. The conquerors must have brought them here from Númenor.

"Are those the original bed curtains?" Urzahil asked.

"They're copies. The originals would be five thousand years old, they'd have crumbled to dust by now," said Pellardur.

The rest of the furnishings were just as splendid. A painted chest against the wall was the work of an artist. A bowl on the table, an oil lamp, a sword in a leather scabbard, they were finer than anything that could have been made in colonial Umbar.

Pellardur was still lecturing. "Er-Mûrazor was born during a solar eclipse. He had the blackest hair any of them had ever seen. His given name, Tindomul, means 'Twilight'."

Urzahil liked history as much as the next person, but he didn't see what any of this had to do with him, unless …

"Was he one of my ancestors?" asked Urzahil.

"No, Er-Mûrazor never married, he didn't have any children," said Pellardur.

"He could've had children outside of marriage," said Urzahil's sister Aranelaith.

"He could have, but they wouldn't count, would they?" Pellardur snickered, and then his hand flew to his mouth. "Oh Urzahil, I didn't mean that."

Sure you didn't. Urzahil glared at him.

By this time, a large crowd had gathered in the square to see a play about Sauron's surrender to Ar-Pharazôn. Urzahil and Pellardur were tall enough to see easily, but the others weren't, so they pushed through it to get close to the front.

A chair decorated like a throne had been set up on the stone platform surrounding the fountain in the center of the square. Around the throne were half a dozen soldiers, heavily armed. A tall man with untidy hair and the embroidered silks of Númenor stood on the dais. He introduced himself as Caldûr, an instructor of Númenorian History at the University. His baritone voice boomed across the square.

"People of Umbar, today the History of Númenor class will present a play about one of Númenor's greatest military triumphs, an event which occurred on this very spot over three thousand years ago. The play will be as historically accurate as possible, not only because my students are dedicated scholars, but because their grade depends on it." The crowd tittered.

"It is the year 3262 in the Second Age. Ar-Pharazôn the Golden has challenged Sauron of Mordor for the title, Lord of the Earth. Ar-Pharazôn raises a great army, and Sauron's forces drop their weapons and flee before the might of Númenor. Now, to save his realm, Sauron has come to kneel before the throne of Ar-Pharazôn and speak the words of surrender."

Urzahil loved stories about the renegade Maia[3], a figure out of legend, larger than life.

Just then, a man dressed in magnificent robes and wearing a crown ascended the dais and took his place on the throne, Ar-Pharazôn the Golden, last king of Númenor. He looked over the crowd, his face stern and commanding.

There was a stir on the far side of the square. The crowd parted to reveal a man in simple blue robes, with smooth black hair that hung to his waist. Alone and unarmed, he held his arms away from his body, the palms turned upward. Urzahil craned his neck to see better. On one hand, he wore a plain gold ring. Like all the Holy Ones[4], he looked Elvish. Where did they find an Elf to play Sauron? But Elvish merchants often passed through Umbar, the students must have hired one.

The guards in front of the king stepped aside, and he approached to the king and knelt at his feet.

"I surrender to one greater than myself, and express regret for my crimes," said the Elf playing Sauron.

"I meant to have you killed, but I will allow you to become my vassal instead," said Ar-Pharazôn.

Sauron placed his hands between Ar-Pharazôn's and swore the oath that made him Ar-Pharazôn's servant in which he vowed never to harm the king, either by his own hand or through the hand of another.[5]

When Sauron got up to go, soldiers seized him and clapped him in irons.

"No! You promised me I could leave afterwards," cried Sauron.

"I changed my mind," said Ar-Pharazôn.

The actor playing Sauron was forced down the steep road to a ship waiting in the harbor. The crowd lined both sides of the road and jeered at the prisoner.

Caldûr's voice turned ominous. "Ar-Pharazôn didn't know it at the time, but he had just made the greatest mistake of his life. When Sauron was finished with Númenor, all that remained of the island kingdom was a smoking crater on the floor of the ocean."

"Even so, the surrender of Sauron to Ar-Pharazôn was one of the most important events in Númenorian history. A thousand years later, the Pillar, a monument to Dúnedain strength, was raised to commemorate the occasion."

The crowd broke up, and the five of them went to look for the sweets vendor who sold cold lemon juice.

"It's a true story, and it really did happen in this very square, three thousand years ago. That's where Ar-Pharazôn throne stood when he accepted Sauron's surrender, and this is the road where Sauron was marched to the waiting ships. It's just about the most important thing that's ever happened in Umbar," said Pellardur.

-o-o-o-o-o-

It was the morning of the summer solstice. Urzahil stood with his father and brothers in the front hall, washed and dressed in the best clothes they owned.

"Let's see your nails." Lady Lintoron inspected his brother Êruhil's nails. "Go give them another scrub. Hurry, we should have left already." She pointed, and Êruhil scurried off.

She scrutinized the rest of them, but must have decided their hair was sufficiently combed, their collars straight, and their boots polished, because she didn't say anything more.

The Temple was in the oldest part of the city, within the inner walls built when the city was founded. Tar-Lintoron led the family, followed by the household servants.

"Today is the longest day of the year," said Êruhil.

"It only seems that way because we'll be stuck in the Temple for most of it." Urzahil grinned, knowing he was speaking blasphemy. His father swatted at him, and he ducked.

They approached the old city walls, built when the city was founded. Above the walls, the gilded dome of the Temple glittered in the morning sun. A slender wisp of smoke escaped from its peak. Urzahil's chest tightened.

"Look at the smoke. Will there be a sacrifice today?" He hated having to watch.

His father squeezed Urzahil's shoulder. "Don't worry about it. We haven't captured any prisoners of war or arrested any traitors lately. I'm sure they'll use animals instead. They haven't done what you're worried about since I was a boy."

The main road passed through a gate in the wall and emerged in the market square, the heart of the city. To the right, one whole side of the square was taken up by the front of the Temple. Its coral façade was blinding white.

The square was crowded with people pushing towards the broad stone stairways that led to the great doors of the Temple. The interior of the Temple was dark, but there were candles inside, pinpoints of light broke up the gloom. A red glow flared up, revealing intricate stone carvings on the interior walls. Urzahil caught a glimpse of statues and ornamented pillars, and then the glow receded.

The Lintoron family joined the crowd inching towards the steps leading to the great doors, flung open to admit them. Urzahil stood for several minutes without moving, and when he did, it was a step at a time.

Urzahil studied the Temple wall beside him. The stone near the ground was darker than the white coral above it, and pitted with age. The line between them was jagged as a broken bottle. Where he was standing, the older stones reached his shoulder, while a few paces away, were they only knee high. His father touched Urzahil's arm and pointed.

"See the darker stones? That's a remnant of the original building. In 933, invaders from Gondor overran the city walls, seized control of the Haven, and burned the Temple to the ground. A few fragments of wall and the foundations beneath them are all that remains."

Finally, they made their way up the steps into the great space within, divided into alcoves by rows of pillars.

The altar was in the center of the Temple, on a raised dais beneath the dome. A wooden railing fenced off a wide expanse around it. Laymen were forbidden to approach the altar, so in spite of the crowding in the Temple, the marble floor around the dais was empty.

Tar-Lintoron led the way to one of the low-walled enclosures reserved for the Great Families who sponsored the Temple. Built against the rail as close as laypeople were allowed to go, they offered an unobstructed view of the ceremony. Each box had a bench built around three sides, so the family could watch in relative comfort compared to the majority of worshipers, who would find themselves standing for four or five hours, for the most part watching the heads of the people in front of them.

Urzahil found a seat between his father and sister. The altar was ten or twelve paces away. Acolytes moved around the dais near it, lighting torches and arranging sprays of greenery nearby. Urzahil noticed they didn't touch the altar itself.

The Temple Bell tolled once and fell silent, and the bronze doors were closed. The shutters were sealed, plunging the Temple in darkness. Apart from the pinpoints of light from oil lamps and candles, the bonfires flanking the altar gave off the only light. Sparks lifted by the fragrant smoke rose to the roof of the dome and disappeared.

The sound of drums signals the arrival of the anointed clergy. A line of priests entered in silver robes, hoods pulled low over their faces and hands concealed in their sleeves. His father nudged him. "There's Súrion, third one from the front." Urzahil didn't know how he could tell. The priests of Melkor all looked alike.

Urzahil's father whispered, "On High Holy days, the priests go through ritual purification before the ceremony. They fast, abstain from speaking, and kneel before the High Altar all night. It helps to put them into the trance state from which they conduct the sacred rituals."

The sacred rituals: that meant prayers in Black Speech, which he'd never learned. It meant burnt offerings, and on occasion, blood sacrifice. Urzahil dug his nails into his palms. If the High Priest performed a sacrifice today, it would be an animal, but even so, Urzahil would rather not see it happen.

Tar-Lintoron started to say more, but his voice was drowned out by a crescendo of drums. Fires flared up from every recess of the Temple. Unseen singers, their voices droned the ancient chants.

There was a clash of cymbals, and the High Priest entered the Temple of Melkor. His heavy robes showed no color other than black. An acolyte walled before him carrying a standard, black with a crown bearing three white gems, the emblem of Melkor.

One of the most powerful men in Umbar, the High Priest was a tall man with proud bearing. It was said he occupied this world and the supernatural one at the same time. Secluded behind Temple walls, the High Priest rarely appeared in public. Urzahil had never met him, but Tar-Lintoron had.

"A cold and distant man, and politically ambitious. I suspect his high rank is due as much to court intrigue as it is to piety."

The procession passed through a gate in the rail, but stopped three or four paces from the altar. The standard bearer fell back, and the lesser priests stepped to either side.

The High Priest reached to his throat. He undid the clasp of his mantle and let it fall to the floor, revealing a robe of pristine white wool that stopped just above his bare feet. He approached the altar and, extending his arms, spoke the holy words.

"Melkor, Giver of Life, hear our prayers." He used Black Speech, the tongue spoken in Utumno, and later, in Mordor.

Urzahil knew only a few words of Black Speech, but like everyone else, he'd been forced by his parents to memorize the chief prayers, so he had no trouble following the ceremony. He knew what was coming next.

A pair of acolytes carried in a lamb, bound and struggling. They placed it on the altar and held it down. A priest placed a ceremonial blade in the High Priest's hand. He raised it high above his head. Light from the altar fires reflected red from the steel. Urzahil covered his face and squeezed his eyes shut. There was silence, and from the crowd behind him, the hiss of breath. He lowered his hands. The High Priest's white garment was splashed crimson. The cuffs of his sleeves were soaked with it, and his stomach was more red than white. Urzahil covered his face again. He breathed deeply, held it, and let it out.

The lights went low and the drums began again. The hard part was over; everything after this was just repetitious chanting and the drone of unseen instruments. Before the end of the ceremony, Urzahil had been drawn into a trancelike state himself. At that moment, he believed. Melkor would give him the years of life he longed for, if only Urzahil would worship him.

The ceremony drew to a close. One of the silver-robed priests said a blessing over the assembly. Urzahil found himself in the street with the rest of the crowd, blinking in the sunlight and no more of a believer than he'd been that morning when he went in.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Urzahil often spent the evening in his father's study, where he and his father played chess while discussing politics or historical events. Urzahil wanted to go to University when he was old enough, and to stay on as a scholar when he finished his course of study. He would give lectures to the young university students when it was required of him, but scholarship was his real interest.

"The University only needs so many instructors," said his father.

"If I can't teach at the University, I want to be an emissary," said Urzahil.

"Well, when they do those role-playing exercises in Diplomacy class where they tell you to look bored and roll your eyes, I'd say you'll do fine," said his father.

Urzahil stuck out his lip. "And you're always telling me not to be sarcastic. At least when I do it, it's funny."

"But I meant it, you should consider diplomacy as a profession. Remember, history isn't just something that happened long ago, it's happening all around us.

"The tension between Gondor and Umbar began in Númenor during the reign of Ar-Pharazôn, then moved to the mainland after the island kingdom was destroyed. Three thousand years later, the Black Númenorian and the Faithful are still deadly enemies."

"Which are we?" Urzahil asked with pretend innocence.

His father cuffed him. "We're Black Númenorians. We seek long life through the worship of Melkor, as you well know."

The Temple taught that Sauron revealed the secret of immortality to Ar-Pharazôn when he was a hostage on Númenor. Ar-Pharazôn was captivated by the secret knowledge. He elevated Sauron from prisoner to trusted advisor and built the Temple to Melkor; Sauron was its first High Priest.

Urzahil rolled his eyes. He thought the whole Cult of Melkor was a scam. It was possible that Sauron invented the whole religion for the sole purpose of winning over the king and driving a wedge between the Black Númenorians and the Faithful.

He considered sharing his views with his father, but decided not to. It wasn't worth a lecture about how he was risking his chances for a long life, maybe even for immortality itself. Urzahil wanted more years than he was entitled to, everybody did, but he couldn't make himself believe something when he didn't. In the meantime, Urzahil kept his lack of faith to himself.

Luckily, his family wasn't very observant. They didn't attend the daily ceremonies in which the priests sang prayers and gave blessings to those assembled. Urzahil got nothing from it but excruciating boredom. Thankfully, his family only went on High Holy Days, when the Temple put on an excellent show.

"And while we're thinking about careers for you, you might want to consider the Priesthood," his father said.

Urzahil was in the middle of drinking from his wine cup. He snorted, and wine went out his nose, but it didn't sting badly enough to make him stop laughing.

"Don't look at me like that, you might like it. Much of the work of a priest is scholarship. It's a prestigious profession, the priests come from some of the best families in Umbar. One of my closest friends went into the priesthood," his father said.

"Well, I'm going to be a scholar, or possibly a diplomat," said Urzahil.

A shadow passed across his father's face. "I'm sorry, Urzahil, I was forgetting. It's impo…very hard to enter those professions unless you have an ancient family name, and unlike myself and your brothers, you're not officially a Lintoron."

Sometimes Urzahil hated being illegitimate. He really, really hated it.

"But there are so many other things you could be, a store owner or a clerk or a clerk in a counting house, or you could apprentice yourself to a shipwright or a blacksmith …"

Urzahil had the build for manual labor, but not the inclination.

"There's no way I would ever fall so low that I'd agree to be apprenticed to blacksmith," he said.

Yet, if his mother's family had raised him, he'd be unloading cargo on the docks now, unless he'd been sold into servitude first. He started to feel afraid, and looked to his father with pleading eyes.

"Don't worry, it won't come to that," his father assured him.

Chapter End Notes

[1] "…the other quailed and gave back as if menaced with a blow. 'I am a herald and ambassador, and may not be assailed!' he cried."

Return of the King, The Black Gate Opens.

[2] In TA 1350, Er-Mûrazor acquired another title, the Witch King of Angmar.

[3] Maia = an angel, or in the case of Melkor, Sauron, or Saruman, a fallen angel.

[4] Ainur

[5] The oath did not precluded Sauron from persuading the king to harm himself.

The First Day of Class

In one week, Urzahil would enter the University. Family connections had secured his place, and the first term's fees had already been paid. He would still live at home, but he felt like a new phase of his life was about to begin, in which anything was possible.

"You'll study history and geography, vital for a diplomatic career," said Pellardur, his tutor.

If Urzahil didn't become a scholar after completing his studies, he wanted to be an emissary and travel to the lands in the east.

"You'll take practical courses, like astronomy and geometry for navigation at sea," said Pellardur.

Urzahil liked math. He didn't mind that it had practical uses, even if he personally wasn't planning to get his hands dirty, now or ever.

"You'll learn to speak Sindarin," said Pellardur.

Urzahil wrinkled his nose. He couldn't imagine how that would ever be useful.

"Remember, there's only one course of study, no matter what profession you're planning to enter. To graduate, you have to do well in all subjects, even the ones that don't interest you."

Urzahil wasn't worried. He was a good listener and had an excellent memory. He was organized, he worked hard, and he didn't put things off. His years at University were going to be the best of his life.

"What about a class in Sorcery? I'd like to learn to summon storms, read minds, and extend my own life," said Urzahil.

"The University only teaches things you might actually use after graduation. Unless you plan to enter the Priesthood, sorcery is not a practical skill,"said Pellardur.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Urzahil joined the other first-year students crowding around the corkboard where the schedule of classes was posted: Diplomacy, Sindarin, Coastal Geography, Astrology, and the last class of the day, History of Númenor.

Urzahil followed the other first year students to the Diplomacy classroom. The best places on the student benches, in the center of the middle rows, were already beginning to fill up. He scanned the class for a familiar face, and brightened when he saw his friend Tas. Tas waved him over, and Urzahil dropped onto the bench beside him.

Urzahil looked around the room. One wall of the classroom was completely covered with a huge map of Umbar and the nations surrounding it, some friendly and some not. The desert nation of Harad was their traditional ally. Gondor, to the north, had warred with Umbar off and on throughout the history of the two nations. To the east, Mordor, an enemy of Gondor and therefore Umbar's friend, stood empty and abandoned.

Urzahil predicted the first lecture would either be a history of all the interactions between Umbar and its neighbors, or possibly a lesson in diplomatic protocol. He expected to be bored. Why should he have to take this course? He wasn't going to be an emissary any more than he was going to be a sea captain, but the University offered only one course of study, and every class was required.

He leaned close to Tas and whispered, "Why did the university student cross the road? Because it was required."Tas snorted and punched him in the arm.

Urzahil watched the other students as they arrived. As a group, they looked much like himself and his friends, with shoulder length hair, neatly trimmed beards, and the bright colored clothes of the nobility.

Except for one. A plump young man in the solemn-colored wools of a tradesman came in and took a seat on a bench near the door. Although drab, his garments were well made and probably more expensive than Urzahil's silks. He looked like the son of a wealthy merchant. Urzahil watched as he unpacked his books and writing box. What was he doing here? He wasn't going to serve as an emissary, nor would a merchant have any use for Sindarin, as the Elves they traded with were Teleri, not Noldor.

The boy noticed Urzahil staring and his apple cheeks pulled back in a smile. Maybe he was socially ambitious and had enrolled in University to rub elbows with their betters, but he would never be one of them. The merchant class controlled substantial wealth, but they lacked the manners and sophistication of the nobility.

Urzahil lifted his chin and looked away. I didn't think you could buy your way into this place, but apparently I was wrong.

And then his jaw dropped. Two youths in homespun shirts and wool leggings entered the classroom. Judging by their short hair and clean-shaven jaws, they were day laborers who built roads or unloaded cargo on the docks. The two of them walked to the front of the classroom and sat down on the first bench, right in front of the lectern.

Just then, the instructor entered the room, and every student in class got to his feet. The instructor spoke to the day laborers. "Hello Caran, and this must be Gaerna. Welcome aboard."

The teacher, whose name was Wynne, introduced himself and said a few words about the course. "I expect everyone here has the same question. Why do I have to take Diplomacy? 'I'm going to be a ship captain or a scholar or a commander in the army.' Few of you want to become emissaries. Am I right?"

There was murmured agreement from the student benches, and a nodding of heads.

"Diplomacy isn't just about joining the diplomatic corps. It's about aristocratic manners, it's about negotiation skills, it's about developing an almost supernatural sense of the message that's spoken, and the message that's not.

"In your chosen profession, will you need to read a man's face and know when he's lying? Will you need to make someone like you? Will you need to create a situation where someone can back down without losing face?

"What if you're a merchant leading a caravan, you're surrounded by dessert raiders, and you need to talk you're way out? What if you're trying to buy a plot of land from your neighbor, and you want to conceal how badly you need it? Or most perilous of all, what if you're attending the Castamiri Yule banquet, and two men, both of whom you need to please, ask you to settle an argument between them?" Several students in the back tittered.

The teacher broke them into groups and had them role-play to practice the skills needed to conduct a negotiation. It was a spirited exercise, and emotions ran high. Urzahil knew to be courteous when dealing with another nation's emissary, but he lost his temper and insulted the other 'ambassador, and worse, revealed information he shouldn't have. He was embarrassed by his performance, but he still had fun.

[show]

At the end of class, the instructor critiqued their performance."Urzahil, that was an impressive display of temper. Can you tell me what you'd do differently next time?" asked Wynne.

"Listen and nod, and keep my mouth shut," said Urzahil. He was embarrassed by his performance, but he still had fun.

"Correct. And one more thing, listen to your counterpart and remember what he said. There's a lot of information revealed in a negotiation, but we don't always pay close attention to it."

The instructor addressed the class. "Over the next few weeks, we'll do a series of exercises, each requiring more skills than the one before. You'll learn to hold your temper, to listen without getting defensive, to remember names, dates, and sums without writing them down. After you've master those skills, you'll learn to manipulate people using their own qualities: guilt, anxiety, or a desire to be fair."

Urzahil decided he liked Diplomacy. It required knowledge of history and geography, his two favorite subjects. To understand the relationship between two countries, it was necessary to understand what had happened between them over the course of centuries. Umbar and Gondor were a good example. The tensions between them began with a schism between the Black Númenorians and the Faithful.

And the importance of Geography was obvious. In addition to the borders between two nations, there were strategic features to be fought over: ports, mountain passes, and rich tracts of farmland.

He began to consider the possibility of becoming an emissary. It was a glamorous profession involving travel all over Arda. It would be a life of be state dinners, important people, and fine clothes and manners. He imagined himself as a guest in a foreign capital, being formally greeted by high officials and hosted in luxurious father's influence and connections should be enough to secure him a diplomatic post, especially now that his sister had married a Castamiri.

Sindarin Class I – Root Words

Urzahil was only taking Sindarin because it was required. Like most Black Númenorians, he had little use for the Noldor language. He raised his hand.

"Why are we learning Sindarin? The Elvish traders who pass through here are Teleri."

"Like traders everywhere, the Teleri speak the language of the people they trade with."

"By why Sindarin? Why not Black Speech?"

"Black Speech isn't spoken anymore, except in religious ceremonies, and hasn't been since Mordor was abandoned. You need to learn Sindarin because it's spoken almost everywhere in Arda. You don't believe me? Look at the map. Almost every place name in Arda is Sindarin."

"Númenor" "Sindarin for Western Land"

"Belfalas" "Sindarin for Great Coast"

"Anduin" "Sindarin for Long River"

"Haradwaith" "Sindarin for Southern People"

"Mordor" "Sindarin for Black Land"

"Umbar" "I have no idea. That's what it's always been called."

Maybe Sindarin wasn't as useless as he'd thought. Even so, after the excitement of the role-playing exercise in Diplomacy, memorizing Sindarin root words was pretty dry.

"How do you say gold?" "mall"

"How do you say silver?" "celeb"

"How do you say iron?" "ang"

"How do you say jewel?" "mir"

"How do you say wood?" "eryn"

"How do you say rock?" "gond"

"How do you say stone?" "sarn"

Urzahil thought his brain would turn to stone. As soon as he left this awful class behind him, he would make a point of forgetting every single Sindarin root word he'd ever learned.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Elan, the Coastal Geography instructor was standing in front of a map of the coastline of Arda which stretched from the headlands of Lindon to the Bay of Belfalas, a deep indentation in the southern coast, large enough to be a sea in its own right.

Along the coast were a number of havens, the largest and most protected of which was the Haven of Umbar, lay at the back of a deep and narrow inlet. To the north, the mouth of the Anduin, a complicated system of estuaries, was hidden behind the island of Tolfalas.

Castamir leaned over and whispered, "This class is great for future ship captains, but I'm only here because it's required."

Elan rapped his pointer. "Coastal Geography isn't just about navigating ships up and down the coast. It's also about politics and war." The class fell silent.

"For instance, Númenor disappeared beneath the waves three thousand years ago, but its colonies on the mainland, Umbar and Gondor, still speak the ancient language, still uphold the manners and customs, and still call themselves Númenorians. Now, you would think two such nations would be allies; they might even unite under a single flag. But what happened instead?" asked Elan.

"We're the bitterest of enemies," said one of the day laborers.

"Why is that?" asked the instructor.

"Because we practice the Cult of Melkor, and they despise us for it."

"No, that's why they split from us originally. Why did Gondor attack us in 933?"

The class fell silent.

"No, that's why they split from us originally. Why did Gondor attack us in 933?"

The class fell silent. He traced the River Anduin with his pointer from its mouth to a point far inland.

"Osgiliath, capital of Gondor. A hundred miles upriver, yet home to a great navy. Like us, they were a seafaring nation.

The instructor used his pointer to circle the Bay of Belfalas.

"Early in our history, Umbar controlled the Bay of Belfalas from the southern coast of Harad to the shore of Anfalas. Corsairs attacked Gondor's ships and raided their coastal settlements. Tensions between our two nations ran high, and in 933, forces from Gondor attacked Umbar and seized the Haven. Gondor occupied Umbar for over five hundred years. Umbar didn't regain their independence until 1447, when civil war and the plague that followed it loosened Gondor's grip."

"If you take away just one thing from this course, it should be this. Whoever controls the Haven of Umbar controls the sea."

Urzahil dipped his pen again and wrote, Occupation of Umbar, 933 to 1447. He'd probably have to know those dates for the exam.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Urzahil sat on the bench and looked around the Astrology classroom. The ceiling was painted dark blue, the background to scores of constellations of stars.

On a table in the front were astrological instruments. There was an astrolabe for navigating at sea, a variety of telescopes, and a globe showing how the sun and the moon rotated around the earth.

The study of the stars, although primarily for navigating at sea, was also used to foresee the future. It was the only one of his five subjects with an element of sorcery about it. He shivered. Sorcery was a closely held craft. It was rumored that the priests in the Temple were trained in sorcery, but it was said that they received their instruction behind locked doors, and never spoke of it to lay people.

While they waited for class to begin, the other students talked about their Astrology instructor, whose name was Palan.

"We're lucky he's teaching our class, given that he's often called upon to advise the High Priest and the Council of Captains."

"And he spends long hours watching the stars. You can't see the omens if you're not watching for them."

Urzahil learned that, before Palan came to the University, he'd trained as a priest. That meant he was almost certainly a trained sorcerer. Urzahil knew his teacher couldn't talk about it, but he hoped, if he were able to gain the man's trust, Palan might drop a few hints.

When the room was full and everyone was seated, the Astronomy teacher strode to the podium and rapped for silence. He was a tall man with silver hair, perfectly groomed, and dressed in expensive clothes, even for a nobleman.

Castamir leaned over and whispered, "Did you know he's the most famous Astrologer living? He wrote the book Astrologers learn the craft from. Father's invited him to the house to talk about it."

The lecture was about navigating at sea by the stars, and the instructor was articulate and funny. This was going to be his favorite teacher.

[examples of interesting and funny things in astronomy lecture]

Caran, the charity student, went up to the lectern after class to talk to him.

"You were admitted to the University? Do you know how to read? And you understand most of the words I'm using? Hey, that's great!" The Astronomy teacher spoke slowly, enunciating his words.

Urzahil personally didn't think charity students belonged in the University. If he were an instructor, he wouldn't have given them so much attention.

After class, Urzahil was walking through the crowded halls and found himself behind the two day laborers.

"You let him talk to you like that? He treated you like the village idiot, when you're the smartest person I've ever met," said his friend Gaerna, a tall youth with beefy arms and shoulders. "You should've told him you're already a scholar in your own right."

"I suspect he knows. If I've judged him right, he's someone who makes himself feel big by making somebody else feel small," said Caran.

"Well, tell him to stop it."

"He's not going to change." Caran adjusted his book bag on his narrow shoulder. "And nothing says I have to take it personally."

Urzahil couldn't understand why they were speaking ill of this accomplished man who'd just delivered a dazzling lecture.

Númenorian History

History of Númenor was the last class of the day. Urzahil followed his friends into the classroom. On the dais that held the podium, the instructor, a tall, slender man, strode back and forth across the planks, a tribal robe billowing about his legs.

His striped headscarf framed a fair complexion and blue eyes, and unlike every Easterling who'd ever lived, he wasn't wearing kohl. Lacking the swarthy complexion of the east, he looked less like a tribal warrior than like a Númenorian who'd traveled to the east and returned with a trunkful of souvenirs.

Urzahil found a place on the bench and put down his satchel. He wasn't too sure about this teacher.

The class began with a lecture about the first king of Númenor. Urzahil expected to hear something like, "Tar-Elros, first King of Númenor, who ruled from …" but their instructor took the sort of interest in the lives of ancient kings that other people took in the private business of their neighbors, and he made their stories come alive. He told a riveting story about two kidnapped children, the twins Elros and Elrond, and the agonizing decision Elros made when he chose a mortal life to become Númenor's first king.[1]

History had always been Urzahil's favorite subject. If he didn't become a scholar or a teacher, he would find some other profession that used a knowledge of history, like Diplomacy.

-o-o-o-o-o-

History of Númenor was the last class of the day. After the lecture, the flamboyantly dressed teacher, whose name was Caldûr, invited everyone in class to the Philosopher's Stone, a coffee shop that served tiny cups of strong, sludge-like espresso and the flaky pastries soaked in honey he'd heard other students speak of.

The double doors were open, to the square, and the sounds from the blue-tiled fountain in its center of the square reached every corner of the small shop. The students pushed several knee-high tables together, and a dozen of them crowded around on low stools. Urzahil found a place for himself on the ledge in front of the unlit fireplace.

Caldûr caught his eye. "Is this your first time at the Stoned Philosopher?" and laughed at his own joke. Urzahil smiled wanly.

Castamir leaned over and told him, "Caldûr produced the skit performed in the marketplace last year, the one where Sauron surrendered to Ar-Pharazôn." Urzahil looked at his teacher with increased respect.

Urzahil knew most of the other students there, his neighbors and the sons of his father's friends, but there were a few he didn't know. One of the day laborers he'd seen in class that morning was speaking passionately about naval history.

"Scholars don't appreciate how much the spring floods on the river Gwathló affected Tar-Ciryatur's[2] tactics. He was a brilliant admiral, we all know that, but the way he was lying in wait for Sauron when Gil-galad's army backed him into the river[3]. Now that was one for the history books!"

Urzahil elbowed Tas. "Who is he?"

"That's Caran, a charity student. When the son of a farmer or dockworker is admitted to University but can't afford to go, and if the student is really brilliant, sometimes the University will waive the fees."

There was a lull in the conversation, and Urzahil asked Caldûr about the skit his class performed the year before.

"Whatever happened to Sauron? All the stories about him are from the Second Age. We never hear of him now."

"He survived the Drowning of Númenor, but soon after, he was killed in the War of the Last Alliance," said his teacher.

"Killed? He survived the Drowning of Númenor, but died in battle?" asked Urzahil.

"The Ring was cut from his hand. He couldn't survive without it," said his teacher.

Caran got up to go. "If you'll excuse me, we start setting up for the evening meal in less than an hour, and I can't be late."

"Why does he have to work? I thought his tuition was waived," said Urzahil.

"He still has to eat," said Tas.

"They're no fun. All they do is study and work," said Marös.

Later, Tûlmir, the young man in somber wool, bought a round of coffee for everyone. By custom, he was allowed to pick the next topic of conversation.

"Last night my father said, 'The nobility doesn't do much, yet they own all the ships and all the land around Umbar and they hold every position on the Council of Captains.' Let me ask you, what is the nobility for?" Tûlmir's plump face was free of guile, he just wanted to know.

"The nobility defend the city."

"The nobility bear arms, which entitles them to wealth and privilege."

"One must fulfill the obligations of the nobility to earn its privileges."

Urzahil nodded in agreement. He'd been hearing that for as long as he could remember, but Tûlmir frowned. He didn't look convinced.

"Yes, but the merchants do something important too, we feed the city. We send caravans into the desert and ships out to sea, and we bring back grain and spices and nuts that don't grow here. And not just food, textiles and furs and mineral ores, and all manner of household goods.

The conversation moved on to other topics. Tûlmir whispered to Urzahil, "One can grow rich in commerce, rich enough to marry a title, I mean, a titled daughter from an impoverished noble house. You just wait, one of these days you'll call me Tar-Tûlmir."

Urzahil moved away from him, glad that his own sister was already married.

Chapter End Notes

[1]When Elrond's daughter Arwen made the same choice in order to marry Elros' great-great-grandson, Elrond was not pleased.

[2]Tar-Ciryatur was the Witch King's uncle, who defeated Sauron at Tharbad and turned the tide on Sauron's nearly successful bid for world domination.

[3]Battle of the Gwathló, SA 1701. Sauron had just been defeated by Gil-galad at the Sarn Ford, then backed into the forces of Tar-Ciryatur and was decimated.

Student Life

Urzahil sat in his Sindarin class, daydreaming out the window. The drone of other students reciting was making him sleepy.

They were making place names by taking a root word and adding the suffix for "land". The trouble was, sometimes the suffix was -dor and sometimes it was -nor. There was no rule, each one had to be memorized.

"How do you say land of stone?" "gond-dor"

"How do you say noble land?" "ar-nor"

"How do you say black land?" "mor-dor"

"How do you say lonely land?" "eria-dor"

"How do you say land in the west?" "núme-nor"

"How do you say land of the Valar?" "vali-nor"

On the cover of his Sindarin book, he wrote, "In case of fire, throw this in first."

-o-o-o-o-o-

Palan sent to the Temple Library to copy a passage from a rare book. Armed with a note from the famous astrologer, Urzahil was admitted, with an escort, into the great collection of books and scrolls which lay people were seldom allowed to see.

A librarian brought him a book, falling apart with age, and helped him find the passage he'd been sent to copy. The librarian sat with Urzahil while he wrote.

Urzahil finished writing and wiped the nib of his pen on a small square of cloth before putting his writing tools back in the pen box.

"I wondered, do you have a copy of Treatise on Astrology?"

"We have the original. Would you like to see it?" The librarian led Urzahil to a stand in the middle of the room where the oversized volume stood open to a map of the sky.

"May I touch it?" The librarian nodded. Urzahil lifted it to look at the cover. The names of two authors were on the spine, Merric and Palan, and Palan's was listed second. Urzahil's face fell.

-o-o-o-o-o-

"Urzahil, I'm having trouble with the Diplomacy assignment on reading people. Can you come over after class and help me?" asked his friend Tas.

Tas was the same age as Urzahil, but far more sophisticated. Tall and athletic, he had an aura of worldliness and self-confidence.

Tas lived in the largest house on the street. A house? It would be more accurate to call it a palace. It was five doors down from his father's house, and on the same side of the street. He'd been in and out of it since childhood, and was as comfortable there as he was in his own home.

Urzahil knocked on the front door and was admitted by a servant. A shout invited him upstairs. Their friend Marös was already there. Short and built like a tree trunk, his bulk was comfortably settled in a delicate chair.

Urzahil looked around. Tas had magnificent rooms, bed hangings, marble balcony overlooks gardens, fountain in the center of the gardens, fine carpets with the tiniest of knots.

Tas read the assignment from his notes. "You're meeting with the emissary from an allied nation. He is speaking words of peace and supplication. Does his posture agree with his words?"

Urzahil thought before he answered. "While he is speaking, you watch him closely. If he leans forward, that means he's friendly. If he holds his arms away from his body with the palms up, that's a sign of supplication. If he crosses his arms, that's hostile. If he lifts his chin and looks down his nose at you, smiling with one side of their face, that's contempt."

"Can the gestures be faked?" asked Tas.

"Of course. Actors do it all the time," said Urzahil.

"How can you tell when someone's lying?" asked Tas.

"Well, you start out by asking them questions that are going to have true answers, like their name, observations about the weather, that sort of thing. Then you ask your real question and listen for a change in tone," Urzahil said.

He looked toward the window, trying to remember what a liar sounded like. "They'll distance themselves from the lie. They won't say 'I', they'll speak in the past tense or use passive voice, and if their answer sounds rehearsed, it probably was."

Tas scribbled down notes. "Now for the second half of the assignment, 'You're negotiating to buy grain from a neighboring nation. If they knew your nation was in the grips of famine, they'd double the price. How do you keep your secret?'"

"Arrange your features in a neutral mask, and keep your hands still. Keep your feet still as well. It's almost impossible to keep both still at the same time, so do something else, like curl your toes inside your shoes or clench your stomach muscles, something they won't see," said Urzahil.

"You're good at this, Urzahil. You haven't been taking the class any longer than the rest of us. How did you learn to read people so well?" asked Tas.

"He practiced by playing high stakes card games. Oh, wait! That would be me," said Marös.

Or by being a poor relation in an aristocratic household. After a few years of being dependent on the whims of others, Urzahil could read minds from a pinched nostril or a twitch in a jaw muscle.

Both Tas and Marös were the younger sons of Great Houses. They were not going to inherit the family lands or business, so they would enter the professions.

"Father wants me to be emissary to Harad someday, or maybe even Gondor. Gondor is the most prestigious assignment in the diplomatic service. That's the one I want. But Tas will probably get it, because the House of Castamir is the most well-connected in Umbar," said Marös.

"You're assuming I have the knack for it. More likely, I'll be given a ship to command and told to stay out of the way," said Tas.

"Why do we have an emissary in Gondor? They're the enemy." Urzahil frowned.

"To learn their plans. We'll keep an emissary in their capital until the moment open war breaks out, when he'll either be recalled or expelled," said Marös.

"Wouldn't they just kill him?" asked Urzahil.

"An emissary can't be assailed," said Marös.

Tas made a dismissive gesture. "There won't be a war. Gondor is a shadow of what it used to be, they can't do anything to us now."

Marös was no longer smiling. "A few years ago, I would have agreed with you, but …"

He was interrupted when Tas' sister Aranel came in the room. She'd shot up in height this year, and for the first time, Urzahil could imagine her as a grown woman. He was smitten.

Aranel wasn't like other girls. She had the same education as her brothers, and she shared Urzahil's interest in history and politics. Urzahil's thoughts roamed into the future. He and Aranel would stay up late into the evening together, talking about books and politics like Urzahil did with his father. She wouldn't fill her days with luncheons and charity work like the wives of most noblemen, she would oversee her holdings. She might even be elected to the Council of Captains.

He imagined his father bringing Tar-Castamir a betrothal contract. The two men would sip coffee and make small talk before moving on to the serious business of uniting their two houses, continuing what was begun with the betrothal of his sister to Tas' second cousin.

Then he recoiled as if kicked in stomach. There would be no arranged marriage for him, not to Aranel or anyone else. Arranged marriages were for the nobility, not for the baseborn. Urzahil kept his face still, his expression blandly positive. With an effort, he kept his hands still as well, and his feet. Listen attentively, nod and smile. He would not let his friends know how upset he was.

He grew up with Tas and Marös. They lived on the same street, they went to University together, and they did things together after classes. He wore the same clothes they did, and had the same amount of pocket money. It was so easy to forget he wasn't one of them.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Urzahil went into the Philosopher's Stone between classes one afternoon, looking for a quiet place to read other than the library. The two charity students, Caran, the expert in naval history, and his friend Gaerna, were sitting around a table near the back.

"May I join you?" Urzahil sat down at their table.

He pulled up a stool and sat down with them. As a poor relation, he sometimes felt like he had more in common with them than he did with his wealthy friends. The charity students were the most serious scholars in the school, and they were at University because they wanted to be there. Some of his wealthy friends were there only because their families made them.

But Caran slurped his coffee when he drank and left the spoon in the cup rather than lay it on the table like a well-mannered person would do.

And Gaerna talked endlessly about sports. Not even an interesting sport like swordsmanship or falconry, but fisticuffs fought for money in grog shops. Urzahil sat with them for a while, his eyes glazing over, and left earlier than he'd planned.

-o-o-o-o-o-

"Let's drink to the House of Castamir. Huzzah, Huzzah!"Tar-Lintoron raised his wine cup, and everyone else in the room did the same.

After weeks of maneuvering and negotiation, the House of Castamir and the House of Lintoron had come to an agreement. Urzahil's sister Aranelaith was going to wed a Castamiri.

The Castamiri weren't as wealthy as the House of Marös, but they were better connected and more influential. It was an excellent match. Granted, the bridegroom was a second cousin with no real wealth or influence, and he lived far away in the provinces, but still, it would forge an alliance between their two houses.

To close the deal, Tar-Lintoron had pledged a portion of the family's wealth into Aranelaith's dowry. Most of the Lintoron family's wealth came from their fleet of fishing vessels, but they also owned a number of farms. To pay the dowry, the rents from those lands for the next three years were pledged to the House of Castamir in lieu of gold or land.

Aranelaith was excited about her betrothal. She already knew the boy slightly; he came in from the provinces to attend the Castamiri Yule banquet every year, and he was her own age.

The betrothal ceremony was held as soon as the agreement was reached. The couple stood in the Great Hall at the Castamiri house, five doors down from the Lintoron house. In front of witnesses, they exchanged rings and spoke the words of promise. Once the vows had been spoken, the betrothal contract became legally binding and couldn't be broken.

The household was swept up in the preparations for the three days of feasting, public festivities, and giving gifts to the poor, traditional for a marriage between noble ceremony took place in the morning of the third day. Aranelaith stood with her betrothed on the marble steps of the Temple of Melkor, arrayed in a gown of green silk with gold embroidery, the finest she had ever owned.

All the nobility of Umbar and a good portion of its ordinary citizens crowded into the square in front of the Temple to witness the vows that would join the House of Lintoron to the House of Castamir.

After the ceremony, the guests came to the Lintoron house, where the servants had set up long trestle tables and brought in great platters of food. The feasting lasted for the rest of the day and well into the evening.

After most of the guests had gone home, Súrion, a priest at the Temple and one of his father's closest friends, accepted an invitation to stay a little longer. The two men put their feet up and reminisced, partly about Aranelaith, but mostly about their childhood together.

"You know, as someone who'd always wanted to be a scholar, you would have done well in the priesthood," said Súrion.

"Except that I'm not observant. Wouldn't that be a problem?" Tar-Lintoron grinned at him.

"Less than you might expect," said Súrion. They both laughed.

His father turned serious. "Do you like the priesthood?"

"Yes, very much. My duties in the Temple allow me to spend time reading and studying, but the position also carries great social prestige. I move in higher circles than I ever could have if I'd chosen an ordinary career," said Súrion.

"How about you, Urzahil? Do you have an interest in the priesthood?" he asked.

"It's not for me. I'd rather stay on at the University and teach," said Urzahil.

A few days later, Aranelaith finished packing the last of her clothes and cherished possessions, and moved with her new husband to his estate, far up the coast. He hoped some business or errand would bring her back to Umbar, he missed her terribly.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Urzahil skipped the coffeehouse after school and got home early. On the way to his room, he stopped by his father's study to look for some ink and a few sheets of paper. The door to his father's study was closed. His hand was on the latch and he was about to open it, when he heard voices murmuring on the other side.

"… attacks on our shipping …"

Urzahil closed his eyes to hear better.

"… population has grown … no, Tharbad's still empty, they're expanding south."

"… their steward is a charismatic leader…" His father's voice sounded worried.

" … regained much of their former strength … " Tar-Castamir's booming voice carried into the hall.

Urzahil felt sick. How could that be? Two hundred years ago, the Corsairs raided up and down the coast of Gondor, from Belfalas to the mouth of the Isen. Gondor used to be weak, devastated by civil war. What had changed?

"Urzahil, wait."

Urzahil was walking home from class when Tas caught up with him. It was a perfect day, still warm like the end of summer, but a chill in the shadows gave a hint that the weather was changing.

"Urzahil, what do you say to an evening of drinking, wenching, and gambling in a bad part of town? We're going to The Merchant's Last Coin to play the Silver Penny game," he said.

The game of Silver Penny was shrouded in mystery. Urzahil knew little about it, other than it was a drinking game based on dice and it was expensive to play. He had the sense there was something disreputable about it.

"I'm in," Urzahil told him.

Urzahil scraped together a handful of coppers, enough to buy several rounds of drinks. He took a silver penny from his savings, then on impulse, added two more.

The next day, Urzahil asked Mírdain, another classmate, if he was going. "No, I don't have a silver penny, but I've played before. I'd join you if I could afford it."

"Is Caldûr coming along?"

"Absolutely not. He's a responsible adult. If he knew we were going to the waterfront to play the silver penny game, he'd put a stop to it. He might even tell our parents." That made Urzahil want to go even more.

The sign of The Merchant's Last Coin marked the entrance to a large and noisy pub.

"Here we are," said Tas.

It was starting to get dark. This section of the waterfront could be dangerous, even in daylight. Men from the docks were hanging around for no apparent reason, watching them. Urzahil didn't think it was a good idea to be here in fine clothes with a purse full of money on his belt.

They pushed open the door and stepped into the common room. Smoke filled the air, either from the fire or the pipes of the patrons.

"You'll like this place," said Tas. He was in his element. Strongly built and taller than most men, Tas exuded self-confidence.

Urzahil stood near the door as his eyes adjusted. A toothless man at was trying to grab the barmaid's bottom, who twisted out of reach. Someone else overturned a small table, sending cards and money flying. Urzahil wanted to flee the shouting and fistfights, but it was already darker outside than when he'd arrived, and he didn't dare walk home by himself.

The landlord came over up to greet them. "Tas, it's good to see you again. And how is your older brother? Let me show you to the Merchant's room, your table is ready."

He led them to a private alcove on the far side of the room. It was quieter in here than in the main room. The woodwork smelled of honey and beeswax, and the tables had chairs rather than benches.

"They make it nice for customers like us, customers with wealthy parents and full purses. We have the most money to leave behind," Tas sat down at the table, and Urzahil sat down beside him.

A tall serving maid with yellow hair wiped down the table and draped it with a clean linen cloth. The maid, whose name was Arlis, took their orders and returned with a tray of wine cups. Tas settle the bill, and sent her for dice and dice cups.

Arlis came back with a dice cup and set it beside Tas. He spilled four dice into his palm. He rolled them from hand to hand as he explained the rules.

"Silver Penny is an ancient University tradition, played as long as there have been undergraduates. This is the first time we've played since last spring. Since then, my brother and his classmates have graduated, and a new batch of first-year students joined our ranks.

"For those of you who haven't played before, this is how it's done. First, we divide into two teams, one on each side of the table."

Those sitting at the end of the table moved their chairs to the sides, and the ones in the middle bunched together to make room for them. Urzahil counted five players on one side, six on the other.

"We alternate turns between the two teams. When it's your turn, you roll the dice. If you roll all-of-a-kind, you forfeit, and must drink a cup of wine. If you roll all sixes, there's a special forfeit, you must pay a silver penny," said Tas.

A silver penny was more than most working people earned in a week. This was a high stakes game.

"The actual price is far more than a Silver Penny. For convenience, we call it the Fate Worse Than Death. But don't worry, rolling four sixes is rare. During the course of the evening it might happen once, or not at all. And since there are eleven playing tonight, most of you won't be victims, regardless. I've played twice before, and I've never rolled four sixes. Most people never do."

Tas put the dice back in the cup, shook it, and spilled the dice on the table. 2, 2, 2, 1. He passed the cup across the table to one of the upperclassman, who shook it and rolled three, one, four, four. Marös had the next turn, 3, 5, 5, 2.

Twenty minutes later, the dice cup had been passed round the table at least ten times. No one had rolled a forfeit of any kind. It was a boring game.

Arlis wiped down the table next to theirs and spread a clean cloth over it.

"We have company. What if they know our parents? We can't get caught playing Silver Penny." Tas looked around the room as if scoping out the exits.

"Maybe they won't know what it is."

"Of course they'll know. They went to University, too," said Tas.

"Then we'll have to play ordinary dice. And no one can say one word about Silver Penny," said Marös.

"Here they come. Look innocent, everybody," said Tas.

The game seemed tame enough. What was the big deal? That it's a drinking game? That they risked a silver penny on a roll of the dice? A silver penny was a lot of money, but they could afford it, they had wealthy parents.

A dozen officers from a Corsair ship came in, with curved knives at their belts and covered with body art. They looked rich, but their wealth came from smuggling and piracy. Arlis set cups of wine in front of the Corsairs and brought them a dice cup. They heaped coins in the center of the table. The rattle of dice was accompanied by shouts and cursing.

"They're scary," said one of the younger students.

"At least they don't know our parents. That'd be scarier," said Tas.

The students ordered another round. A kitchen maid brought in a heavy tray and set a cup of wine in front of each of them. Her cap was crooked, and strands of dull blond hair hung in her face, but she had a sweet smile.

"What does it come to, Kyna my love?" asked Tas.

A look of fear crossed her face. "Eleven cups of wine at a copper and a half apiece comes to…half of eleven is four and a half so…no wait …"

Tas handed her two large coins. "It comes to sixteen and a half. Here's twenty, I don't need any change."

Relief washed over her plain features. She nodded and scurried off.

"That was a large tip for someone who's not at all pretty, and not very good at serving, either," said Urzahil.

"She's a nice girl. Not a good girl, but nice," said Tas.

Tas picked up the dice cup. "The danger's past. Let's get started again."

Urzahil was ready to play something else. "Is this game supposed to be slow? We've been playing for almost half an hour, and we haven't seen a single four-of-a-kind."

Marös took the cup from Tas and removed one of the dice. "Let's play with three dice. That ought to speed things up."

Tas shook the cup and rolled two, two, three.

A student across from him rolled next. They went around the table with no forfeits. The second round was the same.

When were almost finished with the third round, Marös rolled the dice and called out "Triple threes!"

"Forfeit, forfeit!" the other team shouted and pounded on the table.

Marös lifted his wine cup and drained it to the dregs, to loud applause. "That's more like it," he said, wiping his lips.

"It's a faster game with three dice. Usually it takes half an hour to reach the first forfeit, but that took less than five minutes," said Tas.

Several rounds later, Urzahil rolled triple ones and had to drink a forfeit. Every five minutes or so, someone on one team or the other had to drink a forfeit, although depending on the dice, sometimes there were two forfeits in the same round. Urzahil was beginning to feel it.

Half an hour into the accelerated version of the game, Tas took the dice cup from a player across the table, shook the cup, and rolled. His face froze.

"Triple six," said Marös.

Everyone on the other side of the table hooted, stomped their feet, and beat their cups against the table.

Tas arranged the dice in a line, eighteen spots showing all at once. He laid his silver penny beside them and sat back in his chair with his hands on the arms of the chair, very still.

"Now you must pay the forfeit." Marös leaned back in his chair and smirked.

He left the room and returned with Kyna, the untidy kitchen maid who'd served them earlier. Kyna looked at the row of dice and the coin. Then she looked at Tas, nodded, and pocketed the coin.

"All right, then," she said.

She took Tas by the hand and led him to the narrow stair by the kitchen. His face was white.

"What just happened?" asked Urzahil.

"The forfeit for rolling all sixes is the Fate Worse than Death. Under the rules of the game, the loser has to go upstairs with a girl and lie with her. Nothing unnatural, just like husband and wife," said Marös.

"He's not really going to…Melkor's chains! They barely know each other. Why would she agree to it?" said Urzahil.

"Because he paid her. The silver penny is her price. Some of the barmaids here make extra money by going upstairs with the customers. That's why we play the game here, rather than in a respectable tavern," said Marös.

"I didn't know a girl's favors could be bought," said Urzahil.

"They can, but it's expensive, and you only have ten minutes or so. You have to get in and out in a hurry, so to speak," said Marös.

Urzahil glanced at the narrow stair where Tas had gone with Kyna.

"Why did you bring him Kyna? Arlis is prettier." And cleaner, he didn't add.

"Arlis is a good girl. She won't do it, but Kyna will," said Marös.

Tas came downstairs whistling, his hair untidy and his collar open. He took his seat, arm draped an arm over the back of his chair, and legs stretched out in front of him.

"Someone looks happy," said Marös. Tas grinned.

One table over, Arlis was wiping down the polished surface of an empty table and spreading a clean white cloth over it.

"This is a first rate inn, there's new linen between every customer. That's true in the dining room as well."

"You don't mind if they give you a plate someone else has used?"

"I don't expect to be the first customer to use a plate in a tavern. As long as it's been washed in hot water and soap, I have no complaints."

Urzahil tipped his plate to catch the light. There were knife scratches on the shiny pewter surface, but it was perfectly clean.

"That's not what he was talking about, Urzahil," said Marös.

They resumed the game. Urzahil rattled the cup and rolled the dice. Two turned up six, and the third die sailed off the table and hit the floor with a clink. Several people got out of their chairs and crowded around to look. The die had fallen between two floor tiles and lay cocked at an angle. It could have been either a one or a three.

"Roll again," said Marös.

Urzahil scooped up the dice and put them back in the cup.

"Just roll the one that fell on the floor."

Reluctantly, Urzahil took out two dice and placed them on the table with the sixes facing up. He blew on the remaining die and whispered, "Anything but a six". He rattled the cup and cast. The ivory cube tumbled across the table.

"Triple six!" Marös cried.

Urzahil blanched. Six spots showed on the upward face. He leaned across the table for a closer look, but there was no mistake. He'd rolled three sixes.

He tossed a silver penny on the table. "Pass. I surrender the coin."

"You can't pass. Our team will get docked eighteen points," said Tas.

"Can I let give the honor to another?"

"No, you cannot," said Tas.

Kyna appeared with another round of drinks, tendrils of blond hair escaping from her cap.

"Kyna, my love, we have another victim, I mean admirer, who wishes to pay his respects." Tas put a hand on Urzahil's shoulder and shook him lightly.

She studied Urzahil for a moment, then scooped up the silver coin and dropped it in her pocket. Urzahil's mouth went dry. The girl took him by the hand and led him towards the stairs. She smelled of kitchen fires and soap.

"I'll show you what to do. It's not hard," she said.

"It will be, once she puts her hand on it," said Marös.

Urzahil allowed the plain-featured barmaid to lead him up the stairs. Ribald comments and laughter followed them. Urzahil's mouth was dry. He tried to swallow, but couldn't. The silence was oppressive.

"Why do you do this? Do you really need to buy baubles you can't afford on a kitchen maid's wages?"

"Six months ago, my dad was working on a boat when a surge in the harbor, the wake of a large ship, lifted the boat unexpectedly, and his leg was crushed between the deck and the underside of the pier. He was brought home with his leg shattered, blood everywhere. We had little money, but without the doctor, he'd have died. So that evening, when I was supposed to be waiting tables, I went upstairs with a man I didn't know. In fifteen minutes, I'd earned enough to pay the doctor's fee. There were more doctors' visits the weeks that followed, and each one meant another trip upstairs.

"His leg mended eventually, but the accident left him crippled. He couldn't work, and we couldn't pay our rent. The landlord said he would throw us out in the street, so Mum was going to pull the little ones out of school. There's always work at the rug weaving shops, especially for young eyes and tiny fingers. But since I'm doing this, we still have our cottage, and the little ones are still in school."

They reached a landing which opened onto what looked like a supply room. Barrels, small crates, and sacks of grain filled the unlit space. She held up her lantern, and something small and furry fled from the circle of light on the planks of the floor.

Another step led to a narrow passage, lined with doors, all shut. She stopped in front of the first store they came to and pushed it open. She stepped inside and hung the lantern from one of the sloping rafters. Yellow light revealed a room barely large enough to hold the narrow bedstead. The bed was made up with a bottom sheet and nothing else. Ropes supporting the straw mattress wove in and out through the side rails.

A three-legged stool beside the bed held a small sandglass. She turned it over. "We have as long as the sand is running." She faced him and smiled, then undid the pin at the neck of her dress.

His feet froze. He stood in the doorway of the room, unable to take another step.

She took his hand. "Come. I'll show you what to do."

-o-o-o-o-o-

They reached the base of the stairs. She went back to the kitchens, and Urzahil returned to the table feeling like the tomcat that rules the alley. He tossed his head and draped an arm over the back of his chair.

"That was thirsty work. Give me a wine cup." He drained it in one swallow.

"You need to replace what you've lost, but so much?" Tas said with mock incredulity. The others laughed.

They played for another hour. Urzahil hit more triples, a two, two, two on one turn and a one, one, one on the next. The rules required him to drink a forfeit for each one, and he was beginning to feel it.

"Triple sixes! We have another victim!" called out an upperclassman on the other team.

A fair-haired youth, a boy younger than Urzahil, stared white-faced at the three dice. "I can't, I didn't bring enough money," he said.

Urzahil tossed a silver penny on the table. "There you go." The boy went even paler, if that was possible.

"The rules are clear. You have to pay the forfeit," Urzahil commanded, his voice without mercy.

"Pay the forfeit, pay the forfeit," the others chanted. Kyna took him by the hand and led him away. The boy looked over his shoulder with an expression of fear and desperation.

-o-o-o-o-o-

At midnight, bells rang in towers around the city. It was time to begin the long hike from the harbor up to the walled city on its high crag of rock.

"Time, gentlemen. When we leave, we all need to leave together. This part of town is dangerous at night, and there are those who'd be more than happy to beat and rob a couple of drunken university students." Tas started herding them towards the door.

"I've arranged for some guards from our warehouse to walk us home. Their shift ends at midnight, they'll meet us here in ten minutes," said Marös.

"Can I give you something towards the cost?" Tas loosened the strings on his purse.

Marös waved him off. "Put that away, it's taken care of." Urzahil knew how wealthy Marös' family was. Whatever the bodyguards cost, Marös could afford it.

"Don't leave without me, I'll just be ten minutes." Urzahil got up and went to speak to one of the barmaids. "Is Kyna still working? I wish to speak with her."

The barmaid stuck her head in the kitchen. "Kyna, there's a gentleman who wants to see you."

Kyna came out of the kitchen, wiping soapsuds from her arms. Her sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, revealing arms that were chapped red. Urzahil gave her his last silver penny and followed her up the stairs.

-o-o-o-o-o-

The eleven of them stepped into the street, where the men from Marös' warehouse waited for them. The surface of the harbor was smooth and oily black. Lamplight from the quay reflected on its undulating surface. The tide must be low, the night air smelled of seaweed and fish.

Dark silhouettes of warehouses dominated the sky. Urzahil jumped when he heard footsteps in an alley, he imagined footpads and cutthroats concealed in the shadows. Urzahil had to walk briskly to keep up with Marös' guards, large, supremely self-confident men who carried their cudgels like they knew how to use them.

This must be what it felt like to be someone of high rank, with a personal guard to guarantee his personal security. With the guards around him, he had courage; he could walk past dangerous alleys without fear. If this is how high rank felt, he liked it very much, very much indeed.

Chapter 6 - A Minor Skirmish

"Open the door, open the door, I must see Tar-Lintoron!" The shouting was accented by heavy pounding on the door.

Urzahil looked through the small slot cut in the door at eye level, and then pulled open the door, which could be locked but never was. A young man stood on the front steps. He was clean-shaven with short red hair, and he wore the homespun shirt and wooden shoes of a laborer. There was purple bruise across his cheek and he was highly agitated, to the point that he could hardly stand still.

"My name is Naro, and I'm one of Tar-Lintoron's tenant farmers. My farm is inland, near the desert. I was attacked last night and I need protection."

Urzahil asked him to wait on the steps, then shut the door and went to look for his father. He found his father in the study, bent over his account books.

"There's a man here to see you, one of your tenants. He needs your help," said Urzahil.

"Show him into the Front Hall," said his father, putting down his pen. The Front Hall was the public part of the house, where tradesmen and tenants were received. Urzahil showed the man in and announced his father, then stayed to listen.

"I woke in the night to frantic barking, which stopped suddenly. There were hoof beats outside, and light from their torches shown through the window. Men with tattooed faces and long curved swords broke down the door. They dragged me from my bed and beat me, then ransacked the cottage. They took two pigs, a sack of grain, and a purse of coins, then threw a torch on the thatch of my cottage and rode off. A big swath of the roof is blackened.

"In the morning I learned they'd killed my dog, ran him clean through with a spear. What'd they have to kill my dog? I've had him since he was a pup." The man looked away, blinking hard.

"I'm a good tenant, I've always paid my rent on time. Now I invoke your protection from these dry land pirates. It's not just for me. I'm not a married man yet, my intended still lives with her parents. She won't come to the farm while there's danger, and I don't even want to think about what those desert raiders would do to a young woman," the farmer said.

"Urzahil, go down the street and get Tar-Castamir, then find Tar-Adûmir, Tar-Miruvor, and Tar-Númendur," said Tar-Lintoron. The men were his father's friends, all noblemen trained in swordsmanship from earliest youth. It was close to time for the evening meal, and Urzahil found all of them at home. They followed him back to the house, and Naro told his story again. Tar-Lintoron asked Naro to wait outside while he and the other men conferred in private.

"We owe him protection. In large part, that's what the nobility is for," said Tar-Lintoron.

"And this raiding has to be stopped before they start attacking isolated farms all up and down the coast," said Tar-Castamir.

They decided to ride out at first light, to find the raider's camp and kill their leader. Urzahil was looking forward to hearing about it at the dinner table tomorrow night.

"Urzahil, you'll come with us," said his father.

"But I'm not a swordsman." Urzahil's stomach twisted. His younger brothers would be more use on this expedition than he would.

"You won't be fighting, but I think you should witness it anyway. Consider it part of your education."

"I'd go with you, but I have a History test tomorrow," said Urzahil.

"You need to participate in the obligations of the nobility, as well as its privileges," said his father.

-o-o-o-o-o-

They set out before sunrise the next morning, suited up in leather armor and steel helms, with daggers in their belts. They all wore swords, even Urzahil. The scabbards bumped against the flanks of their horses whenever they kicked them to a trot.

After passing through the city gates, the road turned north. A green strip of land hugged the coast, dotted with small farms. These were Lintoron lands. Tar-Lintoron pointed to a grassy path rutted by wagon wheels. "That road goes to the village where your mother's people live." Urzahil stood up in the stirrups to look, but he didn't see anything.

Presently green farmland gave way to thorn and scrub. Further inland was the endless desert, where only stunted plants and thorn bushes grew in sand and bare rock. The wind, a sea breeze most of the time, blew from across the desert today, fragrant and dry.

"It hasn't rained much this year. We don't notice it much because of the coastal fogs, but inland, the drought has shriveled most of the grass for their herds. That's what's driving them onto your lands," said Tar-Adûmir.

"Whatever their reasons, they need to stop it," said Tar-Lintoron.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Tar-Lintoron knew the way, but even before he pointed it out, Urzahil spotted the small hut with part of its thatch burned black. In the distance, a tall column of smoke rose in the still air.

"That looks like another homestead burning," said Tar-Miruvor.

"No, it's too far inland, they couldn't grow anything but thorns and scrub brush. I expect the smoke is coming from the raiders' camp. Let's pay them a visit," said Tar-Castamir.

They rode as close to the raiders' camp as they dared, then drew rein and dismounted. In their brown linen and leather clothing, hidden in the shadow of a boulder, they didn't draw the eye. The desert folk, dressed in bright reds and oranges, every button and dagger hilt polished to catch the sun, stood out like beacons.

"Let me talk to them. If their people are starving, perhaps we can buy them off with food," said Tar-Adûmir.

"They're little more than animals. No one can negotiate with them, not even a diplomat like you. All we can do is give them a reason to leave." Tar-Númendur half-unsheathed his weapon. The blade hissed against the leather, and the edge looked razor-sharp.

"How many of them are there?" asked Tar-Miruvor.

"Urzahil, climb that rock and see if you can get a better look," his father said.

The rock was a jutting formation about twice his height. As Urzahil approached it, he could feel every pebble underfoot. The sole of one boot was as thin as glove leather. Unlike his brothers, he wouldn't get a new pair until the sole had a hole in it. Sometimes he hated being a poor relation.

The rock formation had plenty of handholds. He had no trouble climbing it and peering over the top.

"I see five or six men sitting on saddles around the campfire. They look like they're finishing a meal. There are half a dozen sturdy desert ponies hobbled nearby, a large herd of sheep, and a few dogs. Those men are just herders, unless … oh wait! That must be their swag: a pile of clothing, furniture, copper cooking pots, and farming tools all heaped together."

"We've found our raiders. Let's watch the camp to learn which one's their leader," said Tar-Castamir.

They saw the biggest one, a swarthy man with tattooed cheeks and blue-black hair that fell to his waist, bark orders at the others, who were quick to obey. The man was bare-chested under an embroidered vest, and he wore bronze wrist guards studded with spikes. Urzahil wondered how he avoided hurting himself on them.

"That's their chief. I'm going after him, cover my back," said Tar-Castamir.

Urzahil stayed behind and held the horses while the men crept to the edge of the camp. Curved scimitars and horn bows, the weapons of the east, lay on the ground near the raiders. None of them wore armor, just the padded gambeson normally worn beneath chain mail. One of the raiders was an older man, and two were youths. Only the leader and one other man, almost as tall and bulky as he was, were in their prime, and even they were short statured compared to the men from Umbar.

Tar-Castamir raised his hand, and they all struck at once. The noblemen were professional swordsman, skilled with weapons and better at teamwork than the desert raiders. Tar-Castamir drew his sword and advanced on the leader, who closed the distance between them, making the sword useless. The tattooed raider drew he dagger, Tar-Castamir drew his own dagger, and for a moment, they appeared to be equally matched.

Then Tar-Lintoron came up from behind, wrapped his arm around the raider's throat, and squeezed. The man struggled in his grip, and his dagger flailed dangerously close to Tar-Lintoron. Urzahil gasped, but Tar-Castamir knocked the dagger out of the man's hand and sent it spinning in the dust. The raider chief tried to break Tar-Lintoron's grip, but Tar-Lintoron grabbed him by the hair, pulled it to lift his chin, and cut his throat.

The Easterling tried to stanch the flow of blood with his hands, but it poured between his fingers. His mouth opened to scream, but it came out as a gurgle. Tar-Castamir shoved him back towards his own people. They tried to save him, but couldn't.

The raiders fled, abandoning their livestock, the stolen goods, and the body of their leader. Urzahil watched them disappear into the desert. His father and the other men rejoined him and collected their horses.

There was blood on his father's sleeve, a diagonal line across the upper arm. The brown fabric of the tunic was torn, so was the linen shirt beneath it.

"He cut you with his dagger, I saw it happen!" Here, take off your shirt and let me bandage it for you," said Urzahil.

"It's nothing, a scratch from his spiny armband." His father lifted his shirt over his head. Urzahil tore a strip of cloth from the hem of his own shirt and wrapped it around his father's arm.

"It's a deep scratch, it will leave a scar. Wash it out with soap, and put honey[1] on it as soon as we get home. Promise?" said Urzahil.

"I promise," said his father.

-o-o-o-o-o-

On the ride home, Tar-Lintoron talked about what had happened.

"I killed a man today," Tar-Lintoron looked straight ahead. He looked tired. Urzahil knew his father had killed men in battle before, but Tar-Lintoron didn't talk about it. "I tried to make it quick, I didn't want him to suffer."

The wind picked up. Clouds over the ocean looked huge, ominous. Their edges were rimmed gold from the setting sun behind them, but their underbellies were bluish green. As they watched, lightning within the clouds lit them up inside. The sea beneath them looked dark, and spotted with whitecaps.

"That weather will reach us soon. We're going to ride home in the rain," said Tar-Castamir.

The temperature dropped, the wind picked up, and a wall of rain swept across the landscape. In minutes, Urzahil was soaked to the skin.

When they got back to the house, an older man waited for them in the front hall. He looked like a boson from the fishing fleet, dressed as if he'd come straight from the ship. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, twisting a cap in his hands.

"Whatever it is, can't it wait? I'm dead on my feet," said his father.

"Tar-Lintoron, I need to speak with you right away. In the squall, one of your ships was severely damaged. She lost her mast, and in all the confusion, what with rigging everywhere and the surf foaming over the deck, a man was swept overboard," said the boson.

"Does he have a family?" Tar-Lintoron asked.

"He has a wife and baby. I should have gone to their cottage and told her straightaway, but I hadn't the heart," said the boson.

Tar-Lintoron sighed. "Take me to her house, and I'll tell her what happened. And I'll bring her enough money to live on until I can arrange a pension, although I'll not blame her if she throws it in my face."

They set out in the rain together, Tar-Lintoron and the boson. His father came back hours later, in the dark and rain. He was grey-faced and looking ten years older.

"Eädur, put on dry clothes, you're dripping on the floor," Lady Lintoron scolded, but she watched with concern as he went upstairs.

The family had already finished dinner by the time Tar-Lintoron came downstairs again, but they stayed at the table to keep him company. A plate was set in front of him, but he said he wasn't hungry. He excused himself and went to bed early.

The next day was clear, almost cloudless, after the storm. Tar-Lintoron left the house early and went down to the docks to see the damage inflicted by the storm on his fleet. Normally he would have stayed all day, since one of the boats had lost its mast and others were severely damaged, but he came home at noon and went upstairs to bed.

"He's tired after that skirmish up north, but it's more than that. He killed a man, that's bad enough. Then the minute he came home, he had to go back out again and tell that poor woman her husband died on one of his boats. If he'd been on the docks yesterday morning and seen the line of squalls out at sea, he never would have let the fleet leave the harbor, and the accident never would have happened. So leave him be, just let him sleep," said Lady Lintoron.

Tar-Lintoron didn't come down for dinner that evening. Lady Lintoron went upstairs to check on him, and returned with her mouth pressed in a thin line.

"Urzahil, fetch the healer. You're father has a fever."

Urzahil came back with the healer, an old man with long corkscrews of grey hair. A servant showed him upstairs. Urzahil followed, and watched from the doorway of his father's bedchamber.

The room was brightly lit, oil lamps burned in every niche. The bed hangings were tied back, and in the massive carved bed, his father lay propped against the fine linen of the pillows. The laces of his shirt were undone, and his hands rested on the sheet on the dark red counterpane.

The healer pushed the sleeve up Tar-Lintoron's arm, revealing a neat white band was wrapped around his bicep. It looked fresh, unmarred by blood or weeping from the injury. The healer unwound the bandage, which was neatly hemmed on one side and torn on the other. It was the strip of linen Urzahil had torn from his own shirt.

"Father! You never took the bandage off! You said you were going to clean the cut and put honey on it." Urzahil said.

"Did you apply honey? Did you even wash it?" asked the healer. Tar-Lintoron shook his head no.

"But you promised! You said you would take care of it." Urzahil was furious.

"I'm sorry, Urzahil, I meant to," said Tar-Lintoron.

The last winding of linen was unwrapped and lifted away. The scratch, and a wide swath of the skin around it, was dark red and swollen.

"The wound is infected. I'll prepare a poultice to draw out the poison. I'm afraid it will sting, but that can't be helped. If it does its job, by morning the bandage, and possibly your bedclothes, will be soaked yellow-green from the discharge. Don't worry about it, it means the wound is healing."

-o-o-o-o-o-

His father stayed in bed all the next day. The bandage soaked through just at the healer had said, but he didn't seem to be getting better, the fever continued to climb. That evening, Urzahil went out after dark and came back with the healer.

There was something wrong with the bedchamber, it reminded him of the time a mouse died in the wall. The healer pushed up the sleeve of Tar-Lintoron's nightshirt. Urzahil gasped. Purple blue lines, jagged and forked, radiated from underneath the bandage. The healer unwound the bandage released a stench like putrid meat. Urzahil gagged. Where the scratch had been, there was a black canyon. The flesh was just gone.

The healer sat back, and his hand fell useless into his lap. "It's septic. I'm sorry, there's nothing I can do."

Lady Lintoron pulled herself up to her full height. "You can amputate his arm at the shoulder," she said.

"At this stage, it wouldn't help," said the healer. He packed up his instruments and tinctures, and a servant showed him out.

Ding Ding. Ding.

The bell rang three bells in the Predawn watch. It was answered by another bell, fainter and further away, from another tower further along the curtain wall. Bells in the towers rang to mark the time, calling out the fractions of hours within each watch, the same way time was kept at sea.

Aranelaith came out and held the door for him. He was looking at the ground, and didn't meet his eye. Urzahil slipped in and sat next to his father's bed, breathing through his nose. Lady Lintoron was asleep beside her husband, on top of the counterpane, in her clothes.

Tar-Lintoron stirred. "Vanimeldë?"

"Eädur, I'm here. I'm right here." She raised herself on her elbows and put her face close to his. He stared through her, unseeing.

She looked up. "Urzahil, leave us please? I need to be alone with him."

Urzahil got up and joined the others waiting in the hall. "It's not fair, it's still my turn."

Ding Ding. Ding Ding.

Four bells. It was his brother Aldamir's turn now, although Aldamir made no move to go in. Lady Lintoron cost us both our turns. Urzahil ground his teeth.

Sometime later, Urzahil heard Lady Lintoron sobbing. He yanked open the door, and they rushed into the bedchamber. Lady Lintoron was draped over his father's chest, her shoulders heaving.

Tar-Lintoron's face was still. His lips were blue, so were his fingernails. Urzahil shrank back, unwilling to touch a corpse. Aldamir went to the side of the bed and touched his father's hand. "Goodbye, Father."

Chapter End Notes

1] Honey was widely used as a medieval antibiotic.

Chapter 7 – Mortal Flesh

The sun beat on Urzahil's face. Everything around him was dazzling white. The tombs were crowded together, the white stone monuments barely separated by paths of gravel and crushed shell which crunched underfoot when he shifted his weight. Wisps of grasses grew against the marble walls, moving slightly when the air stirred. The City of the Dead. And behind it all rose the Great Dome of the Temple.

An iron door stood open beneath a lintel carved with the name Lintoron. Inside the chamber, a stone slab lay waiting, cold and hard, as long as a man is tall.

"Tar Lintoron was a noble man," Tar-Castamir addressed the crowd in his booming voice.

Tar-Lintoron's body lay on a bier before the open door, dressed in his finest ceremonial robes. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, and a crown of leaves and late fall flowers, the last vestige of autumn, circled his brow. Bits of the wreath moved slightly in the breeze, but the stiff brocade of his father's sleeve remained still.

"He was courteous and brave, everything a nobleman should be."

The immediate family stood near the bier, with the household servants beside them. Lady Lintoron was the chief mourner, along with her sons. Urzahil's sister Aranelaith was there, along with her new husband. Urzahil was glad the message had reached her in time. His father's friends, and every noble of the city including the Council of Captains, was in attendance. At the edge of the crowd, where the bright colors of the nobility gave way to the grays and browns of working folk, were fishermen and farmers who, indirectly, belonged to the household too.

Tar-Castamir's voice, trained to carry in storms at sea, reached the far edge of the crowd and reflected back from the sides of tombs and the city wall beyond. The mourners listened in silence.

It was a disgrace they couldn't afford an effigy for his father's tomb. Most families commissioned the best sculptor they could to sculpt a portrait in stone. Urzahil was ashamed they couldn't honor his father's memory until things improved.

Tar-Castamir finished the eulogy, and others were invited to speak. When his turn came, Urzahil moved to the front, although he didn't know what he wanted to say. That he loved his father and missed him. That he'd thought the time they had left together would go on and on, but it was cut short. None of those sentiments seemed worthy, they were all about his own loss. He tried to speak but his voice broke; he feared he would sob before everyone he'd ever met. He was grateful when the priest conducting the ceremony stepped over and rescued him.

"I'd like to say a few words about my friend, Eädur Lintoron," said the priest.

The priest seemed familiar. Urzahil tried to place him, and realized he'd come to the house after Aranelaith's wedding. What was his name? Súrion, his father's friend from childhood.

"When I heard he'd died defending his tenant, I was grieved, but not surprised. Tar-Lintoron was a nobleman, most of us are, but he was noble in the purest sense of the word, exalted, worthy, having a superior character. Although born to wealth and privilege, he spoke oftener of obligation, the obligation to be a good friend, to give more than you take, to defend the weak," said Súrion.

When he finished speaking, Súrion motioned for the other pallbearers to come forward. The four men stood at each corner of the bier. Tar-Castamir said, "On my mark", and in unison, they lifted the bier to shoulder height. Urzahil's arms shook with exertion, and even Tar-Marös struggled under its weight.

Urzahil took small steps and placed his feet carefully, especially when he stepped over the high threshold at the mouth of the tomb. Inside, the walls pressed in on him, and the ceiling barely allowed him to stand up straight. Stone effigies of Lintorons past filled niches in the walls, their bones encased in the walls behind. Most of the floor space was taken up by two plain slabs. The pallbearers held the bier over one of them, and with shaking arms, lowered it onto the stone surface.

Lady Lintoron entered the tomb with a silk veil, transparent as a spider's web. She draped it over the body, and Urzahil's younger brothers helped her to tug the edges straight. The fabric over his father's nose and mouth didn't move. It was time to go. Urzahil followed the others out into the blinding sunlight, and the iron door of the tomb clanged shut.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Three days after the funeral, the traditional day for the reading of the will, his father's legal advisor came to the house.

"I'm sorry to tell you, but Tar-Lintoron did not leave a will. He meant to; we often discussed the provisions he wanted to include, but he had never actually sat down and wrote his wishes as a legal document," he said.

"But you're familiar with his wishes?" said Lady Lintoron.

"Your husband's wishes were remarkably consistent over time. He wanted to make some charitable bequests, provisions for the widows of fishermen from the Lintoron fleet, bequests to the University and the Temple, and a gift of a fountain for a square that didn't have one. But without a will, those bequests were just talk." The advisor held out his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

Urzahil felt cold all over. If there were no provisions for charities, there were no provisions for children begotten on the wrong side of the blanket, either.

"Did you write any of it down? Perhaps the document he'd wished to write could be reconstructed."

"I took notes of our discussions, but they're just notes, unsigned and unwitnessed. They wouldn't stand up in a court of law,"

"What will happen, then?"

"The division of property will be determined by law: half will go to the widow, with the remainder to be divided equally among the legitimate sons." The room was spinning. Urzahil clung to the arm of his chair for support.

"Can you provide me with enough gold for repairs on the fishing fleet? Our largest boat lost its mast, and several others were damaged in the storm last week. If they can't go to sea, we lose the income they would have brought in."

"I'm afraid whatever gold the estate left behind will be tied up until the oldest son comes of age," the advisor said, indicating Urzahil's younger brother Aldamir. "In the meantime, you'll have to live frugally, but at least you have the income from your lands," he said.

The color drained from Lady Lintoron's face. "We won't receive any rents from those lands for two more years. All the income from them was pledged to the House of Castamir in lieu of Aranelaith's dowry."

-o-o-o-o-o-

Later that day, Lady Lintoron dismissed the workmen repairing the roof, even though they hadn't finished replacing the tile. The building was centuries old and needed work. Some of their bedrooms had water stains on the ceilings, but she wasn't being a good steward to a historic house anymore.

Then she sold the horses, his father's good-natured bay, the grey palfrey, and the boys' ponies. Urzahil hated to see his father's horse sold. It was the one he rode into the skirmish when he was wounded. Aldamir and Êruhil wept over the loss of their ponies. Urzahil was furious with her and ground his teeth in helpless rage.

Lady Lintoron pulled Urzahil aside. "I'm thinking of dismissing Pellardur. Can you tutor the boys in the evening?"

"But I'm busy studying in the evenings. And why can't you afford him? Tutors are paid almost nothing beyond room and board."

Pellardur remained with the household. Perhaps he had an allowance from his own family, or didn't care about money. Younger sons were placed with other families to cement connections among the nobility.

In the weeks that followed, Lady Lintoron dismissed all but one of the family retainers, including one who was very old, who napped by the kitchen fire pretending to shell peas but couldn't work anymore.

"Can you take Old Nan? It's just for a year until Aldamir reaches his majority and his inheritance comes out of trust," Lady Lintoron asked her sister, who was visiting.

"Every time I see you since Eädur died, you have your hand out. Fine, I'll take her this time, but this is it. You've just acquired a wealthy son-in-law in the Castamiri family. They're getting the rents from you dower lands, why don't you ask them for some of it back?"

"I did. They said 'no' in the nicest possible way, but they gave me their best wishes. When I left, Aranelaith pressed her dress allowance into my hand and promised she'd send more when she could."

The term was half over. Urzahil inquired at the University about next term's school fees. He'd had no idea they were so high. He had to figure out how to ask Lady Lintoron for the money to pay them.

He did his best to get along with her. He bit back sarcastic remarks, avoided the temptation to roll his eyes, and tried to stay out of her way. After a few days, when he judged she was in a good mood, he pulled her aside and asked.

"Lady Lintoron? The second term at University begins right after Yule. I wondered if I could trouble you for my school fees?"

"That won't be possible, please don't ask me again." She turned her back.

"My education is all I have in this world. It was the legacy Father meant to leave me," Urzahil was about to add something sarcastic, but stopped himself when he saw her face, gray and exhausted.

"I'm sorry, Urzahil. I just don't have the money."

Chapter 8 – Poverty

In the Philosopher's Stone that afternoon, he asked the serving maid if she knew of anyone who needed someone to wait tables, preferably after classes. She named the Broken Sword and the Once Proud Goose, but both of them were near the University and catered mostly to students. He knew he had to work, he accepted that, but it would be humiliating if anyone at school saw him.

"Do you know of anything else?"

"You could try the Boiling Frog. It's on the main road, just inside the inner walls. As soon as you're through the gate, look to the right. You'll see the sign."

It was just as she said. Just inside the old city walls was a tavern sign of a black cauldron with bubbles rising from its surface. A green frog peaked over its rim, a look of dismay on its face. This must be it, the Sign of the Boiling Frog.

He looked through a wide opening in the wall and saw a courtyard surrounded by buildings on three sides, typical of the better sort of Inn. On the left was a stables for accommodating the guests' horses, a stone water trough in front of it. Opposite the stables was the tavern associated with the Inn. A Boiling Frog sign hung over its glass-paneled door.

Urzahil tried the handle, and it opened easily. Harness bells jingled against the door frame. He squared his shoulders and stepped inside. A long room full of tables and benches, with a stone fireplace at the end.

"I'm sorry, we're not open yet. Come back at six bells." The Innkeeper stood behind the counter, drying earthenware tankards with a rag.

"I've come about the position. Did you need someone to wipe tables?"

"I don't know how you heard of it, I scarcely told a soul, but aye. Grab an apron and help me with these."

By suppertime, he was wiping down tables and scraping plates in the kitchen. The wages were meager, the real money came from tips. If he served ale or worked at the bar, he could earn enough for next year's tuition by the end of the term, but that assumed the tips were as good every night as they were tonight.

He asked Allard, the Innkeeper, about a second job. The Inn provide accommodations for the guests' horses in the stable across from the Inn. Allard said he could come in at first light to water the horses and muck out their stalls.

Urzahil never went out with his friends anymore, and most days he came home exhausted. He had no time to study unless he stayed up past midnight or got up before dawn, so his schoolwork began to suffer.

One evening, a few of his classmates came into the Boiling Frog and saw him behind the bar, rinsing tankards.

"Urzahil, what are you doing in here?"

"Well, there's a perfectly good explanation, and, um … I'm writing a story, and I'm collecting material for it. But it's just for a day or two."

Urzahil had already been working at the Boiling Frog for several weeks, but his classmates didn't need to know that.

-o-o-o-o-o-

"I'm sorry I missed class. My father died suddenly." Urzahil felt his throat getting tight.

"My poor boy. I'm so terribly sorry." Palan's eyes were full of sympathy.

[description of the things studied in class – celestial navigation for sea captains, learning to recognize the constellations, horoscopes, watching the skies for omens, movements of the planets, unexpected events like comets, falling stars, novae.]

At the end of class, Urzahil stayed behind to get the reading assignments he'd missed during the last five days.

"Remind me, why were you out?" Palan asked him. Urzahil's mouth hung open. How could anyone not remember?

-o-o-o-o-o-

After Coastal Geography, Urzahil followed his classmates to the Refectory for the noon meal. Tûlmir appeared at his elbow like a plump, overeager puppy, blind to rejection.

Urzahil didn't feel like sitting beside him, so he put his satchel on the bench where he though the merchant's son would want to sit. It made no difference, Tûlmir sat down across from him

"Urzahil, you've got yourself quite an admirer." Marös laughed and sat down a few places over.

As best Urzahil could figure, the merchant's son had identified Urzahil as a low caste member of the nobility and regarded him as more approachable than the others. He'd latched onto Urzahil as an aristocratic toehold in his planned social climb.

"I'm sorry about your father. I don't know what to say," said Tûlmir.

How about saying nothing? I'm not in the mood to talk.

-o-o-o-o-o-

It rained hard during the night, in the morning, the pavement was wet and covered with leaves and small branches knocked down by the storm. Urzahil splashed through puddles on his was to school.

When he arrived, class had already started. Caldûr was striding back and forth across the small stage in the front of the classroom under a huge water stain on the ceiling. Every so often, a drip fell from it. Hopefully the University would repair it, but the broken bench in the back of the classroom was still listing to one side, so Urzahil didn't expect much.

Caldûr seemed unaware of the drip above his head, he strode back and forth across the small stage in the front of the classroom, waving his arms as he spoke.

"It was the year 1700 in the middle of the Second Age, when out of nowhere, a seemingly invincible warlord swept across Arda, burning everything in his path. He called himself Tar-Mairon, or Admirable Lord, a generic title that said nothing about who he was or where he came from. It was the Elves who first realized he was the spirit who'd accompanied Melkor from the Underworld in ancient times, the one called Sauron Gorthaur."

Caldûr stopped pacing and faced the class.

"You've been studying Sindarin all term. How would you translate 'gor-thaur'?"

"dread-horror," the class answered in unison.

"And so he was. He was a demon, and no ordinary one. When he first appeared in Arda, he took the form of a giant wolf and ate the Firstborn Elves. How do you think they felt about him?"

There were a few responses scattered around the classroom. "Fear?" "Horror?" "Terror?"

Caldûr waved a hand dismissively. "These were Elves. They didn't cringe, they fought back. Here's a hint. How would you translate 'saur-on'?" [1]

"excrement - large amount of," came a voice from the back of the class.

Urzahil turned around on the bench and glared at the speaker, Mírdan, a non-serious student who attended University only because his father made him. Hopefully only the offender would be punished, and not the whole class. But when Urzahil looked back at the stage, Caldûr was smiling.

"That is correct. I'm surprised only one of you was able to translate. Your Sindarin instructor must not be teaching you any Elvish swear words. Yet contrary to popular belief, Elves do curse, they say 'saur' when they stub their toe. But don't repeat it in polite company, it really is a bad word. My point is, the Elves despised Sauron. They still do."

Caran, the charity student fascinated by naval history, raised his hand. "Wouldn't the Black Númenorians also have hated Sauron, after he destroyed their home? They'd rallied around him when he first came to Númenor, but that must all have changed when Sauron killed their king and sank Númenor."

"I think they felt much the way Black Númenorians do today. We find him … interesting," said Caldûr.

-o-o-o-o-o-

U answered a question brilliantly, expecting praise, but Palan turned away, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

Palan says, "a pale, indistinct star more like a fuzzball than a true star. But's it's no more real than a glass reproduction of a Silmaril, or a bastard passing himself off as a nobleman."

Urzahil recoiled as if slapped. Do you realize what you just said? But it probably wasn't on purpose, Palan wasn't good at remembering details about people. Even so, it was tactless. Urzahil wondered if he stay after class and speak to him about it.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Now that his father was gone, the friction between himself and Lady Lintoron was getting worse.

One evening when Urzahil came home from the Boiling Frog, his school satchel wasn't on the table where he'd left it. He looked in his room, but it weren't there either. The rest of the household had already gone to bed. He needed those books, he had to memorize a script for Diplomacy the next day, and he hadn't even read it yet. In desperation, he pounded on the door to Lady Lintoron's chamber.

"Where are my books?" He didn't bother to hide the annoyance in his voice.

Lady Lintoron opened the door and stared at him through the crack. "I moved them. We needed the table for eating." Her voice was thick with sleep.

"I need my books to study. You're going to make me fail Diplomacy. Why are you being such a witch?"

"Urzahil, apologize at once!"

"I'm sorry I called you a witch, I didn't realize you thought it was a secret."

Lady Lintoron yanked open the door and drew herself to her full height. She was in her nightclothes, and her hair was hanging in her face.

"Urzahil, this isn't working. You need to find somewhere else to live."

He went to his room feeling stunned, even though he didn't think she meant it.

The next night, Urzahil came home late, exhausted from a long evening at the Frog. He needed to memorize a list of Sindarin verbs for class tomorrow, but he was tired, and decided to go straight to bed.

He climbed the stairs to his room, opened the door, and froze. For a moment, he thought he'd entered a storeroom by accident. Wooden crates lined the walls, and the curtains and bed hangings had disappeared. The drawings he'd hung on the walls, the inlaid box his father had given him last birthday, everything that made the room his own was missing. He wanted to crawl into bed and pull the blankets over his head, but he couldn't. The bed had been stripped.

He lay in the dark on the bare mattress, so angry he couldn't fall asleep. When he did, he woke to bad dreams. It was still dark outside when he got up. There was an oil lamp in a niche in the wall, but he didn't have an ember to light it. He discovered by feel that his clothes were still in his clothes chest, he packed a small bundle in the dark.

On his way to the back door, he passed his father's study, and on impulse, he went inside. The room still smelled like his father. Urzahil stood there for a moment, remembering, then shook it off. He felt in the back of a desk drawer and removed a pouch of coins. If the theft were discovered, he would never be able to enter this house again. He hesitated, and put the purse in his pocket.

It was beginning to get light. From the corner of his eye, he saw something orange and red in the bookcase behind his father's desk. It was the painted crab Urzahil made for his father when he was small. He and his father used to walk along the jetty together and watch the brightly colored crabs climbing over the rocks. Once Urzahil found a stone he thought was crab-shaped. He brought it home and pained it red and orange and blue, with its legs tucked and its eye stalks lying flat. He didn't realize his father had kept it. Urzahil picked it up and studied it, then slipped it into his other pocket.

Urzahil stepped into the alley between houses and pulled the side door shut behind him. He whispered goodbye to his brothers, still asleep in their beds upstairs, and walked away from the house he'd grown up in without looking back.

He walked with his school satchel and bundle of clothes through the streets of Umbar, which were already filling with people at this hour even though the sun wasn't fully up. The shortest day of the year was approaching, and it was already beginning to get cold. There was frost on the ground and he could see his own breath. Earlier in the year, he would have slept outside until he found somewhere to stay, but he couldn't now.

He reached the Boiling Frog and slipped into the livery stable, hoping he hadn't been seen carrying the bundle. It was warm inside the stables, sheltered from the wind, and even though there was never a fire for heat, warmth from the horses made it comfortable.

In the dim light, he climbed the ladder to the hayloft. A drift of hay against one wall would make a good bed. If he wrapped himself in a horse blanket and slept here, he'd be comfortable. He concealed his things under the hay in a corner, then climbed down the ladder to water the horses.

If he were to live here, he couldn't light a lamp because of the danger of fire. He didn't know how he was going to study, but i was just for a few days, until he could find a friend to say with, or if he were desperate, take a room in a rooming house.

Urzahil thought of friends he could move in with. Of all the people he knew, there wasn't one who could put him up. Most of his friends were from noble families. The ones from Umbar mostly lived with their parents, the ones from the provinces mostly stayed with relatives in Umbar. The charity students either lived with their parents or were already sharing with someone else. Urzahil felt sure Ardamin would take him in if he asked, but it was better to sleep in a hayloft than let his friends learn that he was destitute.

After class, Urzahil asked about rooms at rooming houses near the University, but they were prohibitively expensive. He looked in the rougher parts of the city, on the streets closer to the docks, but rooms on the waterfront didn't cost much less. He resigned himself to sleeping in the hayloft that night.

The truth was, he couldn't afford to rent a room, any room, not even one he shared with another student or on a street where it wasn't safe to walk at night. If he wanted to enroll next term, every cent he made had to go towards school fees.

He went back to the livery stable and saw to the horses. He climbed the ladder to the hayloft and studied until it was time to go to the Boiling Frog and help set up for the evening meal. He took orders, served ale, and wiped tables.

He took an armload of dirty plates to the kitchen and started to scrap the table scraps into the slops bucket for the hogs, but hesitated. Why waste a half-eaten meat pie and an untouched piece of bread? He looked up and saw that he was alone, then ate them himself and drank a few inches of ale left in a tankard. His cheeks were burning, but he wasn't going to bed hungry.

He didn't have to live like this. He had two jobs, he earned enough to rent a room and buy his meals at a pub. The trouble was, he could afford his living expenses, or his school fees, but not both. He wasn't ready to give up the dream of being a scholar, or failing that, a position in the Diplomatic corps. Unless he finished University, he had nothing.

The end of the term was approaching. Urzahil counted down how much money he still needed for tuition against how many days there were in which to earn it. He asked for extra shifts at the Frog, and took on additional work at the livery stable. He was exhausted. He'd given up all time he spent with friends, and all recreations.

Even the charity students were better off than he was. They worked, but they only had to pay for lodgings and food, as their tuition was waived. If he were a charity student, he could afford lodgings, a rooming house that provided meals. He could have new clothes, maybe secondhand, but not as worn and faded as his own. But asking for charity would mean admitting how low he had fallen, and he was too proud.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Urzahil was in the kitchen of the Boiling Frog, elbow-deep in soapsuds and hot water. His back was tired. He needed to be studying for his Diplomacy exam, not scrubbing grease off plates.

Why did his father have to die? Or to be exact, why did his father have to die without a will? He'd told his advisor what he wanted in it, so why didn't he? Urzahil's schooling would have been for and he would be living the same sort of life as his friends, if only his father had found time for that one little chore.

The crash startled him. A starburst of soap suds clung to the wall for a moment, then slid to the floor. Urzahil's hand flew to his mouth and he looked around, hoping he hadn't been observed.

"What was that? I thought I heard something fall," the landlord called from the other room.

"It's nothing. I dropped a plate," said Urzahil, as he bent down to pick up the shards. His eyes welled, and he despised himself for being so angry with someone he loved so much.

Chapter 9 – Slipping Grades

Caldûr looked over the classroom.

"We're going to do something different today. Instead of me lecturing you and telling stories, your classmates are going to perform a skit.

"Let's pick our first actor. I need someone physically powerful, supremely self-confident, someone who would do anything on a dare." Several hands went up. "Marös, come up here." Marös ascended the stage. Built like a bull, broad in the chest and well-muscled, he exuded self-confidence.

"Class, meet Ar-Pharazôn the Golden, twenty-fifth king of Númenor, and at this moment the most powerful man in the world." Marös grinned and struck a pose. "But you're king only because you forced the ruling queen, Tar-Míriel, to accept you as a husband. Incidentally, she's also your first cousin, and marriage between first cousins is not legal in Númenor. You've never been in her bedroom[1], and the marriage has produced no children."

"You've just seized the throne, but the courts could have your marriage annulled at any time, which, incidentally, would invalidate your claim to the throne. Your crown hangs by a thread. You have to do something spectacular to prove you deserve to be king.

"Now, let me ask the class, how many of you have ever moved to a new neighborhood? What's the first thing you do?"

Gaerna, the burliest of the charity students, raised his hand. "You show them how tough you are. Challenge the meanest one of all, and wipe the floor with him. If you don't, the others will think you're weak, and they'll hurt you."

"How do you know you're going to win?" asked Caldûr.

"You don't, but there are things you can do to even the odds. You pick your time carefully, catch them when they're tired, then hit them with everything you have It's a risk, but sometimes you have to be ballsy," said Gaerna.

"Correct. Ar-Pharazôn, that's the position you find yourself in today. Your rivals in Númenor who would love to see you fail, so you have to do something spectacular that says, 'Challenge me at your peril.' You need to thrash the toughest foe you can find, in the most public way possible. Now, who's the most dangerous person you can think of?

"A rival at Court?" asked Marös.

"Think bigger."

"Gil-galad, High King of the Elves."

"That would be a good choice, except that you and Gil-galad are nominally on the same side. It has to be an enemy, one so dangerous that if you subdue him, the kingship is yours forever."

Marös fell silent.

"Let's pick someone to play your adversary. I need a student who's quick-witted and resourceful, someone who's adaptable and keeps his emotions hidden." No hands went up. "Urzahil, come up here."

Urzahil put his writing tools on the bench and ascended the stage.

"You have a keen intelligence and enormous strength. You're proud, and you have no sense of humor. Your chief emotion is anger. You feel slights keenly and can nurse a grudge forever. But more than anything, you can't bear to be humiliated. Class, meet the one they call Dread Horror, Sauron Gorthaur.

"Now, Ar-Pharazôn, you want to show your rivals back in Númenorian just how tough you are by defeating Sauron Gorthaur, said to be the most dangerous creature in Arda. If you can pull that off, your claim to the throne is secure."

Caldûr gave them each a slip of paper. Marös read his, then raised his chin. The corner his mouth lifted in a half-smile.

"Get on your knees," Marös ordered. Urzahil knelt. The hard planks pressed against his kneecaps, and looking up at others from the floor was embarrassing.

Urzahil read from his own script. "A great king must have his will." [2]

Marös referred to his script again. "I want to see you eat dirt." Marös watched Urzahil with hooded eyes, his lips parted in a sneer. He was enjoying this way too much. Urzahil's hands curled into fists.

Caldûr was looking down his nose, his lip curled in a half-smile.

"Sauron, are you aware that your personal guard is watching this? If you expect them to keep the story to themselves when they reach home, think again. Your people will learn that the king from the sea made you crawl, and you, with your great need to be admired, will fall in their esteem." Caldûr's voice was gloating.

The city bells rang, signaling the end of class. Urzahil sagged with relief. But the usual sounds of the end of the last class of the day, a murmur of conversation as students gathered up their belongings, the scrape of benches against stone, never came. Urzahil stole a sideways glance. His classmates were leaning forward on their benches, transfixed.

Urzahil looked up to Caldûr for help, but his instructor stood with his arms crossed over his chest, his face unsmiling. "Do it," he ordered Urzahil.

"I said, I want to see you eat dirt," said Marös.

Urzahil didn't move. Caldûr took the back of his neck and shoved his face to the floor. The smell of dust rose from planks which hadn't been swept recently. One of his classmates tittered, several more laughed out loud.

"Do it," said Caldûr.

Urzahil licked the rough wood. Particles of grit stuck to his tongue. He sat back on his heels, spitting, and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. His chest heaved with anger, and his breath whistled through his nostrils. He clenched his teeth so hard they hurt.

"Ar-Pharazôn, how do you feel right now?" asked Caldûr.

"That was fun! I want to do it again." Marös had a big grin on his face.

Urzahil struggled to stay in character, and kept his face still, a mask of submission and acquiescence. It was hard, he was so angry his ears were ringing. He didn't think he'd ever been this furious.

"Sauron, how do you feel right now?" asked Caldûr.

"I will kill him. I don't care how long it takes, but I am going to f…. I am going to kill him." With difficulty, Urzahil bit back the word that could have gotten him suspended from school for a day.

"You can't kill Ar-Pharazôn. You just swore an oath that forbids it," said Caldûr.

"I'll have someone else do it, then."

"You can't order someone else kill him, your oath precludes that, too." Caldûr lowered his voice. "But consider this. You're patient, you're cunning, and you have almost supernatural powers of persuasion. Now, what will you do next?"

"I'd …" Murderous rage gave way to an icy, calculating hatred. "I'd dare him to do something stupid enough to get himself killed. Swim long distance in the open ocean, climb the outside of a tower, taste the flesh of the puffer fish, the one that makes your skin tingle," said Urzahil.

Caldûr pulled Urzahil to his feet and draped an arm across his shoulder.

"You're the greatest king who ever lived. Yet the Valar won't even let you set foot on the lands that confer immortality. Like all mortals, you'll die at your appointed time, and you have no heir to continue your line. A great king would seize those lands by force."

Caldûr released Urzahil and turned to the class. "What's the most dangerous thing Sauron could possibly have dared Ar-Pharazôn to do?"

Hooting and stamping their feet, the class shouted with one voice,

"Invade Valinor!"

-o-o-o-o-o-

That evening, as Urzahil filled tankards from the bung tap, he could still smell the dust from the floorboards, still feel the grit on his tongue.

"Why would Caldûr order me to do that? He could tell how upset I was." Urzahil muttered as he carried the heavy tray to a table on the far side of the room, where a dozen paying customers sat. "He must know that making someone lick a dirty floor, with all his classmates watched and jeered him on, was humiliating."

Urzahil rested the tray on the table, a broad smile on his face for the customers, and set each order in the right place.

"And Marös watched me the whole time as if I were a girl undoing her dress and letting it drop to the floor. He was enjoying it so much, I thought he was going to …"

Urzahil banged down a tankard harder than he'd intended. Ale slopped out and spread across the table.

"Excuse me!" Urzahil yanked a rag from his belt and tried to wipe up the growing puddle before it reached the edge of the table and overflowed onto the customer's lap.

If he was this upset from playacting, how angry would he have been, had it been real?

-o-o-o-o-o-

The next morning, Urzahil was still upset about what happened in the skit the day before. He didn't want to talk about it, and made a point of arriving for Diplomacy just as class was about to start.

Marös and Ardamin were already seated on the bench. Urzahil took his usual place beside Ardamin and avoided looking at Marös, but Marös leaned around Ardamin to talk to him anyway.

"I hear Caldûr thinks you're the best actor he's had." Marös said.

Urzahil acknowledged Marös with the slightest of nods and looked straight ahead, a little cool, a little distant. Marös was about to say something else to him, but just then, Wynne, the Diplomacy teacher, rapped on the podium and began his lecture.

"It is the year 3319 in the Second Age, and the entire island of Númenor had just been destroyed following the failed invasion of Valinor, which provoked, shall we say, a larger reaction from the Valar than anticipated. The greatest fleet ever assembled was gone, the island of Númenor and the entire civilian population were gone.

"As survivors reached the mainland, word of the disaster began to trickle in, and the coastal colonies were thrown into turmoil. Coastal politics became a free-for-all as every colonial governor and minor lord scrambled to reposition himself in the unexpected power vacuum.

"When Sauron pulled himself from the bottom of the ocean and returned to Mordor, the Black Númenorians of Umbar were quick to ally themselves with him."

Caran asked, "Now why would the Black Númenorians ally with Sauron, when he'd just killed their king and destroyed their island nation?"

Tûlmir, the merchant's son, put up his hand. His plump face looked thoughtful. "It didn't matter whether they were mad at Sauron or not, the Black Númenorians couldn't afford to have him as an enemy."

Caran's friend Gaerna, who enjoyed fistfights in grog shops, waved his arms in the air and practically jumped off the bench.

"It was more than that. They weren't friends initially, but they were forced into it because they shared an enemy.

"How can I explain … oh, I know! Let's say that nations are people, and Umbar is Gondor's younger cousin. Umbar has just embraced the Cult of Melkor against Gondor's advice. It caused a rift between them, and they're no longer speaking.

"One night, they run into each other in a tavern. Both have been drinking. Gondor is a head taller than Umbar, and heavier by three stone[3]. Umbar knows it's in trouble. But Mordor is also in the tavern that night, and Mordor has a score to settle with Gondor. This is the end of the Second Age, remember, when Mordor is at the height of its power, and just might be able to beat Gondor this time.

"And if Mordor beats Gondor, Mordor might take an interest in Gondor's smaller, weaker cousin. Let's just say Umbar is scared.

"Let's say Gondor and Umbar were to join forces and take on Mordor, Mordor would go home bloody and humiliated. But they'll never join together, the rift between them is too deep.

"Now, Umbar is stepping to the middle of the floor and rolling up its sleeves. Do I dare wager a copper that Umbar will beat Gondor? No, I'd be throwing my money away. But then, Umbar does something brilliant, Umbar allies with Mordor. That accomplishes two things, Gondor can't invade Umbar, and Mordor won't."

The Diplomacy teacher looked stunned. "I have to admit, Gaerna, I've never heard global politics explained in terms of fistfights in taverns, but to your credit, you've got it exactly right."

ding ding. ding ding.

"And with that, we are out of time. For tomorrow, I want you to compare the geopolitical situation in the Second Age, so vividly described by Gaerna, with the tension growing between Gondor and Umbar today. Gondor is just as threatening now as it was in the Second Age, but with Mordor empty, we're on our own."

-o-o-o-o-o-

The next morning, when Urzahil was leaving Diplomacy, he saw Caldûr in the hall. Too angry to speak to him, he turned away and increased his pace, but Caldûr caught with him and up and touched his arm.

"You absolutely nailed the part of Sauron. I've never seen anyone get inside his head the way you did." He paused, as if making a decision. "I want you to play Sauron in the skit next summer."

"I thought Sauron was always played by an Elf." Urzahil was noncommittal.

"I just learned that Sauron assumed the form of a Númenorian when he appeared before Ar-Pharazôn."

"What's his true form?" asked Urzahil.

"No one knows. A demon, I expect. But unlike other demons, he can take any form he likes, that's why he's so dangerous."

-o-o-o-o-o-

Urzahil sat in his Sindarin class, daydreaming out the window. The drone of other students reciting was making him sleepy.

"gil-galad" "star light"

'palan-tir' 'far looking'

'el-rond' 'star dome'

'mor-gul' 'black knowledge'

'ar-wen' 'noble maiden'

'mith-ril' 'grey gleam'

'mal-orn' 'gold tree'

'celeb-orn' 'silver tree'

'sil-mir-ril' 'white jewel gleam'

Then Chaered called on Urzahil.

'tol-siri-on.'

Urzahil could read Sindarin reasonably well, but he couldn't seem to understand the spoken language as well as his classmates did.

Chaered was waiting for his answer. Urzahil wrote the word on his slate tablet and studied it. '-on' meant 'great' or 'a lot'. Other than that, he had no idea.

The instructor finally rescued him. "tol sirion means an island in a great river.

The bells rang, and class was dismissed.

"Urzahil, a word?" The Sindarin instructor didn't look happy with him. "I can't understand why you're not doing well. Are you staying out in the pub until all hours?" Chaered had his hands on his hips.

If only he knew.

"Why is it that the charity students all have jobs, yet they earn better grades than you. Maybe it's because, unlike you aristocrats, they expect to work hard."

"I work hard." Urzahil spoke through clenched teeth..

Chaered snorted.

"No, really, I'm working two jobs, sleeping in a barn, and eating what I scrape off the plates at the tavern where I work. I'd gladly trade places with a charity student." Urzahil realized what he'd just said, and his hand flew to his mouth. "Forget I said that, I was just making it up."

Chaered looked him up and down. Urzahil was dressed like a nobleman, but his tunic was faded and there was a hole in the knee of his leggings the size of a copper coin. He looked less like a nobleman than like a servant wearing his Master's hand-me-downs.

"Urzahil?" His teacher's eyes were kind. "Go to the Head of the School and ask to have your tuition waived on the basis of hardship. No one else needs to know."

Urzahil's felt his face getting hot. Chaered probably hadn't meant to insult him, but charity was for the sons of dockworkers and day laborers, not the sons of noblemen. Urzahil would never fall that low.

Chapter End Notes

[1] canon says that the couple never had children, reason unspecified.

[2] 'This is a hard doom,' said Sauron, 'but great kings must have their will', and he submitted as one under compulsion. "The Tale of Years of the Second Age: Appendix B", History of Middle-earth, vol. XII: The Peoples of Middle-earth

[3] one stone = 14 pounds

Chapter 10 – Difficult People

Palan said something unkind, poking fun of his coauthor and rival astronomer. There are methods to compute an angle of a star above the horizon, Palan and his rival's. Palan favored precision. Urzahil supported the rival.

The instructor lost it, red faced and spitting. "Did you not hear me? I said my method was better.

"The precision doesn't always matter, like when you're on the deck of a ship at sea where you can't take as precise a measurement anyway." said Urzahil.

"I'm worried that you're not clever enough to understand my theory. Or perhaps you couldn't be bothered to read the reading at all."

Urzahil got defensive. "Perhaps a baseborn member of the aristocracy more likely to be a rebel and reject the established order?" That was unfair, Urzahil wasn't a rebel at all. He wanted to be part of the established order.

-o-o-o-o-o-

After class, Urzahil saw his Diplomacy teacher in the hall and ran to catch up with him.

"I wanted to ask you something. Let's say you're in diplomatic negotiations with another nation, and someone on the other side says something that's grievously insulting. What do you do?"

"You pretend you didn't hear. Usually these things are an accident. But if it was intentional, you don't want to take the bait. Stay focused on the subject at hand. Give short, factual answers. The minute you lose your temper, you've lost."

-o-o-o-o-o-

The next day, Palan asked Urzahil to stay after class. Urzahil thought he was going to apologize, but he acted as if nothing had happened.

"I have something for you." He recited lines in an ancient tongue. "Recite it back to me."

Urzahil did, and asked, "What is it?"

"It's a fire-lighting spell. Not everyone can make it work."

That night while working in the kitchen at the Boiling Frog, Urzahil waited until he was alone and spoke the fire lighting spell over the stub of a candle. Nothing happened.

He wanted to ask his instructor what he'd done wrong, but hesitated. He could hear Palan saying, Not everyone can do it.

-o-o-o-o-o-

On the last day of term, as they were leaving Númenorian History, Ardamin pulled Urzahil aside in the hall.

"I'm getting a group together to celebrate our last night of freedom before Exam Week. I thought we'd go down to the waterfront and play Silver Penny again. Want to come?" Ardamin winked.

"I can't make it. Maybe next time." Urzahil feigned indifference.

"Didn't hear me? I said we're going to play Silver Penny. You loved that game last time we played, and you might get to see Kyna again."

Urzahil couldn't even think about risking a silver penny on a roll of the dice. That was more than he made in a week, and he couldn't afford even a few coppers for dinner or a bed. He was glad Ardamin didn't know.

"Thanks, but I can't make it. Maybe next time."

-o-o-o-o-o-

Every day during Exam Week, Urzahil spent the entire day in the library, preparing for exams. The final exam for Diplomacy would be a role-playing exercise, he didn't even have to think about it. Númenorian History would take work to prepare for. Caldûr taught it as a series of stories, but there was still a long list of names and dates to memorize.

Coastal Geography was like Diplomacy and Númenorian History, only with maps. Urzahil wasn't worried about Astronomy either. He would never navigate a ship by the stars, given the motion of the waves made him ill, but he could tell time at night by the height of the constellations above the horizon, and whether they were rising or setting. It ought to go fine.

It was Sindarin he was worried about. Everyone else in class seemed to speak it fluently. He'd memorized whole lists of root words, and while he could read Sindarin, the spoken language raced past him, with no more meaning than the sounds of wind and the water.

The instructor hadn't told them what to expect, but Ardamin's older brother, the future Tar-Castamir, had taken Sindarin the year before. He said the instructor wrote a few sentences on the slate board, and the students wrote the translation on paper and turned it in.

If the exam was written, Urzahil thought he could pass it. Throughout exam week, he put as much effort into studying Sindarin as he did into the other four subjects combined.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Urzahil finished work in the late in the evening. He was wiping down counters in the kitchen, and waited until the Innkeeper, was in the front room, before he lit a covered lantern from an ember in the stove and set it on the back step. No light escaped from the shutters latched over it's the glass sides. He opened the kitchen door and set the lantern on the step leading to the kitchen garden behind the tavern.

"Urzahil, are you about done? I'm ready to lock up for the night," Allard called from the common room.

Urzahil ducked back inside and pulled the kitchen door shut as quietly as he could.

"I'm just finishing up." He rinsed out his mopping-up rag and hung it near the stove to dry.

Urzahil collected his things, said goodnight to Allard, and stepped out into the darkened courtyard. The door clicked shut behind him, and he heard the bolt slide home. He waited until all the lights in the tavern were out, then circled around to the kitchen garden and collected the lantern from the back step. No light escaped from the covers over the lantern as he crossed the yard to the stables.

He reached the safety of the darkened barn and set the lantern on the ground between the horses' stalls, and opened one of the covers. Somewhere between the tavern and the barn, the lamp had gone out. Only the tip of the wick glowed orange, and as he watched, it winked out. He cursed under his breath.

He couldn't go back to the tavern to light the lantern, the common room had been locked up for the night. He couldn't study by moonlight; the moon was waxing, but not yet bright enough to read by. The Sindarin exam was tomorrow, and he was ill-prepared for it. He needed a spell to light the lamp. Palan had given him a fire-starting spell, but he hadn't been able to make it work. Maybe he hadn't tried hard enough.

The lamp was a shade against a dark background. He knelt beside it. He couldn't see the wick at all anymore, he could only guess where it was. He knelt in front of the lamp and pictured the wick in his mind, the frayed cotton string, charred at the end, still warm. He gathered all his thoughts, focused them like a clenched fist, and spoke the words of the spell with all the authority he could muster. Nothing.

He sat back on his heels and puffed out his cheeks. After a moment, he gathered his thoughts and recited the spell again, his shoulders hunched with the effort. Some sorcerer he was, he couldn't even summon up an orange speck on the end of the wick.

He smacked the earthen floor in frustration. It took a few minutes to calm down. When his breath had slowed to almost normal, he tried again, his will like a clenched fist. He spoke the words for the third time. Yellow light flared up and flooded the floor around his feet.

Suddenly nervous, he looked in the direction of the Inn. Hopefully Allard had already gone to bed, or if he hadn't, he hadn't looked across the Inn yard and seen the yellow light in the barn. Urzahil had never asked permission to sleep here, and had done a certain amount of sneaking around to avoid being noticed.

Hours later, when he finally snuffed the lamp and climbed up to the hayloft, the stars had wheeled around in the sky, and the bells tolled two hours into the Midnight watch.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Urzahil opened his eyes to full daylight and let out a yelp. What time was it? The Sindarin exam might already have started.

He pulled on yesterday's clothes, slid down the ladder, and hit the floor running. He was almost out the door when he remembered the horses.

He hesitated. It wouldn't hurt them to stand in dirty straw for half a day, but it would be cruel to leave them hungry and thirsty. With a curse, he saw to the horses as quickly as possible, giving them hay but no oats, and a bucket of water apiece. It should be enough to hold them until he got back that afternoon.

He tossed the water bucket aside and bolted out of the stables, through the Inn yard, and into the street.

The towers rang six bells, the time when the exam would start, just as he was just reaching the edge of the University. Minutes later, he stumbled into the Sindarin classroom, sweating and so out of breath he was coughing. He was the last to arrive. His classmates were spread out over the student benches, paper and ink pots arranged between every student.

The slate board had been wiped clean for the first time since the beginning of term. All that remained of the lists of vocabulary words, verb stems, and grammar diagrams were smudges of chalk dust on the grey-green slate. In a few minutes, Chaered would arrive and fill the vast, empty space with complicated lines of Elvish poetry which, even in Númenorian, didn't make a lot of sense. Urzahil drummed his fingers. He'd crammed for this exam for days. It ought to be manageable.

It wasn't like Chaered to be late. About ten minutes after the exam should have started, they heard the sound of footsteps in the hall. They had the accelerated pace of one who is late.

Throughout the classroom, writing boxes were being opened, paper rustled, and ink bottles uncapped. Urzahil opened his writing box and dug through the steel nibs until he found the narrow, flexible one he used to write Tengwar cursive. He chose a wooden handle and jammed the heel of the nib into it.

The Sindarin teacher appeared in the doorway, looking disheveled, with his arm in a sling.

"What happened to you?" someone asked.

"I was late to class so I ran down the stairs two at a time. I missed my footing on the bottom step and took a header. A word of advice, if that happens to you, don't catch yourself with your hands. Happily, the Infirmary people patched me up in record time." He wiggled the fingers poking out from the sling.

"However, until my wrist mends, I can't write the lines on the slate board, and more to the point, I can't grade your translations. That means that, for the first time ever, this will be an oral exam. I'll speak a line of Sindarin, and you translate."

Urzahil's mouth went dry. He was doomed. He could not pass an oral exam in Sindarin, and he was going to fail this course. He would have to retake it, which meant he would have to take a heavier course load later. He didn't think he could manage six courses at once. He had to pass this test.

The exam began, and each student was called in turn.

"sí nef aearon" "here by the ocean"

"na-chaered palan" "gazing into the distance"

"o galadhremmin ennorath" "from tree-tangled middle-earth"

"silivren penna míriel" "white light slants down jewel-like"

"o menel palan-diriel" "from the firmament, gazing afar"

Then it was Urzahil's turn. Chaered spoke the words.

"In gil ernediaid menel[1]"

The passage sailed by him in a rush of beautiful Elvish gibberish. Urzahil froze. He didn't recognize a single word.

They began the second round of recitation, and it didn't go any better than the first. He was seriously rattled, and his hands were shaking.

On the third and final round, he pulled himself together and gave it his best shot.

"O menel aglar elenath", the teacher said.

He knew this one, it was on the tip of his tongue, just out of reach.

"Come on, Urzahil. O menel aglar elenath. It's not that hard. Think about stars and the night sky."

Urzahil couldn't do it. A long minute went by, and someone laughed. Finally, he was dismissed and allowed to sink down on to the bench, his face burning. The next student was called, Mírdan, the one who only attended University because his father made him.

"sí di'-nguruthos" "here beneath death-horror", Mírdan recited perfectly.

When the exam was over and everyone was getting up to leave, Urzahil took a slate and stylus from his satchel and wrote out the line he hadn't been able to translate.

o men-el agl-ar el-en-ath

The word for 'star' appeared twice. The second instance was followed by suffixes.

el star

el-en stars

elen-ath all the stars

That was it! 'elenath' meant 'host of stars'. The phrase meant, "from something star something host of stars."

He studied the syllables around the first instance of 'star'. 'men' meant 'region' or 'neighborhood'.

men-el region star

That didn't make any sense. Yes it did, 'menel' was an archaic term in Quenya for 'firmament'.

So what was agl-ar? 'ar' usually meant 'high' or 'noble'.

ar-wen noble maiden

ar-nor noble land

ar-tano[2] high smith

ar-an noble man, king

But that didn't help him translate 'agl-ar'.

As a suffix, it modified the word before it. When '-ar' was used as a suffix, it meant 'extreme', just like '-on' mean 'a lot'.

Urzahil was reduced to guessing. What did the Elves say about stars? 'The countless stars in heaven's field'. No, countless was different than noble. How about 'the glorious host of stars'?

agl-ar glorious

"From the firmament, the glorious host of stars!" Urzahil shouted in triumph.

A group of students in the hall turned to stare at him. Chaered was with them, he must have heard, too. His face burning with embarrassment, Urzahil shoved the slate into his satchel.

Chapter End Notes

[1] "The countless stars of heaven's field"

[2] A name Sauron used during the Second Age when he lived among the Elves.

Chapter 11 – Leaving School

After the exam, Urzahil walked back to the Inn, his feet dragging. Something glittered beyond the city walls. Urzahil looked up, and the dazzling light caught him full in the face. He jerked away, blinded; purple after-images danced behind his eyelids.

The Pillar. Every time he saw it, he felt sick. It was humiliating. a constant reminder that Gondor had overrun the city, burned the Temple, and seized control of the Haven. Why hadn't anyone pulled it down?

-o-o-o-o-o-

When he reached the Boiling Frog, he crossed the courtyard and went straight to the stables to see to the horses.

He found a shovel and lifted pile after pile of manure into the wheelbarrow. He muscled the heavy barrow outside and dumped its contents onto the dung heap.

In his mind, he was at court, his silk robes sweeping the floor, the chain of office heavy around his neck. One nobleman and then another sought him out, asking a favor, spreading rumor, seeing alliance. Urzahil was in his element. He could read the ebb and flow of court intrigue with the skill of a sea captain studying ocean currents.

I always thought this is what I'd be doing when I came of age. I just assumed it would be metaphorical.

It took longer than usual to muck out the stalls, since he hadn't done it in the morning, and it was now later afternoon. When he finished, he carried bucket after bucket of water, then gave each of the horses an extra measure of oats, to make up for neglecting them this morning.

A big auburn stallion rubbed its broad forehead against his chest, either affectionate or itchy, it was hard to tell with horses. Normally that was something Urzahil liked, but today he wasn't in the mood.

"Yeah, right. I feed you, I water you, I shovel your poop, you should be grateful."

-o-o-o-o-o-

He'd been up later, his eyes were closing. When he was finished, he picked up his satchel and climbed the ladder to the hayloft for a few hours sleep before he began his shift in the tavern. The heavy satchel bumped against his hip with each rung, the noise woke the pigeons in the rafters, who stirred with a soft cooing and flapping of wings.

His head cleared the platform, and he froze. The hay was thinner near the edge of the loft, and piled up higher further back.

What if someone had seen his belongings, and realized he was living here? Or worse, found the purse with his tuition money in it? He sprinted across the loft and clawed through the hay in the corner where the ceiling was low. There were his clothes, and the school essays he had been saving. He kept digging. His fingers brushed the leather bag, fat with coins. He scooped it up and held it against his chest until his pulse returned to normal.

Urzahil emptied the leather pouch into his hand and counted the money. Tuition for the second term was due in three days. He didn't have quite enough, but he was only short by a little; two days' worth of tips on a good night, or five days on an average night.

What would bring someone up here? An amorous encounter? Ick. More likely, they just needed some hay. This was the hayloft, after all. He had no reason to think that anyone who worked in the stables was a thief, but he no longer felt comfortable leaving his money in the loft, unguarded.

What to do? He could hide it inside the feed bin, but he wasn't the only one who took grain from it to feed the horses. Sometimes a traveler low on funds who'd carry water and shovel manure in exchange for bed and board.

Urzahil hung his purse on his belt, but it had gotten so fat and round, it would show through the fabric. He put it in his coat pocket instead. He would hide his coat under the bar near the cash box where it would be safe.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Urzahil crossed the Inn yard and pushed open the door under the Sign of the Boiling Frog, jingling the door chimes as he came in. The Innkeeper stood behind the bar, rinsing tankards.

"Yule's almost here, we're going to be busy tonight. Set up some extra trestle tables in the middle of the room."

Urzahil nodded, and hung his coat on the peg near the door. He put on his apron, brought the trestle tables up from the root cellar and set them up in the middle of the common room, then brought up the long benches that went with them. He carried a keg up from the cellar, and set out extra tankards.

The dinner rush began in earnest. Urzahil took drink orders, carried heavy trays, and fetched extra loaves of bread. He set twelve tankards in front of twelve customers seated the length of one of the trestle tables.

"I didn't want the pale ale, I wanted the dark, my friend wanted the pale."

The man spoke politely, but Urzahil could tell he was exasperated. Urzahil couldn't keep making mistakes, it would cost him tips. Right now, he needed every copper. He reached over to switch the two tankards. One slipped through his fingers and struck the table, splashing ale on the scarred wood. Urzahil was lucky the whole thing hadn't tipped over.

Later in the kitchen, when he was scraping plates into the slops bucket, he looked around to make sure he was unobserved, then lifted a slice of bread and a chicken leg from a dirty plate for his own supper. Getting something to eat should help wake him up.

The Boiling Frog was busy that night, and Urzahil earned as much in tips as he ever had. One more night like this, or two more ordinary nights, and he could walk into the registrar's office with his bag of coins and register for the second term.

After closing, when all the chairs were empty and the pegs by the door were bare, Urzahil washed tankards and lined them up on the bar to dry. He took off his apron, upended the chairs on the tables, and swept the floors. For the first time all evening, he had a quiet moment to think. The tips were good tonight, but what if the next two nights were slow? What if he didn't make his tuition? He hated to think about that. He could ask Allard for a loan, but Allard was a careful businessman and tight with his money.

If he absolutely had to, he could take a coin or two from the cash box. Maybe it wouldn't really be stealing if he paid it back as soon as he could. But he couldn't get caught; he needed this job for next term, both for the tips and the meals. And Allard has always been kind to him, looking the other way when he took a piece of bread from a plate going back to the kitchen and slipped it into his pocket for tomorrow's breakfast, even though it took something away from the hogs.

He stepped behind the bar to look at the cash box. It was a heavy iron casket with a lid, bolted to the floor behind the bar, unlocked during business hours. Right now, it was locked up for the night. Something was wrong. His coat wasn't beside the cash box. He looked up and down the length of the bar. Maybe Allard had moved it when he locked the cash box.

"Urzahil, can you break down the trestle tables?" the Innkeeper shouted from the kitchen.

Almost the same words as when Urzahil came in that afternoon, right after he took off his coat and hung it on the peg by the door.

Urzahil looked at the door. The row of pegs was empty. There was a roaring in his ears, and he clutched the counter for balance. Maybe it had been taken by mistake, and would be returned tomorrow. Unlikely. But even if his coat were still on the peg, the coins might still be gone. Anyone coming through the door could have seen the bulge in the pocket. He slapped his forehead and cursed himself.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid!", but it didn't make it any better.

He walked home, hugging himself for warmth. It was a small thing, considering his other troubles, but he couldn't afford to lose a coat with winter coming on, and he didn't have any money for a new one.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Tuition was due in two days. If he didn't pay it, he wouldn't be in school next term. He considered his options. He could ask Lady Lintoron again, but even if she had the money, he wasn't on speaking terms with her right now.

Urzahil considered from whom he might borrow the money. He could only think of one person, Tar-Castamir. Tar-Castamir wasn't the wealthiest man in the Haven, that would be Tar-Marös, or possibly a merchant prince like Tûlmir's father, but Tar-Castamir had been his father's closest friend, and Urzahil had known him since childhood.

Urzahil rehearsed what he would say. He was asking for a loan, not a gift. He would only asking for exactly what he needed for tuition, not a copper more, and considered the terms of repayment to propose.

He went to the Castamiri house and knocked on the door.

While he waited on the doorstep, he imagined being shown to Tar-Castamir's study, and being invited to sit, and making small talk until the servant who poured the tea left the room, and it was time to bring up the reason for his visit. His mouth was dry. He hated being here. He didn't think Tar-Castamir would refuse him the loan, but he was deeply ashamed that he had to ask.

There were footsteps inside the house, and a servant opened the door.

"Please tell Tar-Castamir that Urzahil of the house of Lintoron wishes to see him."

"I'm sorry, Tar-Castamir's been at sea for two weeks. He'll be back for the Yule banquet he hosts every year." The servant closed the door. The sound of his footsteps inside the house faded and disappeared. Urzahil stood on the doorstep, uncertain what to do next.

The Castamiri Yule banquet was always held on the first day of Yule. That was one day after the deadline to pay tuition had passed.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Urzahil left the house and went back the way he'd come to avoid passing in front of his old house. Before he reached the safety of the square, his youngest brother Êruhil ran into him coming the other way. Urzahil kept his head down and picked up the pace, hoping Êruhil wouldn't see him.

"Urzahil, wait!" His brother's eyes were filled with pity.

Urzahil knew he looked bad; he was thin, his clothes were worn, and his hands were chapped from drawing water for the horses in the cold.

"Here, take this." Êruhil held out a few coins, the whole of his childish allowance. Urzahil refused but thanked him profusely, moved and embarrassed at the same time.

These last few weeks, Urzahil had only thought of himself. Êruhil, who was just a little boy, had serious troubles of his own. He'd lost his father only six weeks ago, and since then, the family had been plunged into a desperate situation. Urzahil missed him and wished he could move back home.

-o-o-o-o-o-

It was the last day of exams, and the last possible day to pay tuition and enroll in Second Term.

The sky was clear that morning, as it often was when the days got shorter. It would be cold tonight, there might even be a hard frost on the ground by morning. Winter was coming, and he couldn't go on sleeping in the loft much longer. He hugged himself to stay warm, and hurried towards the University for an exam on Númenorian History.

Caldûr collected their essays and dismissed the class, saying, "Enjoy your time off during Yule, and I'll see you all for History of Umbar next term."

The class was in a holiday mood, talking and laughing as they headed for the door.

Urzahil gathered up his books, reluctant to go. He wasn't coming back next term. He looked around, trying to commit every detail of this room to memory: the water-stained ceiling, the maps on the wall, the broken bench in the back row. Finally he hoisted the strap of his satchel over his shoulder and got up to go. His classmates had already gone. He hadn't said goodbye to anyone, he just wanted to slip away unseen.

He'd gone the length of the corridor and almost made it to the outer door when Caldûr caught up with him and put a hand on his arm.

"We need to talk. Will you join me for coffee?"

Urzahil allowed himself to be steered towards the Philosopher's Stone. It was warm inside, and it smelled of coffee and baking. They sat on the benches built into the wall, a low table in front of them. A serving maid came over, and Caldûr gave her his order.

"I'll have a coffee. Oh, and can you bring me a honey pastry too?"

"Nothing for me," said Urzahil. His stomach cramped with hunger. Whenever he saved a piece of bread from the Boiling Frog while scraping dishes after the evening meal, he ate it for breakfast, leaving nothing to eat at midday.

The serving maid came back and set the tiny cup and the triangular pastry with green nuts in front of Caldûr. Urzahil's stomach growled; he jammed an elbow into his side to stifle the sound, hoping his teacher hadn't heard.

"I can't eat all of this by myself. Will you help me?" Without waiting for an answer, Caldûr cut the pastry down the middle and put half in front of Urzahil. They ate in silence for a few minutes before his teacher turned to face him.

"What did you want to talk about?" Urzahil said, his voice carefully neutral.

"You haven't register for Second Term. I know how much you like going to school, and how much you want to be a scholar afterwards."

Urzahil looked away to avoid Caldûr's eyes. "I decided to get an early start on the rest of my life. I want to join the diplomatic service."

Caldûr slammed down the tiny cup so hard, the sludge-like coffee slopped on the table.

"You left school after one term, before you secured a position? Don't you realize it's almost impossible to enter the diplomatic service without completing University? Do you have any idea how stupid that was?"

Urzahil turned away. The smoke from the peat fire made his eyes sting, and he wiped them with the back of his hand. Outside, the clouds were low and grey, heavy with snow.

When he looked back, Caldûr was staring at the hole in the knee of his leggings. Urzahil crossed his legs to hide it, but he couldn't hide that his clothes were faded and threadbare, and that his hair needed cutting.

"Is this about money, then? I understand the pressure to work for wages rather than sit in a classroom. I know there are costs to going to school, even if your tuition is waived."

"I know, there's also room and board." Urzahil wished Caldûr would drop the subject.

"It's not just that, I was thinking of the lost wages. On the docks, a boy of fifteen or sixteen can earn as much as a grown man. My family really needed the money I could have earned, but every morning, I gathered up my books and went to school, and when I came home, I studied.

"I was the oldest of seven. We lived in a cottage with two rooms. A space walled off at one end served as my parents' bedroom. The baby's cradle was in there, too. The rest of us, and whatever relatives were staying with us at the time, lived and slept in a large room that was also the kitchen.

"It was noisy and crowded, and sometimes it was hard to concentrate. I used to sit at the table with my books around me, writing my assignments with someone chopping vegetables across from me, the younger kids fighting over a slingshot, and the dog barking." Caldûr looked off in the distance, smiling.

"Sometime, when there was money for oil, I'd light the lamp and stay up after all the others had gone to sleep. That was my favorite time to study, it was quiet, and the yellow lamplight washed over a dozen blanket-covered kids on their straw pallets. It kept the others awake, so I was only allowed to do it during exams at the end of term.

"We barely had enough for food, there wasn't a single copper left over for tuition, I couldn't have gone to University if they hadn't waived my fees.

"Go to the Head of the University and ask for help. Do it now, you have only a few hours before school closes for the Yule break."

-o-o-o-o-o-

Urzahil ran back to the University. The front door was still unlocked, but there were very few people around.

He leaned against the doorjamb of the Head's office, out of breath from running. After a minute, he straightened up and knocked. An aide opened the door and ushered him into the study of the Head of the University. The Head himself came in a moment later. He invited Urzahil to sit down on the far side of the massive table he used as a desk.

"I need help. My father died, and until the estate is settled, I'm without funds. I wanted to ask that my tuition be waived on the basis of hardship."

"I'd like to help you, Urzahil, but you don't have the grades for a waiver," the Head sat with his fingers tented.

Urzahil's hands balled into fists.

"Two of my teachers recommended me, Sindarin and History of Númenor. I began the term with excellent grades; it was only after I started working two jobs that my grades slipped. If my tuition were forgiven, I could focus on my studies again and do as well as I did early in the term."

"Most of the charity students have jobs, sometimes more than one. They still maintain excellent grades. But even if you had the grades, hardship waivers are traditionally for the sons of farmers and dockworkers who couldn't go to school otherwise, not the sons of wealthy noblemen momentarily strapped for cash."

Urzahil didn't want to reveal more, but unless he accepted charity, he'd have to leave school.

"I'm not a wealthy nobleman, I'm a poor relation. When my father died, I had to leave his house. I'm eating out of rubbish bins and sleeping in a barn. If you waived my tuition, my wages at the tavern would be enough for room and board at a lodgings house. I could have a desk, and an oil lamp to read by."

His face burned. He felt like an artist's model who had just undone the last fastener and let the smock drop to the floor.

"I have a confession of my own. Normally, a student in your circumstances with recommendations from two instructors would have been approved without question, but right now, we just don't have the money.

"The University is dependent on gifts from wealthy patrons and bequests in wills. We haven't received any this term, so we can't buy books for the library, maintain the buildings or grounds, or take on any new charity students. I'm sorry."

Urzahil nodded. Politeness required that he say, "That's all right" or "I understand", but the words stuck in his throat and he stumbled out of the room without saying anything.

Chapter 12 – The Yule Banquet

The sun was already up when Urzahil opened his eyes. Today was the first day of Yule. There were no classes to go to, all he had to do was look after the horses.

Actually, there was something he had to do. Every year, the House of Castamir hosted a celebration to welcome the Winter Solstice. It was always held on the first day of Yule. Even so, all during exam week, Ardamin kept reminding him of the date and making him promise to come. Tar-Castamir had been his father's closest friend. He couldn't skip the banquet just because he wasn't feeling festive right now.

He had another reason to attend. Urzahil hoped Tar-Castamir could help him secure an appointment to the Diplomatic Corps.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Urzahil heaved a shovelful of manure into the wheelbarrow, then went back into the stall to collect another. While he was poking through the straw, the auburn-colored stallion stood stiffly and took an extensive leak. Urzahil was used to horses. He paid no attention until the spreading puddle surrounded his boot and soaked his stocking. He jerked back, surprised. His boots used to be waterproof.

He put a hand on the side of the stall for balance and inspected the bottom of his foot. White wool peeked through a hole the size of a coin. The leather was almost worn through beneath the second toe as well. He checked the other boot. It wasn't much better, but there was nothing he could do about it now.

Once he finished with the horses, he climbed back up to the hayloft. He laid out his clothes in the straw and considered what to wear to the banquet that afternoon. Everything he owned was threadbare or dirty. Urzahil couldn't wear any of them, they were rags. But he couldn't skip the banquet, either.

If he'd been at home, he would have borrowed something of his father's. He was almost as tall as his father now. His father's clothes might be a little loose, but they would fit. Urzahil started for the ladder. He would go to the house and borrow something of his father's.

Unless his father's things had already been given to charity. That was sometimes done with the clothing of someone who'd died. Urzahil stiffened. He'd hate for his father's clothes to be given away to strangers. To a stranger, they were just clothes, or even scrap fabric.

He slid down the rails of the ladder and landed on the dirt floor with a thump, dusted himself off, and raced up the street to his father's house.

-o-o-o-o-o-

The house was silent. It appeared to be unoccupied. The grounds were tall with weeds, and the roof tiles that had come off during the storm hadn't been replaced. He looked around for his brothers, but didn't see either of them outside. He would have preferred to ask one of them to go inside and get the clothes for him.

He pushed open the gate and stood on the front walk, thinking. He could slip in by a side door to avoid being seen, but that was foolish, this had been his home for most of his life. He climbed the steps to the front door and raised his hand, but let it fall without knocking. He tried the latch. The door swung open at a touch. He stepped inside.

The front hall looked strange, as though everything were the wrong size. A moment later, it was normal again. That's when he noticed how bare it was. The ordinary cutter of family life was missing, as if nobody lived here anymore. A model ship that had always been over the archway was gone, only the brackets that held it remained. The patterned carpet under the hall table was gone too, and so was the copper fish that had perched on it since before he could remember. He'd always liked that fish, it troubled him that it was missing.

He listened, but heard no voices, no footfalls from within the house. It was past noon, they might have left for the Castamiri banquet already. He crept up the stairs as quietly as he could.

On the landing, he stood outside the door to his father's bedchamber and looked in. It was the same as before, sunlight came in from the balcony overlooking the garden, dark red bed-hangings hung from the carved wooden bed frame. He didn't want to go in, his father had died here.

At the foot of his father's bed was a large wooden chest, once filled with everything from tunics and leggings for everyday use, to embroidered silks formal enough for Court. Last year, his father wore the green brocade with gold embroidery. It wasn't the most expensive thing he owned, but it was his favorite. He was wearing it now, in the quiet of his tomb, the stiff fabric as still as the hands folded over the hilt of his sword. Urzahil blinked hard and pushed the thought away.

Urzahil stepped inside. The connecting door to Lady Lintoron's bedchamber stood open. The tapestry that used to hang in his father's room was gone, so were the carpets. He knelt in front of the clothes chest and raided the lid. It was empty.

"Urzahil! What are you doing here?" Lady Lintoron swept through the doorway between the two rooms. The lid slipped from his grasp and dropped on his hand.

Her eyes were cold. Why wouldn't they be? He'd entered the house to steal something, and she'd caught him at it.

"I can explain …" Actually, he couldn't. "I have nothing to wear to the banquet. I wanted to borrow something of Father's."

She sighed. "You couldn't just knock on the door and ask?" She left the room and returned a few minutes later with a wicker hamper. A tawny silk tunic with gold embroidery, which his father used to wear on formal occasions, lay neatly folded on top.

"The ladies from the Fishermen's society were supposed to pick these up, but they haven't come by yet."

She gave him the hamper. Urzahil knelt on the floor to look through it.

In addition to the golden-brown tunic, there were leather gloves, stockings, and linen shirts and wool leggings for everyday. At the bottom of the hamper, his fingers closed on soft leather, the long brown coat his father used to wear in cold weather. He folded each item and returned it to the hamper.

Lady Lintoron stood behind him for a moment, then reached under the bed and pulled out a pair of his father's boots.

"I expect you could use these, too."

She must have seen the holes in his boots. He squeezed his eyes shut, mortified.

"Try them on and see if they fit." She held them out to him.

He pulled them on. His father's boots were loose on him, but with two pairs of stockings, they would be fine. More than fine, they were well-made and new. He thanked Lady Lintoron and returned to the Inn, wearing the boots and carrying the hamper in his arms. The clothes smelled like his father, reassuring and poignant at the same time.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Urzahil climbed the ladder to the hayloft with the basket under his arm. He put on the brown and gold tunic and made his way to the House of Castamir.

The Castamiri Yule banquet was the most lavish event of the season. There would be at least seven removes, each one having three dishes or more. The entertainments between removes would include music, acrobats, and humorous skits between each remove. The banquet always began in the middle of the afternoon and ran until almost midnight.

Between the trip to the house where he grew up, going back to the Inn to change, and retracing his steps to the Castamiri house, Urzahil arrived at the banquet when the festivities were well under weigh. By then, so many people had packed into the cavernous entry hall, it was hard to move. Strains of music floated over the buzz of conversation.

He looked around. Even though he was used to it, the foyer of the Castamiri house always impressed him. Marble columns three storeys tall, life-size statuary on pedestals, weaponry mounted on the walls dating back to the Kinstrife, the civil war that devastated Gondor.

The marble foyer had been transformed. Garlands of greenery were draped over every doorway, wrapped around every pillar, and suspended from every railing. The room smelled of pine and juniper. A swag of evergreen hung from the balustrade over the heads of the musicians on the landing of the staircase, and the two statues at its base had been given wreaths.

When it was time to be seated for the feast, Urzahil followed the crowd into the Great Hall. The High Table was set up on a dais, with the Castamir family in the center and the highest-ranking families, the Marös and the An-Ardûmir, to their left and right. Lady Lintoron and her sons, Urzahil's half-brothers, were seated at the same end of the room, just below the dais in high-backed chairs with the other nobles.

Urzahil gave his name, and a servant showed him to his place in the back of the Great Hall. He took a handful of topaz-colored silk and lifted it high enough to step over the bench, taking care not to snag the gold embroidery. His seatmates were dressed in the subdued hues of the learned trades. One was a respected physician, another was the tutor for the younger Castamiri children. Urzahil was pleased about sitting with educated people. Last year, he had been seated between the captain of the guard and the steward who kept accounts for the estate. They were nice, but it was hard to find things to talk about.

His friend Ardamin, sitting at the High Table near Tar-Castamir, spotted Urzahil and waved. Urzahil waved back.

"I take it you're one of the nobility," said the physician.

"Tar-Lintoron was my father." Urzahil sat up a little straighter.

"Then why are you seated below the salt?" the physician asked.

"Lady Lintoron is not my mother."

-o-o-o-o-o-

During a break between removes, Urzahil got up and threaded his way through the throng in the entry hall. Beeswax candles burned in the chandeliers overhead; the scent of pine was joined by the scent of honey.

Fragments of conversations reached him as he moved from group to group.

"Tar-Adûmir is looking for a tutor for his sons. He'll be at home tomorrow to meet with applicants." Urzahil had never met the man, but he knew who he was, a minor envoy in the Diplomatic Corps.

A servant with a tray of spiced wine offered him a cup, but he waved the man away.

"… assemble enough men-at-arms to begin drilling in earnest …" Urzahil couldn't worry about the threat of war right now, he was focused on one thing.

He spotted Tar-Castamir was at the far side of the foyer, talking to several important men. Urzahil waited until they were finished, then approached Tar-Castamir before anyone else engaged him in conversation.

"Urzahil, I wanted to thank you for all the help you've given my son. He tells me he wouldn't have passed Diplomacy without your help. He says you can read a man's mind from his face and posture. That's a key skill for a diplomat."

Urzahil swallowed hard. "Tar-Castamir, that's what I came to talk to you about. I'm out of school now, and I'd like to enter the Diplomatic Corps."

"You left school after just one term. Before they'll accept you as an emissary, the Diplomatic Corps requires you to complete your course of study."

"I don't need to be an emissary. I'll take any position available, scribe, clerk, aide, it doesn't matter. I'll start at the bottom and learn the trade from within. I'm a hard worker." Urzahil's voice was rising, he tried to control it.

A shadow crossed Tar-Castamir's face. "Your education isn't really the issue. The Diplomatic Corps is driven by tradition and protocol. All of its members belong to the nobility. You don't have an ancient family name, and you can't be a diplomat without one."

"My father acknowledged me and raised me as his own. I've always gone by the Lintoron name."

"Legally, you aren't entitled to use it." Tar-Castamir looked severe.

The next remove was announced, and people began to move toward the Great Hall. Tar-Castamir pulled Urzahil between the pedestals of two statues and lowered his voice.

"If it were up to me, I'd give you a position today. The trouble is, I have to think of our counterparts from other nations. If a foreign emissary learned we'd sent them someone baseborn, he might take it as a slight. It could hurt the negotiations."

"I could work behind the scenes, writing out fair copy and making duplicates. The foreign embassy would never know I was there." Urzahil tried not to beg.

"I'm sorry, Urzahil, the stakes are too high. I can't risk it."

-o-o-o-o-o-

Urzahil joined the crowd going back to the Great Hall, and returned to his seat between the physician and the Castamirs' tutor. The next remove had already been served to the High Table and the nobles at the tables around the dais, and now the servers were setting dishes below the salt, one platter to every four people.

This remove consisted of meat pies with currant jelly, pears poached in red wine, and a green salad with pomegranate. Urzahil filled his plate and his wine cup too, though he had no appetite for either. He pushed food around on his plate with the tip of his dagger, pretending to eat.

He hadn't expected to be an envoy right away, not without completing University, but he had thought he could start as a clerk and work his way up. He'd never guessed that his illegitimacy would bar him from the entire profession, even the invisible, behind-the-scenes roles.

Perhaps he could be a private secretary or assistant to a great lord. He would attach himself to the most powerful man he could find, and make that man's fortunes his own.

When the dishes were cleared away, a group of musicians filed in and arranged themselves in the center of the square of tables, facing the dais. He would have liked to stay and listen to them, but he had work to do.

People got up and walked around during the breaks between removes, creating an opportunity to conduct business. All twelve members of the Council of Captains were here tonight. Urzahil knew Tar-Castamir, of course, and Tar-Marös, Adûmir, Miruvor, and Númendur. At least one of them must need a clerk, scribe, or an assistant of some sort, but none of them did.

He approached the other members of the council, great lords he barely knew by sight, but none of them needed a scribe.

-o-o-o-o-o-

It grew late, and the celebration began to wind down. Urzahil sat with Ardamin on a marble balustrade that separated a stone terrace from the sunken garden beyond it.

The waxing moon was high overhead, bleaching out the stars around it. To the west, the Sickle of Melkor[1] swung low on the horizon, its handle plunged into the sea.

It was cold out here. The chill crept through the thin silk of his formal clothes. He hugged himself and shivered.

"You're quiet this evening. Is something wrong?" Araman swirled the wine in his goblet.

Where to start? Urzahil hadn't told Ardamin that he was working two jobs, or that he'd been kicked out of the house, and was sleeping in a barn. Saying nothing was a form of lying, and it had gone on for so long, he was embarrassed about it.

"I don't feel very festive right now. This is my first Winter Solstice without Father. He always loved this season.

"I'm sorry."

Sounds reached them from inside the house, a few notes of music, the murmuring of peoples' voices, laughter. Bells rang in the distance, and then closer.

"There's something I haven't told you …" Urzahil's mouth was dry.

A door banged open and a servant called, "Castamir, your father is looking for you. It's late, and the guests are starting to go home. He wants you to come inside and say goodbye to them."

"I should go." Ardamin slid off the balustrade.

Castamir went inside, and Urzahil crossed the darkness of the garden to the main road.

He was approaching the gate through the old city walls when it occurred to him, he should have spoken to Tar-Adûmir about the tutoring position before he left the banquet. He would speak to him about it first thing in the morning.

Chapter End Notes

[1] the Big Dipper

Chapter 13 – The Merchant

Urzahil reached the sign of the Boiling Frog as the bells were tolling midnight. All he had to do now was climb the ladder, fold his father's good clothes, and collapse into the straw and fall asleep. Across the stable yard, the tavern windows were yellow squares of light. Inside, the Innkeeper was wiping tables and sweeping the floor.

Urzahil's hand flew to his mouth. The University closed for Yule, he'd assumed everything else did, too. It never occurred to him to ask for the evening off.

He sprinted across the yard towards the tavern, but stopped before he reached the door. He didn't want Allard to ask what he was doing here at midnight. He stepped into the shadows and crept toward the barn, taking care not to be seen.

-o-o-o-o-o-

It was full daylight when Urzahil opened his eyes. He realized he hadn't saved any fruit or bread from the banquet the night before, so he had nothing for breakfast. He put on his oldest clothes and spent the morning mucking out the horses' stalls. When he finished, he stripped off his shirt and washed in the trough where the horses drank, then changed into his father's best clothes, the ones he'd worn to the banquet yesterday.

He left the stable and headed for the Adûmir house to ask about the tutoring position he'd heard about the night before. Urzahil took his time getting there.

A tutor, usually a poor relation in a noble family, was paid in room and board but little else. It was understood that a tutor remained in the job only until a better offer came along, an officer's berth on a warship or a position as secretary to a great lord. Urzahil was no different, as soon as something better came along, he would thank them and give his notice.

He arrived at the house, a white coral-block manor house ten or twelve doors down and across the street from his father's house. He lifted the doorknocker, a bronze dolphin, and let it fall. There were footsteps within, the spyhole slid open, and an ancient servant peered through the grid.

"May I speak with Tar-Adûmir? I'm here about the tutoring position." Urzahil kept his voice deep and authoritative, and hoped his anxiety didn't show.

"Tar-Adûmir isn't available at the moment, but he'll be free this afternoon. Can you come back in the hour past noon?"

Urzahil agreed to the appointment and went for a walk through the city to pass the time. He followed the main road through the seaward gate down to the waterfront. Seabirds wheeled overhead, mewing. The wind carried the scent of salt.

Urzahil walked along the docks, looking at the ships tied up at the wharf. The scores of fishing boats were dwarfed by the great ocean-going warships, the sleek lateen-rigged vessels of the Corsairs. The largest, which bore the crest of the House of Castamir, unloading at the dock. Urzahil stopped to watch.

Corsairs with facial tattoos and greasy hair wrestled a long ramp through a gap in the bulwark and positioned it on the weather deck. They climbed the ramp onto the ship and came back down lugging gilded furniture, a rolled-up carpet, and crates packed with straw. They must be returning from a successful raiding trip up the coast.

They marched a group of five or six prisoners down the ramp, farmers or fishermen unfortunate enough to have crossed paths with the Corsairs. Chained together and were naked except for a rag tied around the waist, they'd soon be sent to the mines or put to the most dangerous work in the shipyard, unless they were sold to the desert traders first. Urzahil felt bad for them, their fields left untilled, their families worried where they were, but like piracy, slaving was an ancient tradition in Umbar. Urzahil tried not to think about it.

Urzahil continued down the wharf. The sound of hammering from the shipyards carried across the water. Spars and planks were being assembled into ocean-going vessels, the pride and strength of the Haven of Umbar. He watched as ribs were raised and made fast against the keel.

At the next pier, a wagon filled with barrels had been driven onto the dock, where broad-shouldered men loaded them into nets to be lifted by cranes into the cargo hold. Each barrel was marked with a heraldic device, a green mermaid on a white shield. He frowned. It was rare to see an unfamiliar emblem, since most of the nobility knew each other and recognized each other's badges.

The façade of the building opposite the pier sported a garish mural of a caravan of camels bringing cargo to a fleet of ships, which suggested it housed the offices of an import-export firm. Above the doorway arch, a shield was decorated with the same mermaid that appeared on the barrels. On closer inspection, it wasn't a heraldic device at all, it was a commercial painting like a tavern sign.

"Urzahil!" Tûlmir called the doorway, his plump cheeks bulging in a smile. "Come inside and have a cup of tea with me. We have pastries to go with it, the triangular kind with green nuts on top, and I'll have some meat pies sent in too, if you're hungry."

It was close to noon, and Urzahil hadn't had anything to eat since the previous day. His stomach growled. He pressed a hand against his middle to silence it. He hoped his classmate hadn't heard. Urzahil weighed the prospect of a good meal against its price, an hour of listening to the bouncing puppy dog. The merchant's son meant well, but he was exhausting to be around.

Urzahil followed Tûlmir inside. The lower part of the walls had been paneled in exotic woods, the costly materials carved with no particular skill. Above the paneling, the walls had been painted with a series of murals. Unfortunately, they had no more artistic merit than those on the façade.

Tûlmir showed him to a private room behind the main chamber. A servant poured tea. Another brought in a platter of food and set it on a low table. Tûlmir filled a plate for Urzahil and made small talk.

"What did you think of the price of kippers in the marketplace this morning? I never saw anything like it!"

Urzahil had no idea what he was talking about.

"Come on, your family owns a fleet of fishing boats, you must have heard. The catch was thin this morning, and someone bid the price up higher than it's ever been before. Even without a stake in the game, my heart was pounding!" Tûlmir's round face glowed with excitement.

"That's the first I've heard of it." And the last, he hoped.

"You really hadn't heard? Father says that the nobility care more about the 12th king of Númenor[1] than they do about the price of fish." Urzahil lifted a shoulder and let it drop.

"Urzahil, what I really wanted to ask you was, I saw next term's roster, and you're not on it. I'd hoped we'd be classmates again." Tûlmir looked genuinely grieved.

"I decided to start the rest of my life early. I'm looking into a position with the diplomatic service." As a tutor to a diplomat's sons, he didn't add.

"Without finishing school? I didn't know that was possible. Oh, what am I saying? You have family connections."

For what good it did. Powerful men all over Umbar had wished him well, but they hadn't actually used their influence on his behalf.

"But if the Diplomatic Corps doesn't work out, you should consider clerking for a merchant. No, seriously. You could travel with the caravans to Harad or Khand, and when you got there, you'd use every bit of diplomatic skill you have, negotiating the price of cloves. Even in Diplomacy class, half the exercises were more about commerce than politics."

"I really don't think…" Urzahil glanced around the room, looking for the door.

"Don't be too quick to dismiss a life as a merchant. We may not defend the city, but we do something just as important, we feed the people in it. We buy and sell the fish and the grain and the spices, we move things from where they're grown to where they're needed. We do things that matter to ordinary people, right now, today."

Judging from the openness of his face, Tûlmir really believed what he was saying, but this life was not for him. He glanced toward the door, and looked for a chance to make a polite excuse and get away.

"Father's looking for a counting-house clerk. The position comes with bed and board. You'd have to share a room with the apprentice, but you'd have your own bed. Living quarters are above the shop." Tûlmir mentioned a wage, and Urzahil's jaw dropped. A merchant's clerk made that much? Tûlmir must have misread Urzahil's reaction, because he added, "You could always ask for more. Father can pay, he's just careful with money. Act disinterested and walk away, he'll come around."

Maybe … no, it was impossible. Urzahil was not about to be drawn into Tûlmir's world, where people got excited about the price of fish and spent their money on bad art. Urzahil got to his feet and said goodbye.

Tûlmir followed him to the door, talking the whole time. "If you want the position, I'll tell my father I know you, and put in a good word. He should be back by mid-afternoon. Shall I tell him you'll stop by at, let's say, six bells?" To end the conversation, Urzahil agreed, even though he didn't plan to keep the appointment.

-o-o-o-o-o-

An hour past noon, Urzahil knocked on the door of the Adûmir house and was shown into Tar-Adûmir's study.

The interview went well. Tar-Adûmir had been a friend of Urzahil's father. They'd been on the Council of Captains together, and Tar-Adûmir was one of the men who'd helped hunt down the desert raiders, the natural-born diplomat who'd have preferred to talk before unsheathing their weapons.

Urzahil gave Tar-Castamir as a reference, and managed to work into the conversation his fondness for his two younger brothers and that he'd done well in his Diplomacy classes. He thought that he and Tar-Adûmir got along well.

On the way to the front door, the servant who showed him out told him the position had been promised to the first candidate who interviewed that morning, and that his master was only keeping the other appointments out of politeness.

Urzahil looked up and down the street, trying to think of another family that might need a tutor. The children who lived here were either as old as Urzahil, or too small to start school. A few families had girls, but it was an exceptional father that spent money on the education of a daughter.

Socially ambitious tradesmen, the merchants, moneylenders, fish brokers, and owners of large shops, sometimes hired tutors to give individual lessons to their children, but it wasn't steady work, and it didn't offer room and board. The houses of tradesmen weren't as large as those of the nobility. They didn't usually have extra bedrooms, or even space for an extra bed in one of the children's rooms.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Urzahil left the Adûmir house with his head down, walking fast, not looking where he was going. He came to in the center of the city. It was a market day, and he found himself pressed in by the crowd, struggling to breath. He started to maneuver around a slow-moving group of women, but was blocked by a fruit stand. He tried to squeeze between a donkey laden with earthenware jugs and a group of men locked in a heated discussion. He saw an opening and made for it but ran into someone, hard. Something hit the paving stones with a crunch, and there was a muttered curse.

"Watch it, you ill-mannered whelp." A man in brown and rust colored velvet was sitting on the ground, his cap crooked on his head. He glared at Urzahil, his narrow black eyes above a nose like a parrot's beak.

"You watch it. Don't you know to step aside for your betters?" Urzahil snapped back.

The man wasn't looking at Urzahil, he was on his hands and knees retrieving the pieces of whatever he'd dropped. It was a model ship, a nice one. The bowsprit was broken, the foresails hanging limp in a tangle of rigging. A jetsam of wood and brass littered the cobblestones. It had been a pretty boat. Urzahil's throat tightened.

The man shouted at his retreating back, "You think you're better than the rest of us, but you're not. You're just a …"

Urzahil turned on his heel and plunged into the crowd, too ashamed to apologize. He walked through the city streets for an hour. Over and over, he heard the words spoken at his father's funeral. "Tar-Lintoron was noble, Tar-Lintoron was courteous …". The scene in the marketplace kept playing through his head. He wished it hadn't happened in the first place, given that it did, he wished he'd held his temper.

Ding Ding, Ding Ding, Ding Ding.

The tower bells pulled him back to the present. It was six bells into the noon watch. Tûlmir must be wondering where he was.

Urzahil regretted his rudeness in making an appointment he didn't plan to keep. Plus, when he thought about it, he might like to travel to the east with a caravan and be their negotiator, even if it was only to haggle over the price of cloves.

The position clerking for Tûlmir's father paid well, and it came with room and board. His father used to say, if worst came to worst, Urzahil could always find work keeping the ledger books for a shipping merchant. It was respectable work, better than unloading freight on the docks.

He still had reservations about it. He was worried he would become like them, and cease to be one of the nobility. But it was only until he found a place as assistant to a great lord.

Urzahil rehearsed what he would say to the merchant. He pictured a middle-aged version of Tûlmir, a Tûlmir with steel-colored hair, ruddy jowls, and a middle over which the buttons of his waistcoat would barely fasten, with Tûlmir's friendliness and good nature.

Tûlmir liked Urzahil and had said he would put in a good word for him. Would it be enough? Tûlmir had aristocratic pretensions, probably his father did too. If so, he would welcome an aristocrat into their household.

Urzahil squared his shoulders and made his way back to the shipping office on the waterfront. He arrived at the façade with the garish murals ten minutes late and out of breath.

The door opened with a jingle or harness bells and a Teleri[2] merchant stepped out. Like all Elves, he was painfully beautiful, in a cold and distant way. Ice blond hair fell to his waist, and his clothes looked like the work of an artist. As he passed, he glanced at Urzahil but didn't acknowledge him with so much as a nod.

Urzahil caught the door before it closed and went inside. Tûlmir looked up from behind the counter and gave him a big smile.

"Father will see you now. I told him all about you." Tûlmir came out from behind the counter and led him to a small office.

"Father, this is Urzahil. He's come about the clerk's position."

The man behind the desk was wiry, black hair showed beneath his rust-colored cap. A servant was setting out tea and a small array of pastries. They were nice enough, but not the substantial meal Tûlmir had given him earlier that day.

The man finished writing and set aside his stylus, then looked up. His smile froze, and his black eyes narrowed over a nose like a parrot's beak.

"I didn't get the position, did I?" said Urzahil.

"No, you didn't," said the man he'd knocked down in the marketplace. "You may look like a great lord, but you're nothing more than a toad-eating boot-licker who's attached himself to a great lord."

He was wrong, Urzahil hadn't even managed to accomplish that much.

Urzahil fled the cramped room and stumbled out into the street. "Stupid, stupid, stupid!" Running into Tûlmir's father wasn't the worst thing he'd done. It was his behavior afterwards, cursing the man and walking away, instead of apologizing and helping to pick up the pieces. The least of his problems was that he'd never be able to face Tûlmir again.

Chapter End Notes

[1] Ciryatan the Shipbuilder, father of the Witch King.

[2] Valmar, Noldor, and Teleri are the three races of Elves.

Chapter 14 – The City of the Dead

Urzahil started walking, turning at random, too upset to notice his surroundings. He needed to talk to someone, but he couldn't bear to be around people just yet. He followed the back streets and didn't look up until the lane came to a stop against a low wall.

He looked up. The Dome of the Temple stood before him. He must have approached the compound from the back, because the City of the Dead was right before him.

He climbed over the wall and dropped to the other side. He'd only ever come here by the main gate, so it took him a little while to get oriented. The grounds were well cared for, suggesting wealth.

He searched for a few minutes before he found the Lintoron tomb. Against the iron door, there was an arrangement, not of wildflowers, it was too late in the year for that, but evergreen leaves with winter berries and rose hips, the last vestige of autumn. A stem had fallen loose from the arrangement and lay on the ground. He picked it up. It was fresh, it must have been left within the last two or three days. Lady Lintoron? Although so many people cared about his father, it could have been anyone.

He sat on the lid of a sarcophagus on the neighbor's plot. The afternoon sun had warmed the stone; it was warm under his legs. There had been frost on the ground that morning, but in the sun and the still air, he could still remember the summer. He swung his legs back and forth, his heels hitting the side of the sarcophagus.

He thought of his father inside the tomb, lying on a slab in his best court clothes. He'd worn them to the Yule banquet last winter solstice. The robe was green, with gold embroidery. He probably would have worn it again this year, had he lived.

"I'm not in school anymore, Father."

Urzahil pulled the stem of grass apart, rolling pieces between his fingers and letting the bits fall away.

"Ever since you left us, I've been so lost."

The air was still. A thrush scolded in the distance.

"I don't know what to do. I've worked harder than I've ever worked in my life, but it's not enough. It's like swimming against a riptide. I'm so tired, I can't do it anymore."

He thought about the other slab in the tomb, how nice it would be to lie beside his father when the time came. Perhaps if he'd joined the skirmish with the others, he'd be there now. As an illegitimate son, was he even entitled to lie in the Lintoron tomb? He wasn't sure.

"There's something else. I'm not in the nobility anymore. Maybe I never was. You and I weren't realistic about the circumstances of my birth, we pretended it didn't make any difference."

He pulled off another part of the plant, and a thistledown seed floated away on an unfelt draft of air.

But who said a bastard couldn't be a nobleman? Noble meant admirable, exalted, possessing an exceptional character.

His father had been a noble man, that's what they said at the funeral. They told how he died defended a tenant farmer who couldn't bring his bride home because the frontier where his farm was had become too dangerous. There must have been countless other instances where his father looked after others. He brought money to a young widow whose husband had been washed overboard in a storm. He took in a two-year old whose mother had died of a fever, even though he risked shame in the eyes of the neighbors and worse from his wife.

Would Urzahil have done anything that placed himself in danger, or even made him uncomfortable? He knew that he would not. Nobility had always meant privilege: fine clothes, a grand house, servants to look after him, not having to do manual labor, the feeling of smugness that accompanied high rank. Those things didn't confer nobility, they were privileges, and they were supposed to be earned.

Urzahil had been trying to understand how he fell out of the nobility. With a twist of his gut, he realized he'd never been noble. He'd always thought he was just like is father. What had his father been like? Courteous, selfless, brave. What was he like? A spoiled, sheltered youth who expected others to take care of him. Shame washed over him, his cheeks, his whole face, even the backs of his eyes burned with it.

"I don't even know who I am anymore. I look like you, but I'm not you."

He couldn't give his father a tomb, but he could try to be a living memorial to him. In the future, he would try to be more like his father.

"I will never be brave or skilled in arms, but I can pledge myself in service to those who are."

He dropped the ruined stem onto the ground and dusted off his hands. His old life was gone. He grieved the loss of it, then squared his shoulders. Whatever came next was up to him.

-o-o-o-o-o-

By the time the Sign of the Boiling Frog came into view, Urzahil had blisters on his feet. He would have to spend hours many more on his feet before he could lay down in the straw and sleep.

He didn't mind. After the disastrous interview with the merchant, he welcomed the chance to wipe tables clean and scrape plates. It was familiar, mindless work; he wouldn't have to think. He pushed open the door to the tavern and stepped inside. The harness bells jangled and the innkeeper looked up, looking embarrassed.

"Urzahil, I forgot to tell you, my sister's family is coming up from the countryside for Yule. My nephew wants to leave the farm and live in the city, so he'll be staying on afterwards."

That's nice. Do I care?

"He'll be working at the Boiling Frog. The thing is, there's two of you and only one job. You haven't done a thing wrong, I'm happy with your work, but you have to understand, it's between you and my sister's boy."

The shock must have shown in his face, because the innkeeper looked even more distressed.

"I'm sorry to give so little notice. Tell you what, you can work here tonight. What do you say?"

-o-o-o-o-o-

After the last customer had left, after he'd stacked the stools on the tables and swept the floors clean for the last time, Urzahil stepped out into the Inn yard. The harness bells jingled as the door clicked shut behind him, and the moon hung in the sky like a silver coin.

He headed for the barn, staying in the shadow and taking care not to be seen. He had no good reason to be here, now that he didn't work at the Boiling Frog anymore. He didn't want anyone to know he was living in the barn. Tomorrow, he would have to find somewhere else to sleep.

He felt his way through the darkened barn. His hand found the ladder, and he climbed it to the hayloft. It was lighter in the loft than in the darkened barn below, light from the full moon came through a square window in the gable and turned the straw silver-white. Urzahil wrapped his father's coat around himself and lay down to sleep.

Urzahil wondered if there really was a nephew. He hadn't seen him at the Boiling Frog that evening, although it was possible the relatives from the country hadn't arrived yet.

The pale rectangle moved across the straw during the night. The temperature dropped, and a silvery frost formed on the roof tiles of the Inn. Urzahil wrapped his arms around himself and shivered. He didn't know what he was going to do.

Chapter 15 - The Shipyard

In the hours before dawn, he gave up trying to sleep. He considered his options. He could be a servant in someone else's house, at least it would let him sleep indoors. But he didn't think his father's friends would engage him to answer their door or tend their horses.

Perhaps his mother's people would take him in. His father had pointed out the path that led to her village. He thought he could find it again. He was strong enough for farm work, and he could teach the younger children to read, but it was winter, there would be no work for a farmhand until spring.

He needed to find work right away. Tomorrow, he would go down to the docks and stand in line with the other day laborers for a chance to unload cargo or hammer ribs onto the frame of a ship.

He got up and put on his oldest clothes, the leggings with the hole in the knee and a frayed shirt. He added a second shirt for warmth. Anything he could wear was something he didn't have to pack.

The moon was low on the horizon, and the patch of light had moved to the far edge of the hayloft. He brought his satchel over to it, and took everything out, his books, some essays he'd saved, and the box holding his pens and ink. He set them aside. Most of the books were thick and heavy. The satchel weighed almost nothing without them.

He packed a single change of clothes. There was still some room left. History of Númenor went back in the satchel, and Diplomacy, his best subjects. The satchel was so full, he wasn't sure he could close it. He'd have to leave his other books behind. Sindarin, that was easy. He wanted to take Astronomy and Coastal Geography, but there wasn't room. He tried to decide whether to keep his essays.

He was about to buckle the flap closed when he knelt on something hard. He dug it out from under the straw. A river rock, his painted crab. The last thing he needed was to carry a rock around all day. He put it on the pile of things to be abandoned, but his fingers wouldn't let it go. He tucked it in the satchel, wrapped in a shirt so the paint wouldn't get chipped.

Everything else would have to be left behind. There was no room for his father's clothes, not even the brown tunic with gold embroidery he'd worn to the Yule banquet. He'd hide them in the far corner of the loft, deep in the straw where they wouldn't be found, or worse, thrown away.

It was still dark. Before anyone came to take care of the horses, He slipped out by a side door that couldn't be seen from the main building and disappeared down the street.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Urzahil left the city by the Main Gate. The sky was midnight blue, not even beginning to get pale in the east. He took the path that wrapped around the city walls down to the waterfront. It was longer than the route through the city and out the Seaward Gate, but there was less chance of being seen, although he couldn't imagine that anyone he knew would be awake yet.

The sounds of desert insects, unnoticed during the day, filled the night air. The sun wouldn't be up for another hour. It was hard to keep to the path in the dark. Burrs from weeds at the edge of the path clung the fabric of his leggings.

He rounded the northern tower, and all at once, the whole harbor was laid out before him. The moon hung just above the horizon, its reflection a wavering ribbon on the surface of the ocean, silver white. The harbor was a forest of masts, at least thirty ships were tied up at the quay, and more were anchored further out.

Pebbles skidded under his feet as he tried to slow his pace on the steep slope. Eventually the path leveled, and he found himself in the shadow of the wall enclosing the harbor. The path was blocked by a gate in the wall, closed and locked.

Beside it, a brass bell hung from a bracket in the wall. He pulled the rope to rouse the gatekeeper. The peal was unexpectedly loud. The spyhole slid back and a face appeared, the bolt was drawn, and the gate swung open to admit him.

A short path led to the quay. To the left, the great ocean-going vessels were berthed at the busiest part of the quay, at the foot of the road that led up to the city's seaward gate. The ships rocked on the swell, the sound of halyards slapping against the masts traveled over the water. In the other direction was the shipyard. He turned to the right, towards the shipyard.

Even though the sun was not yet up, a line of men snaked back from the entrance to the shipyard. Who would have guessed so many would come here in the dark and stand in line for a chance to wield a tar brush or hammer pegs into the ribs of a ship under construction? Tomorrow, he would make sure to arrive earlier.

The men were of every age and nationality. Almost all of them were muscular through the arms and shoulders. Urzahil, while strongly built, had never done physical labor in his life. He was beginning to have doubts about the whole thing.

Urzahil joined the line, which continued to grow behind him. Seabirds cried overhead. The surge slapped against the wharf. He switched his satchel to the other shoulder. It wasn't even light yet, and already the strap was digging into his shoulder.

The line moved forward a step at a time. The Foreman pointed men toward one or another of the vessels under construction. Soon there were only three men in front of him.

"No experience? Go to the back of the line, I'll only use you after everyone else has been assigned," the Foreman said, and the poor unfortunate shuffled to the end of the column, his head down.

The next man must have met with the Foreman's approval, because he headed in the direction of a ship that was nearly completed. The man after that stepped up.

"You! Whenever you're here, tools go missing. Get out!" The man almost ran off. The Foreman shouted at his retreating back, "I won't have a thief in my shipyard!"

It was Urzahil's turn next. He had no experience either, the Foreman would send him to the back of the line, too. Before the Foreman could say anything, Urzahil spoke first.

"I'm big and strong, and I follow directions. What will I be working on today?"

It was a trick he'd learned in Diplomacy, act as if the decision's already been made in your favor. As often as not, it worked.

The Foreman looked him over. "Think you can swing a hammer?" Urzahil nodded. The Foreman turned to the man beside him. "He'll be helping Jenris on the new warship under construction. Show him where he needs to be, and find him some tools."

Urzahil followed the Foreman's assistant into the shipyard. A dozen or more ocean-going vessels were in various stages of completion, from bare ribs reaching skyward to vessels with their masts stepped, complete except for canvas and rigging. The sound of hammer-blows echoed off the cliffs behind them.

As they walked through the shipyard, his nostrils was filled with the smell of pitch and new wood. Smoke stung his eyes. They were passing a low shed. A tink tink came from within, a hammer against metal. Inside, a man raised a hammer and struck the glowing metal.

The scarred surface of a workbench in front of the smithy was covered with an assortment of hammers, chisels, planes, awls, and other tools of the shipbuilding trade whose purpose was a mystery. The assistant selected a medium-sized mallet and gave it to Urzahil.

The man stopped in front of a skeleton of a ship, a keel and ribs on a frame encased in scaffolding. Two men lifted a plank and set it on sawhorses, holding the plank with one edge was upward. Someone drew a two-handed plane along the edge, raising pale curls of wood from a stepped joint. The ground was covered with wood shavings and sawdust. Curls of wood crunched underfoot.

"Each plank is shaped just so before it's fastened in place. That man shaping the lapped joint is as skilled as a cooper."

The Foreman's assistant climbed a short ladder and beckoned Urzahil to follow. He spoke to another worker already in the scaffolding.

"I've brought you a helper. After you proof the sud, he can clinker the strakes."[1]

Urzahil imagined his Sindarin teacher pacing in front of the podium. "Come on, Urzahil, it's not that hard. 'Clinker the strakes.' Think of shipbuilding and new wood." Urzahil faked a cough, covering a grin with his sleeve.

-o-o-o-o-o-

The work turned out to be straightforward enough. Urzahil's job was to attach the long planks onto the ribs of the ship by driving large square nails with a mallet. The planks, softened with steam to make them flexible, were held in place by two strong men. Jenris painted the lapped joint between planks with sud, a mixture of pine pitch and wool, to make the seam waterproof, and Urzahil nailed it in place.

The Foreman's Assistant moved around the hull, overseeing a dozen workers. From time to time, the Foreman himself came over to supervise the work.

Later, Urzahil saw the Foreman talking to an older man. The Foreman was holding his cap in his hands, his posture deferential.

"He's talking to the Master Shipwright," said Jenris.

The Shipwright was consulting a drawing held open by two youths who looked like apprentices. The Shipwright traced along the drawing while he gave instructions to the Foreman, who nodded but didn't speak. Clearly, Shipwright was an exalted position here. Urzahil guessed the apprentices had a promising future.

Urzahil had been so offended when Lady Lintoron urged him to apprentice himself to a shipwright. What had he said to her? "May I never fall so low …" Had he taken her advice, his life would be better now.

-o-o-o-o-o-

The city bells struck noon, and all the workmen laid down their tools. Urzahil put down his mallet, hitched the strap of his satchel over his shoulder, and followed the other men. They walked through the shipyard until they reached the corner where the quay through the shipyard met the wharf where ocean-going vessels tied up to unload their cargo and take on supplies.

Crowds had already formed around the stands that served hot food. Urzahil joined the line in front of a stand that sold triangular pastries filled with potatoes and peas, and tea in earthenware cups.

"The cups are a loan. It's bad form to take them very far from the stand," Jenris told him

The men in the crowd were not just shipyard workers, there were also dockworkers and what looked like sailors from the big ocean-going ships. One wore a headscarf from Harad, another had an ornamented belt from a Haven south of here. They looked like Caldûr, dressed in souvenirs from his travels.

The sailor with the headscarf was saying, "…you don't really know your own country until you've left it." Urzahil agreed. He hadn't understood what it meant to belong to the nobility, until he'd left it.

He felt inside his purse, debating how much to spend. When he reached the front of the line, he pulled out a large copper coin and asked for two of the pies and a cup of tea. He waited to hear how much more he owed, but the woman gave him two farthings in change along with his food.

He joined the other workmen from the shipyard on a low wall separating the quay from the street and sat beside Jenris to eat. Even without meat, the pastries were surprisingly good. He would come back to this stand tomorrow.

A group of Corsairs from one of the warships walked by, with long knives at their belts. The one with a scar over his eye was saying to his shipmates, "We used to be able to sail upriver all the way to Pelargir, but no more. Gondor controls the Anduin all the way down to the sea. Their ships are everywhere, and when we tried to raid a farm on the riverbank, we were met by armed men."

"Aye, it didn't used to be like that, not even five years ago. Gondor is flexing its muscles. It may come to blows sooner than we expect."

What would happen if invaders surrounded their walls? Every man and boy would be expected to raise a sword or spear to defend the city. The quay in front of him swam. Don't think about it.

Urzahil thought about where he was going to sleep tonight. He knew how much it cost to stay at the Boiling Frog, and he simply didn't have that much. He leaned over to Jenris. "I'm new here. What's the price of a bed for the night?"

"If you're asking about a bed at an Inn on the waterfront, it would run you at least twelve coppers, with supper and breakfast extra."

Urzahil frowned. It was less than the price of a room at the Boiling Frog, but it was still more than he could afford.

"I'll expect you'll be wanting basic lodgings, then. A place on the floor over an alehouse will run you four coppers, and that includes supper and breakfast. You have to watch out for the extra fees, though. If you want a straw pallet instead of the floorboards, it's two coppers extra.

"If you want a pillow or blanket, it's another copper each. Be sure you arrive before they stop serving meals. You can't just get there late and expect them to fix you a plate. It's not going to happen.

"One more thing, the places that cost the least go the fastest. Try to arrive as soon as they open, within an hour of quitting time. Otherwise, they'll be full and you've have to pay Inn prices." The man returned to his dinner.

Between today's wages and three days' worth of tips, he ought to have enough for supper and a bed, or to be exact, a straw pallet on the floor. The sky was clear. It looked like it was going to be cold again tonight. He might splurge on an extra blanket.

He finished eating and returned the cup. It wasn't time to go back yet, and wouldn't be until the bells rang again, so he went for a walk along the quay.

A huge warship bobbed on the swell. Its black, lateen-rigged sails identified it as one of the ships of the Corsairs, a beautiful vessel, sleek and built for speed. He went over to have a look. A burly man peered into the water beside the hull.

"It's not that cold, stop yer complaining." His voice was menacing.

There was a splash; two men were swimming beside the hull. They disappeared under the water for intervals, and a scraping sound came from beneath the water until they broke the surface, gasping for breath. The neck of each man was encircled by a thrall ring, the iron collar that marked one as a slave.

"There better not be a single barnacle left on this hull, or you'll regret it." The overseer smacked a rod into his palm. It wasn't pleasant to watch, so he moved on.

Across from the piers where the cargo ships unloaded was Merchants' Row, the buildings that housed the offices of counting houses and import-export firms.

Most of the buildings had paintings on the façade indicating the nature of the business. He walked along looking at them, until a garish mural of camels and ships stopped him in his tracks.

I know your type. You're not a great lord, you're just a bootlicking little toady who's attached himself to a great lord.

Urzahil's face burned. He wheeled around and almost ran in the other direction.

He'd botched the chance to become a counting house clerk. It would have been comfortable life, until the ostentatious house filled with bad art started to get on his nerves, or worse, until he began to despise the tradesmen's preoccupation with wealth and their disregard for duty and tradition. He wasn't one of them. He'd had a lucky escape, he wouldn't have been happy in their world.

The merchant's words stung because he was right. Urzahil knew himself. He wasn't brave, and he wasn't courteous, but he was hardworking and loyal. He wanted his old life back, and he wasn't going to win it by strength of arms. He needed to find a noble lord, someone who needed an assistant or a scribe, and serve that lord to the best of his ability.

He went back to the shipyard. The hammering had fallen silent during the noon break, but the smells of shipbuilding were all around him, new wood, pine pitch, and the smell of the hemp used to make rope.

Beyond the new ships under construction, damaged boats were being repaired. There was one ocean-going ship here, but the rest were mostly coastal vessels. A large fishing vessel was tied to the pier, its mast snapped, its hull was covered with canvas. It had been there for some time, the canvas was beginning to mildew.

The prow was shaped like a wolf's head, it was a Lintoron boat, their largest and the closest thing they had to an ocean-going vessel. It must have been damaged in the storm eight weeks ago, the day his father was wounded. It didn't take eight weeks to repair a mast, nor did it appear that any work was being done on it. His family must not have the money to repair it, but if it wasn't going to sea, the boat wasn't earning any income.

Urzahil found he enjoyed the work, which was more craftsmanship than manual labor. The repetitive hammering lulled him into a meditative state, and he saw his life with great clarity, as if viewing it from a distance.

He swung the hammer, driving an iron nail deep into the wood.

"No wait, the strake isn't lined up yet!" Jenris cried.

Urzahil immediately realized his mistake. The two strakes weren't overlapped. There was a gap a big enough to put a finger through for the sea to pour in. If the sticky pine pitch were allowed to cool, it would be much harder to pry the strake loose.

Urzahil grabbed a chisel and wedged it under the strake. He pulled, but it didn't move. He struck the haft with the mallet.

"You have to use a pry bar for that! A chisel is a delicate …"

One hard blow, and snap. Urzahil blinked. Half of the chisel lay in his hand, the other half poked out from under the strake.

The assistant Foreman came over and gave Urzahil a pry bar. "Don't worry about it, everyone breaks a tool on their first day. It doesn't happen often after that."

After the assistant Foreman left, Jenris leaned over and whispered, "They charge you for whatever you break. Good thing it was the chisel and not the boat." He slapped his knee, laughing at his own wit.

ting ting ting ting ting

Five bells into the noon watch[2]. The men around him put down their tools and began gathering up their belongings. Back at the University, he'd still be in Coastal Geography, with Númenorian History still to go.

Urzahil put on his father's coat and picked up his satchel. The assistant Foreman slapped him on the back. "You're a hard worker, you're responsible, and you follow instructions. Come back tomorrow, and I'll have something for you. But be here early, the places go fast."

Urzahil followed the crowd and joined a line leading to a plank over two barrels, where a man sat with a ledger book and cash box. One by one, each of them gave his name and was paid his wages for the day, eight coppers apiece. Urzahil reached the front of the line and gave his name.

"I have to dock you four coppers for the chisel. Bad luck, that. It will teach you to be more careful next time." The man counted out four coppers and handed them to him.

Urzahil nodded and kept his face still. He remembered kneeling on the boards in front of the podium in Caldûr's class, grit from the floor in his mouth, his classmates laughing. In those role-playing exercises, he'd learned to control his temper. Without them, he would have done something unforgiveable and not been allowed back here tomorrow.

Chapter End Notes

[1] "After you proof the sud, he can clinker the strakes" are traditional Viking shipbuilding terms meaning, "After you caulk the overlap, he can fasten the plank in place".

Chapter 16 - The Seminary

Work at the shipyard had ended in mid-afternoon. If he were still in school, Urzahil would be in the fourth class of the day, with one more to go.

Class Standings had been posted that morning. Urzahil was tempted to go to the office of the Head of the University to see how he'd done, but the University was a long way from the waterfront. He had more immediate concerns. He needed to find a place to sleep in an alehouse before they were all taken for the night, He wanted to do it before the sun set; it wasn't safe to wander the alleys near the waterfront after dark.

He wasn't returning to school after the Yule break, it didn't matter if he'd done well or badly. But still, he'd worked hard all term. Even though he'd struggled in the last weeks, he still wanted to know how he'd done.

At the corner of the quay, he stopped. The waterfront was to the right, supper and a bed for the night lay in that direction. The path up the bluff was left. He paused, then turned left and retraced his steps up the steep bluff, circling outside the city walls to the Main Gate.

Ten minutes later, he reached the main hall of the University. The front door were unlocked, and the empty classrooms smelled of chalk and wet wool. The halls were empty, the echo of his own footfalls sounded unnaturally loud.

Urzahil stopped in front of the office of the Head of the University. The door was flanked by a pair of corkboards. Five pieces of paper were pinned to each, titled in large block printing. The pages on the left bore the names of the first year courses: Diplomacy, Sindarin, Coastal Geography, Astronomy, and Númenorian History.

Other students said that the lists contained the names of all the students in class, rank-ordered according to how well they'd done. The best students were on top. A red line drawn through the bottom of each list separated those who had passed from those who had not.

It was ironic, given that his first choice of profession was to teach at the University after graduation, he was leaving school after one term, afraid to look at his grades. Some scholar he turned out to be.

Urzahil looked at Númenorian History first. Caran was at the top of the list and Gaerna was second, but Urzahil was in the group right behind them. Diplomacy was the same.

He considered leaving without looking at his place in Astronomy or Coastal Geography. Had his father lived, Urzahil would have been safely in the middle of the pack. As it was, he wasn't at all sure he'd passed at all. It didn't matter, he wasn't in school anymore. He took a deep breath and looked. His name was two or three places above the red line in Astronomy. Coastal Geography was the same. Not bad.

He might as well know the worst. Sindarin. Just get it over with. He looked at the list. His name was last. However, the red line had been drawn below his name. Everyone in the class had passed. He was the worst Sindarin student in the school, but he had passed. He strolled towards the front entrance, singing the only Elvish song he knew that wasn't sad.

-o-o-o-o-o-

It was past time to go back to the waterfront and find a place to sleep tonight. He couldn't afford a bed, but a straw pallet on the floor would be fine. It would be indoors out of the cold, and right now, that was good enough.

He still couldn't believe he'd passed Sindarin. His Sindarin teacher had been one of those standing in the hall after class when Urzahil finally translated, "O Menel Aglar Elenath" as "From the Firmament, the Glorious Stars". Chaered must have heard. Maybe he'd been looking for an excuse to pass Urzahil, and that had been enough.

Urzahil paused in front of the Philosopher's Stone out of habit, before remembering his wages had been docked. He couldn't spend money on coffee when he had barely enough for a place to sleep that night.

Something on the cobblestones caught his eye, a copper coin. He picked it up. It would easily cover the price of a cup of coffee. He wouldn't have spent the money in his purse, but this was found money, and he wanted to celebrate how well he'd done.

Flames crackled in the fireplace against the back wall. He crossed the room and sank down onto the hearthstone, dropping his satchel by his feet. The fire felt warm against his back. He felt himself starting to relax.

The serving maid came to his table with a tray resting against one hip. She took his order and came back with a tiny cup of thick coffee, which she set on the low table in front of him. She was pretty, and she smiled at him. He gave her his found-money copper and told her to keep the change.

The coffee was strong and sweet, he couldn't remember when he'd enjoyed it more. He stretched out his legs in front of him, and his eyes started to close. The towers rang eight bells. If this were a school day, he'd just be settling into Númenorian History, with an hour of lecture in front of him, but today, between lining up for work in the dark and doing physical labor all day, he could fall asleep at any time.

"Look who's here! I thought you'd be gone for Yule by now." Caldûr sat down on the hearth next to him.

The serving maid came back to their table, and Caldûr ordered coffee and a pastry. She asked Urzahil if he'd like another coffee, but he said he was fine. She came back a few minutes later with the tiny cup and the pastry, which Caldûr split with Urzahil.

After she left, Caldûr asked, "You're all set for next term? They forgave your tuition?"

Urzahil lifted a shoulder and let it drop. "It didn't work out."

Caldûr's face went still. "You didn't apply. Perhaps you thought accepting charity was beneath you."

"I did apply, but there's no money for charity students right now."

"I'm sorry. I wish I could help," Caldûr said softly.

They ate in silence. The serving maid brought a tray to another table, and an ember popped in the fireplace.

Caldûr sat bolt upright and smacked his forehead. "I'm an idiot! Why didn't I think of it before?

"A friend of mine teaches at the Seminary. He came to me in a panic this morning because one of his students left suddenly to work in the family business. The Seminary wanted to fill the slot right away. Did I know of anyone who might be interested?

"I told him I couldn't help him. My charity students were already taken care of, and I didn't think any of the others would be interested. After he left, I didn't give it another thought. Had I known, I'd have given him your name right away."

Urzahil wasn't sure he'd have been interested. Even though the acolytes' school fees were covered by the Temple's endowment, a Seminary education wasn't free. Acolytes owed the Temple a year of service for each year of training they received.

"I don't know. I've never considered entering the priesthood." Urzahil didn't add that he wasn't religious at all.

"Did I mention that, in addition to free tuition, it includes room and board, plus a small stipend for pocket money?" said his teacher.

The priesthood was a prestigious profession. The Temple was an impressive building reflecting the wealth of the community that built it, and unlike the University, the Temple grounds were lush and well maintained.

"Would they even take me? I'm not very observant."

"They don't care what you think. They only care what you do, and how you look doing it. Look, we're wasting time. They want to fill the position right away. Today, if possible."

"Why today? The next term doesn't begin until next week," said Urzahil.

"They want to give the new acolyte time to catch up. You'll have to spend the entire Yule holiday in the library studying History of the First Age, Black Speech, and Sorcery. But you're a hard worker, I think you can manage."

Urzahil imagined himself at a table with books piled around him, reading by the glow of lamplight, his only duty to study. At regular intervals, the bell would call him to the refectory for meals he didn't have to cook himself, or wash up afterwards.

But what chance did he have of being chosen? Slim to naught. If he went to the Seminary this afternoon, he wouldn't get back to the waterfront before dark. At the very least, the Seminary interview would cost him supper at the lodgings house. And since the lodgings houses filled up quickly, it might even cost him the chance to sleep indoors tonight since he couldn't afford a bed at an inn. Going on the interview wasn't smart.

"Do you want it? I'll write you a letter of recommendation right now." Caldûr flagged down the serving maid and asked her for writing tools. She came back with a steel-nibbed pen, a small bottle of ink, and a sheet of paper. Caldûr spread them out on the small table. Urzahil watched while he wrote. The letter said Urzahil was intelligent and a hard worker. It said nothing about Urzahil's marks.

"Take this to the Hall of Acolytes and give it to Tarcundo. Don't entrust it to a clerk, put it into Tarcundo's hand."

"I'll go right away. I just need to change clothes." Urzahil was still wearing his oldest clothes, the ones he'd worn to the shipyard. He lifted his arm and was offended by his own smell.

The Boiling Frog wasn't that far from the Temple. Both were within the old city walls, although on opposite sides of the main road. He could stop by the Frog and change into something of his father's. It wouldn't cost him more than half an hour.

Caldûr jumped to his feet and started waving his arms. "You don't have time to change, they may have filled the position already. Go to the Hall of Acolytes right now, with no stops along the way. It's already late afternoon, and I don't know when they're going to stop accepting candidates."

-o-o-o-o-o-

Five minutes later, Urzahil was hurrying along the street, hugging himself for warmth. This morning, there had been frost on the ground and a thin skin of ice on the water in the horse trough. He entered the gate through the old city walls. He neared the street along the inside of the wall that led to the Boiling Frog, and kept going.

The Temple of Melkor sat inside a walled compound that included living quarters for the priests, school buildings, and the acolytes' dormitory. It was a self-contained world with courtyards, walkways, and gardens.

It was late in the afternoon and people were already starting to go home, but Urzahil was still able to find someone to give him directions to the acolytes' hall.

Inside, a bored-looking clerk sitting behind a table was interviewing a young man who stammered his answers. The clerk repeatedly asked the next question before the applicant could finish answering the previous one. After a minute or so, the official put down his stylus.

"Very good, we'll let you know." He bent down and wrote a few notes on a wax tablet. "That will be all."

The youth smiled too brightly and thanked him over and over. After he left, Urzahil squared his shoulders and stepped up to the table.

He wasn't going to leave his precious letter of recommendation with an indifferent clerk.

"I'm looking for Tarcundo." He held the letter, but didn't offer it to the clerk.

"I'm Tarcundo, and you might be?"

"Urzahil of the House of Lintoron. I'm here about the acolyte vacancy. Caldûr, the History instructor at the University, personally recommended me for the position." He gave Tarcundo his letter. Tarcundo broke the seal and read it, then looked Urzahil over.

"This says you're from a good family. Perhaps you do live in a great house, as a servant. We're not looking for candidates who are only here for a warm bed and free meals."

"I'm a member of a good family, but a poor relation." Urzahil drew himself to his full height.

Tarcundo tossed the letter on top of a pile on the table. "We'll let you know." He didn't ask Urzahil where he could be reached.

"I'm an excellent student and a hard worker. I learn quickly," said Urzahil. Tarcundo gave no sign that he'd heard.

"May I speak to the Master of Acolytes?" Urzahil wasn't going to give up easily.

"He's already left for Yule. He has family in the provinces, he won't be back until the start of term." Tarcundo picked up his wax tablet and smudged out whatever he'd written.

A man about his father's age stuck his head in the door. He wore the silver-grey robes of a priest.

"Does someone need to see the Master of Acolytes? I'm filling in for him while he's gone." His face brightened when he saw Urzahil. "Urzahil! You're the very image of your father."

It was Súrion, one of his father's closest friends. He'd come to the house after Aranelaith's wedding, and spoke at Urzahil's father's funeral.

"You'd like to join us in the priesthood? Excellent, it's settled then. Let me give you the tour, and I'll show you where you'll be sleeping." Súrion led the way inside, looking over his shoulder and talking.

Tarcundo started to protest. "The day's not quite over, there may be other candidates. What shall I tell them?"

"Thank them for their interest, and invite them to apply again next year," said Súrion.

-o-o-o-o-o-

"This is the library."

The whitewashed walls contrasted against shelf after shelf of bookcases, and the barrel-vaulted ceiling rose at least two storeys above his head. A row of tall windows gave a view of the garden, the sculpted boxwood bushes just visible in the deepening twilight.

"This is the refectory. Not many people are around during the Yule break, but they'll still be serving a light supper to the few that are here."

"This is the dormitory. Traditionally, acolytes slept in rows of beds like a military barracks, but now there are fixed partition between the beds."

The partitions were higher than eye level and enclosed a space on three sides, creating an alcove for sleeping. There were no doors, but the doorway was behind a screen, such that someone walking by wouldn't be able to see in.

"This is where you'll be sleeping. Bring your things whenever you like, but sooner is better."

Súrion showed him into an empty alcove. The bedstead was plain wood, without finish or carving, but it was well made. The walls were whitewashed plaster, and there were some pegs in the wall for clothes. An oil lamp rested on a shelf.

"I'm afraid it's austere compared to what you're used to," he said.

"No, really, this is fine." Urzahil set his satchel on the bed.

"Let me introduce you to the night watchman, so you can come and go at will." Súrion led the way through a maze of corridors.

Urzahil wanted this so badly, but the priesthood was for the high-born and the pious. He wasn't either, and if he pretended to be, he was a fraud. Eventually he would be exposed, and when that happened, they would throw him out.

"Tarcundo said something that made me think the Temple only takes noblemen as acolytes. You do know I'm baseborn?"

"You mean illegitimate? Your father was one of my closest friends. I saw him with your mother when she was carrying you."

That was the least of it. How could he become a priest of the Temple when he didn't believe any of it?

If it were the Master of Acolytes showing him around, he would have lied without shame. But this was Súrion, his best remaining connection to his father. He couldn't lie to Súrion, not season after season, year after year.

"Um … I need to tell you something else. I'm not sure I deserve to be here. My family has never been observant."

"I know that. Your father wasn't religious, I used to tease him about it all the time."

"Well, it's just that, regarding myself, I'm not really sure that …"

Súrion put a finger to Urzahil's lips. "Your private thoughts are your own. You're not required to share them with anyone here."

-o-o-o-o-o-

An hour later, Urzahil sat at a table in the Boiling Frog with a basket at his feet. Three books and a sheath of school essays were piled on top of the folded clothes. He'd changed into a new shirt and leggings when he'd collected his things from the hayloft. It felt good to be wearing clean clothes again.

The sun had set, and there was a lantern on every table. He was sitting at a table near the fire. It had been built up high against the chill outside, and the draft sent sparks swirling up the chimney.

A youth with hair a narrow chin and hair the color of straw, a younger version of Allard, set a tankard in front of him. Urzahil pushed a couple of coppers across the table. "Keep the change." The boy grinned and thanked him.

Allard came out from behind the bar and stopped by Urzahil's table. "Urzahil, how are you getting on these days?" he asked.

"I've been invited to join the priesthood. I thought about it, and this afternoon, I decided to accept."

Allard let out a low whistle. "That's quite an offer. The Temple takes good care of its people. You ought to be set for life."

When he left the tavern, it was fully dark. The stars were like white jewels, even the fainter ones. He picked out a few of his favorite constellations, then began the short walk to the Seminary.

Inside the Temple grounds, the crushed shell paths were easy to follow in the dark. He made his way back to the acolytes' dormitory without stumbling or getting lost. He pulled the bell chain, and the night watchman let him in. Urzahil was the only student in residence during the holiday. The dormitory was deserted except for the servants.

He hoped he could remember which was his alcove, they all looked alike. It wasn't a problem, an oil lamp had been left burning in his, all the others were dark. A glint of light caught his eye. While he was out, a brass plaque had been installed by the doorway to his alcove. Lintoron.

He arranged his books in a row on the shelf, five in all including Sindarin. He set the painted crab on the shelf beside them, and stepped back to admire them.

- End of Book I -

Chapter 0 - A Newly Anointed Priest

It was Midsummer's Day, the day Urzahil would become a priest. He and his classmates, eight of them in all, would join the ranks of the anointed, sworn to secrecy and entrusted with dangerous knowledge.

Sunlight streamed through narrow windows beneath the dome high above their heads, tracing bright squares on the white stone inside the Temple. A fire burned on the altar, single log that had been the trunk of a massive tree. Billowing smoke rose from it and disappearing through unseen vents in the golden dome high overhead.

Urzahil stood in the back of the Sanctuary with the other third year acolytes. Before the ceremony, each of them had taken off the plain black robes of an acolyte for the last time, and surrendered them to a Temple servant who'd poured an urn of water over them, then dressed them in ceremonial robes, white and of softest wool.

Urzahil shivered from the chill. The sun didn't reach the back of the Sanctuary, and his hair was still wet.

There was a clamor of drums and cymbals, and the High Priest entered the Sanctuary. The hem of the outer layer of his vestments swept the mosaic tiles. Two assistants followed him, one carrying a folding table and the other, a glass bowl of something clear.

One by one, they were summoned to the altar. The ritual was always the same. The acolyte would kneel, the High Priest would dip his hand in the oil and touch the candidate's forehead, the words were said, and it was done. The newly minted priest would return to the group and the next one would be summoned.

Then it was Urzahil's turn. His name was called and he crossed the open space beneath the dome, the marble floor cold beneath his feet. He felt as if her were watching himself from a great distance away. Important ceremonies required purification beforehand. In addition to fasting, he and the other acolytes had knelt before the altar throughout the night, from late in the evening until the eastern sky started to turn grey.

Urzahil approached the altar. Bundles of aromatic herbs burned in iron holders near it. Tendrils of smoke rose in the still air, carrying their pungent scent. The High Priest was there, waiting for him. A pair of assistants stood at a folding table which held the things needed for the ceremony.

Urzahil knelt before the altar and crossed his hands over his breast, just as he'd been coached. The High Priest went to the folding table and dipped his hand in the oil, which smelled of sandalwood, then pressed his palm on Urzahil's forehead, with his fingers on Urzahil's hair. A trickle ran down the side of his face. It was hard not to reach up and wipe it away, but his hands remained where they were, as the ceremony required.

The High Priest voice was deep and authoritative. "… from the Void, where dwells the Secret Fire which is the source of all life…" He spoke the most sacred words of the ceremony in Black Speech, the language of Melkor. The ancient language wasn't spoken anymore, and hadn't been for thousands of years, but everyone in the Temple knew certain phrases by heart.

The ritual incantation came to an end, and it was done. Urzahil got up and returned to his place with the others. When they'd all been anointed, an elderly cleric dressed each of them in the silver grey robes of a priest. Urzahil held out his arm and turned his palm over, admiring the heavy damask and the embroidered letters on the cuff.

-o-o-o-o-

After the ceremony, a Consecration banquet was traditionally held to celebrate the elevation of the Seminary students into the priesthood. Seating was done by rank, from lowest to highest. Urzahil stood with his classmates outside the Refectory, waiting to be called.

The Steward appeared in the doorway and motioned for them to follow.

The Refectory had been decorated for the occasion. The trestle tables that ran the length of the room, planks on sawhorses, were draped with rust red cloths. Arrangements of flowers had been placed at intervals, roses, larkspur, and delphinium from the Temple gardens.

High Table, on its raised platform at the end of the room, looked particularly magnificent. A long line of high-backed chairs ran the length of it, the one in the center as tall as a throne. But in addition, today it was illuminated by ironwork candelabra at either end of the platform and covered with a snowy cloth that reached the floorboards of the platform.

At the far end of the room, High Table looked particularly magnificent. It was raised up on a wooden platform with a tapestry on the wall behind it, and a long line of high backed chairs ran the length of it, the one in the center as tall as a throne. Today, the table was covered with a snowy cloth which fell to the floorboards of the platform.

By tradition, at the Consecration Banquet the new priests always sat at High Table. The Steward took them to the steps of the dais and showed them to their places. They were at the far ends, four at the left and four at the right. The new priests mounted the steps of the dais and crossed the wooden platform, their footsteps hollow on the planks. Urzahil sat down at the second place from the end.

The middle of High Table started to fill up. The High Priest came in with several members of the Council of Captains and what must be a very wealthy merchant. It took a lot of coin to be one of the Temple's major benefactors.

Below the dais, long tables ran the length of the Refectory. The trestle tables had no cloths, and they had benches instead of chairs. Here were the scribes and clerks, and the many kinds of minor administrator needed to run the Temple.

Urzahil had never sat at High Table before, even though his father had been one of the most powerful nobles in the city. As his father's natural son, he'd always been seated with merchants and tradesmen. He wanted to commit every detail to memory, the white cloth on the table, the pewter polished to a mirror surface, the salt cellar which was a work of art.

"Urzahil, a word." The High Priest's Steward laid a hand on his shoulder. Urzahil pushed back his chair and followed the Steward. Perhaps he'd received a message of congratulations, most likely from task or from Lady Lintoron. The Steward stopped behind the servers' screen at the far side of the platform.

"The High Priest asked me to tell you that one of the benefactors brought his wife, and there's not enough room at High Table for her. I'm afraid we'll have to give her your seat."

Urzahil followed him to the long tables, where the Steward showed him a place among the scribes and clerks. Back at High Table, the other priests were moving over one, and a man and woman in dark colored wool sat one or two down near the High Priest.

Why did he pick me?

Urzahil had been sitting one place from the end, while the benefactor's lady was near the middle.

There were several tables just below the dais where the minor nobility usually sat. One or two places were still vacant. The Steward walked right past them, and put him at one of the long tables were the scribes and clerks were sitting.

The clerks at the Temple were educated people and Urzahil enjoyed their company, but he minded it that someone like himself, the son of a titled Lord, had been seated with the sons of tradesmen who brewed ale or sold sailcloth in shops on the wharf. He was a nobleman, he didn't belong here.

At High Table, his classmates leaned together in whispered conversations. There'd been no opportunity earlier to discuss what they'd all been through, the day long fast before the ceremony, the thrill of wearing silver grey for the first time, and how changed he felt by having gone through the ritual. He'd been looking forward to talking about with the others. His throat tightened.

The first remove was brought to High Table, and the diners turned to their food. His stomach growled. The last time he'd eaten was before first light the day before, and it was midafternoon now. Serving was always done in order of rank, it would be ten minutes or more before the food arrived at this table. It had been like this at banquets when he was living in his father's house, a poor relation. Nothing had changed.

Chapter End Notes

[1] Urzahil of Umbar, later known as the Mouth of Sauron

[2] gûl' - 'knowledge', 'on' - 'large amount of'

[3] Egyptology technique regarding hieroglyphics

[4] Without long, predictable German military titles, the Enigma code could not have been broken.

[5] This arrangement of keeping an open flame away from flammables may also be seen in the power room at Fort Sumter.

[6] Tar-Castamir is correct, Sauron's real name is Mairon.

Chapter 1 - A Scrap of Parchment

The Haven of Umbar, TA 2951

Urzahil[1] finished his duties in the Temple late in the morning and was enjoying a free afternoon in the library. As he moved through the stacks, the whisper of silk, the feel of the stiff brocade as it brushed the back of his hands, he smiled, reminded of his new rank. A few weeks ago, on the Summer Solstice, Urzahil had completed his third year of acolyte training and submitted to the solemn rituals that made him an anointed priest in the Cult of Melkor. Now he was entitled to wear the silver-grey robes of a priest, a high position in Umbar society.

As a priest, he could roam the restricted stacks freely. He went straight to the section on sorcery, and scanned the spines of the memoirs of famous sorcerers, books on theory, and cookbook-style books of easy spells. Urzahil was looking for spells to extend his own life, an interest he shared with virtually all Black Númenorians.

He picked up a thick treatise on theory, and added to it a thesaurus of the magical symbols used by sorcerers to record their spells.

Urzahil carried the books to his favorite spot, a long table of polished wood with good light and a view of the courtyard. Water ran down the stone fountain into the lily pond below. It was the height of summer, and the expensively maintained Temple grounds were thick with color.

He opened the treatise and found the place where he got stuck last time, about ten pages in. The material was far harder than anything he'd studied last term in Advanced Sorcery.

He turned to the next page. The text described an enchantment to summon storms. Magical symbols, the standard ones used by all sorcerers to record their spells, were strung together like words in a conversation he couldn't understand. On the line below, the same spell was written out a different way. It should have helped him understand the structure of the spell, but neither version made any sense. He couldn't even tell by looking what they were supposed to do.

He opened the thesaurus. In advanced work, the same symbol could mean different things, depending on context. Sometimes a diacritic changed the meaning. Sometimes several symbols formed an idiom whose meaning couldn't be inferred from the symbols from which it was made. The thesaurus didn't help. He decided to make a copy of the page to study later.

Gûlon[2], the keeper of the archives, sat at his usual table, his iron-grey hair falling in his face, the tools of his trade spread around him. A shallow tray numbered 1528 sat at his elbow, its hinged lid standing open. He was using tweezers and a thin steel spatula to manipulate fragments of parchment blackened by fire, or possibly mold, on a linen cloth spread in front of him. He frowned, then put down the tweezers and made a few notes.

Gûlon was different from Súrion and the other Lore Masters. He focused on the physical condition of the documents themselves, preserving and restoring them, and keeping track of where they were stored. He was familiar with the information in the text, but it was secondary for him.

Two or three librarians moved around the stacks on hushed feet, shelving books and bringing fresh paper to the Lore Masters. Gûlon raised his hand and one of them came over. "Can you bring me the, it's hard to describe, the thing in the storage cupboard, in a small drawer on the right, I mean left. Never mind that, maybe I should get it myself." He got up and left the room.

Urzahil laid out paper, uncorked a jar of ink, and began to write. He dipped the brush and drew a graceful line from the middle of the letter upward, and twisted the brush as he lifted it from the parchment, forming a sharp tip. He dipped the brush again, and starting from the same place, drew a long downward arc, black all the way to the end.

Up like smoke, down like rain, a trick he'd learned as an acolyte. The elderly scribe who'd taught them to form their letters properly explained that the brush held only so much ink; in order to make the long arc, they must draw it in two strokes, middle to top, middle to bottom. It was the only way to get both ends black and sharp.

Laymen, untrained in the proper way to form letters, tended to draw the long arc in one continuous stroke. As the brush approached the tip of the descender, the ink often ran low, the black thinned to grey[3], and sometimes, the drying brush began to skip, leaving a stuttering line of dashes and dots. A layman was unlikely to notice the change in color or even the stuttering line left by a drying brush, but to a scribe's trained eye, details like that jumped off the page.

Urzahil used to write like a layman, most people did. However, the Temple required its priests to form their letters in the ancient style when they made copies of the sacred texts. Urzahil hadn't been happy about it at first, but when he got used to it, he found the formal script more educated-looking than his own hurried scrawl. Now that he knew how to write properly, he did it all the time, even for rough notes like the ones he was taking now.

The door banged open, and the booming voice of Tar-Castamir rang through the hushed atmosphere of the stacks.

"… whether or not it's authentic. The thing is, I can't make the announcement until I'm sure."

Urzahil looked up from his writing and saw the two most powerful men in the Haven of Umbar striding across the room, Tar-Castamir, Captain of the Haven, and the High Priest of the Temple. Tar-Castamir held a folded parchment decorated with ink drawings in red and black, wrapped in the tapes and seals characteristic of a diplomatic letter.

"The horseman who brought this is outside the city gates, waiting for an answer."

"I'll find you a handwriting sample." It was unusual to hear the High Priest speaking in such a deferential tone. "The Temple Archives house an extensive collection, and Gûlon will turn up something to compare your letter against."

Curiosity satisfied, Urzahil returned to his task.

They stopped in front of Gûlon's table. "The Keeper of the Archives will be able find whatever we have. This is where he usually sits." The High Priest indicated the parchment fragments, tools, and notebooks. "Look at this, he's reconstructed half a document from a few slivers. I don't know how he does it."

Just then, Gûlon returned with a handful of tools. "I use stock phrases, the standard formula for the greeting of a letter, a well-known proverb, the titles of a king.[4] I can recognize a stock phrase from two or three letters, and often, the phrase lets me tie two fragments together. But I don't suppose the Captain of the Haven came here to talk to me about the archivist's craft."

"We want to see the Founder's Letter," said the High Priest.

Urzahil froze, his brush hanging in the air. The Founder's Letter was the most important historical document preserved in the Temple archives. Handwritten in Númenor by Sauron himself, it conferred upon Tar-Ardûmir, the priest who brought the Cult to the mainland, the authority to build this Temple. Sauron's letter to the Founder was one of the best examples of Sauron's handwriting known to exist.

Tar-Castamir wanted to see the Founder's Letter because … No, that was impossible. Sauron was a historic figure from the Second Age who died three thousand years ago. He couldn't have sent a letter to Tar-Castamir, and he didn't have a messenger waiting outside the city gate for an answer.

Urzahil pretended to be absorbed in copying the page from his book, but the whole of his attention was focused on their conversation. Nearby, a librarian seemed to be taking far longer to straighten a pile of books than the task required, but Urzahil could hardly blame him. If Tar-Castamir really had received a letter from Sauron, it could be the most important diplomatic event of their lives. His book of spells forgotten, Urzahil put down his pen and stared openly.

"Follow me, I'll show you where it is." Gûlon led the High Priest and the Captain of the Haven in the direction of the entrance to the vault.

Urzahil stood and smoothed the grey silk of his ceremonial robes, and with the dignified gravity of a newly-minted priest of the Temple, followed in their wake. By the time Gûlon reached the entrance to the vault, several librarians and a clerk had joined them.

Gûlon stopped in front of an iron-bound door set into the stone wall. He took a key from his belt and twisted it in the lock. Two clerks pulled the door back and secured it open, and Gûlon led Tar-Castamir and the High Priest down narrow stairs into the dimness of the vault.

Urzahil and the others followed, picking their way down the seven or eight narrow steps hewn into the rock, worn into half-moons from age. The walls of the chamber were the same white coral rock, formed long ago in ancient seas. Urzahil's eyes adjusted to the dimness, and he looked around the small chamber.

There it was! His breath hissed between his teeth. In the middle of a vault lined with shelves of books and scrolls, a stone slab supported a glass-topped wooden case. Beneath the glass lay a sheet of parchment, three thousand years old and written in Sauron's own hand.

The Founder's Letter was the Charter founding this Temple. It described every ritual of the cult, from the prayers said on an ordinary day to the elaborate ceremonies performed on High Holy days. He was sorry it was too dim in here to read it. Like everyone else in the Temple, he worked from a copy of the Founder's Letter almost every day, and knew whole sections of it by heart. He'd seen the original once before, on a class tour of the archives two years ago during his acolyte training. Seeing it again gave him chills.

Gûlon turned to one of the librarians. "Let's have some more light. The walls down here are white for a reason, but even so, it can be hard to read faded ink against an age-darkened background."

A librarian climbed the steps, and minutes later, a yellow light appeared in a glass-covered tunnel connecting this room with another.[5] A second lamp was placed beside the first, and the vault was filled with light.

"Much better. I'm sure you understand why I don't allow a flame in here, given all the priceless and irreplaceable documents," said Gûlon.

Urzahil approached the case. In the narrow space between Tar-Castamir and the High Priest, he glimpsed mottled parchment the color of tea-stained linen. He edged between the two men for a closer look. A large sheet of parchment covered with careful writing lay beneath the glass on a linen backing. It had been folded at one time, but was otherwise undamaged. Each letter stood out in high contrast, the ink black and clear against the pale parchment.

The familiar greeting sat above the body of the text.

Tar-Mairon, High Priest of the Cult of Melkor, to Tar-Ardûmir, Priest of Umbar, greetings.

His eye moved over the body of the letter, knowing where to find each passage. Here was the one about who may approach the altar and how closely, there, the calendar of solstices and equinoxes.

He studied the writing itself. The brush strokes of each letter had been formed in the order and direction traditional to scribes. The block printing was legible and clear, without slant. There were no inkblots, no cross-outs, and it lacked ornamentation of any kind, even the diacritics were plain.

He reached the closing line, set apart and below the body of the rest,

… given by my hand at Armenelos, SA 3298

Urzahil shivered, as if in the presence of something holy.

Tar-Castamir unfolded the diplomatic letter and placed it on top of the glass beside the Founder's Letter. Urzahil craned his neck to read over Tar-Castamir's shoulder.

"Sauron of Mordor to Tar-Castamir, Captain of the Haven, greetings.

I seek the friendship of Umbar, and propose that our two nations form an alliance against our common enemy, the nation of Gondor …"

"given by my hand at Barad-dûr, TA 2951".

Slanted cursive with long ascenders and descenders. Some of the letters were ornamented with curlicues, and it had diacritics of crowns and stars. Wherever there was a long arc, the lower part of the descender was pale, and sometimes the slender tip was dashed.

"It's not a match." Tar-Castamir's shoulders sagged.

"No, it isn't. The Founder's Letter was written by a scribe, and your letter was written by a layman." The High Priest spoke with the authority of someone trained as a scribe. Urzahil had to agree, the brush strokes told the story.

"It's not a match …" Gûlon said.

"Could it be a fair copy? We might be comparing the Founder's Letter against something written by a clerk." Tar-Castamir looked hopeful.

"No, it says, 'given by my hand.' That means the one who signed it wrote the whole text. They don't match." The High Priest shook his head.

"How did I fall for it? I should have known the moment I broke the seal. 'Sauron sends greetings'. He wouldn't have called himself Sauron, he hated that name. He would have used his real name, Tar-Mairon." Tar-Castamir pressed his lips in a thin line.

"Tar-Mairon isn't a name, it's a title. It means 'Admirable Lord'," the High Priest corrected him. "Sauron used a dozen names, Annatar, Artano, Gorthaur, and most recently, Durgbu Dashu, or Lord of the Earth, and those are just the ones we know of. No one knows his real name, but speaking as a scholar, I think it might have been Thû, which means a spirit in the shape of a wolf." [6]

Tar-Castamir hung his head, and for a moment, he looked like an old man. "I wanted so badly for it to be real. The fragile truce with Gondor is deteriorating, and I'd hoped…" He wadded up the letter and shoved it in his pocket. "Oh well, it doesn't matter."

"I was trying to say, it's not a match because the Founder's Letter isn't the original, it's a contemporary copy," Gûlon touched the glass over the three thousand year old document.

Tar-Castamir frowned. "But it says, 'given by my hand …' If it were a copy, the scribe's name would be on the final line."

"You're thinking of a fair copy, a cleaned-up version of a rough draft. It's what you get when you scrawl out a message full of cross-outs and inkblots, and give to an assistant with good handwriting to redo. This is a facsimile copy. The layout and the arrangement of the words on each line are exactly like the original. And unlike a fair copy, the 'given by my hand' line doesn't hold the name of the most recent scribe, it's copied verbatim from the original." said Gûlon.

"I always thought this document was the original. If it's exposed as a fake, let's just say it could reflect badly on the Temple." The High Priest stared at Gûlon, his eyes hard.

"The original was lost in TA 933 when Gondor occupied the city, then went after the Temple with particular violence. Everything that wasn't burned was buried in the rubble.

"Copies of the sacred texts, which were considered less valuable that the originals, made their way into classrooms at the Seminary, or into private homes. That's the only reason any of the sacred writings survived," Gûlon said.

"So the original Founder's Letter was lost?" asked the High Priest.

"All that remains of the original is a fragment three fingers wide and no longer than the palm of your hand. If you want to see Sauron's handwriting, I could try to find the fragment. It's here somewhere." He picked up a list and held it at arm's length. "It's in drawer number 902."

Tar-Castamir went to the back wall of the vault, lined with drawers that ran from floor to ceiling. The front of each one bore a brass plate with a number.

"No, Tar-Castamir, let me do it." Gûlon scanned a region right of center and waist high, then touched one particular drawer. "Here it is, drawer number 902."

Moving with exaggerated slowness, Gûlon pulled out the drawer with both hands, then lifted a drawer with a hinged glass top from its frame, and carried it to the case in the middle of the room.

"Stand back, please, I don't want to drop it. It's three thousand years old and could crumple to dust if you look at it cross-eyed." He set the drawer on top of the glass, beside the Founder's letter.

Founder's Letter, original. Recovered from the debris of the Temple, TA 973

Urzahil studied the fragment itself. The size of a dried leaf, and much the same color, it looked as if it would disintegrate at a touch. A piece had broken off and lay beside the main fragment. It was impossible to read the black writing on parchment dark with age. Gûlon took a silver mirror from his pocket and used it to steer a circle of light onto it.

The fragment contained four or five lines of text, but each line had only a few words of text. Parts of words were missing where the fragment disintegrated at the edges. Urzahil didn't see anything he recognized. There was nothing in the text to tie this fragile scrap to the Founder's Letter.

"This is where the fragment came from." Gûlon traced a shape on the glass above the Founder's Letter over a passage about preparing for ceremonies on the High Holy days, the rituals of purification. Urzahil knew the passage by heart.

Urzahil looked back at the small scrap of parchment. Now that he was oriented, the truncated phrases and torn-apart words made sense. Here was the line about fasting and staying awake all night, there was the one that said, to perform a sacrifice, the priest must approach the altar naked beneath a white woolen robe, feet bare against the cold flagstones.

"Can we have another look at your letter?" asked Gûlon.

Tar-Castamir pulled the crumpled parchment from his pocket and smoothed it flat on the glass over the Founder's Letter.

Urzahil looked from the fragment to Tar-Castamir's letter. Both were written in loopy cursive with a steep slant, long arcs that grew pale at the bottom of the descenders, curlicues, and diacritics of crowns and stars. The hair rose on the back of Urzahil's neck.

"It's a match," said Gûlon.

Chapter End Notes

[1] Urzahil of Umbar, later known as the Mouth of Sauron

[2] gûl' - 'knowledge', 'on' - 'large amount of'

[3] Egyptology technique regarding hieroglyphics

[4] Without long, predictable German military titles, the Enigma code could not have been broken.

[5] This arrangement of keeping an open flame away from flammables may also be seen in the power room at Fort Sumter.

[6] Tar-Castamir is correct, Sauron's real name is Mairon.

Chapter 2 – The Pillar

Haven of Umbar, TA 2951

Gûlon was putting the drawer holding the scrap of parchment back in its slot.

Tar-Castamir looked off in the distance. "We need this alliance; we can't defend ourselves against Gondor alone. Yet I hesitate. Sauron is dangerous, and not easy to trust."

"Sauron is dangerous, but not to us. He's always been a friend to Umbar, we were allies in the Second Age," said the High Priest.

Tar-Castamir nodded. "I need to summon the Council of Captains. May I send a few of your servants to round them up? And borrow a place to meet?"

"You can use the Library," said the High Priest.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Urzahil went up the narrow stairs. After the dimness of the vault, the sunlight was blinding.

"Urzahil, go fetch Súrion. I think he's teaching class right now, but it doesn't matter, pull him out," said the High Priest.

Súrion was a Loremaster who'd spent years studying Sauron's activities in the Second Age. He knew, better than anyone else, how Sauron would behave in various situations. Urzahil went to the Seminary building and found Súrion standing at the slate board, lecturing a roomful of acolytes about the Second Age.

"The High Priest requests your presence in the Library."

Súrion dismissed the class and put down his chalk. While they walked, Urzahil told him what happened. He said nothing, but let out a low whistle.

"So the letter is real? That's something I'd like to see!"

When he returned to the Library with Súrion, almost the entire Council of Captains had assembled around one of the long library tables. The only men missing were Tar-Orodreth, who was away at sea, and Tar-Marös, who was tending to his estates in the provinces.

Súrion approached the table and stood a respectful distance away, his hands tucked into his sleeves.

Now that he'd returned with Súrion, Urzahil had no good reason to linger. He moved a short distance away and studied the spines of books. Daily Ritual Practices of the Cult of Melkor. Not his area of interest. He leafed through the pages and listened to the conversation of the Council of Captains.

Tar-Castamir pulled out the folded parchment and smoothed it on the table.

"This letter was signed by Sauron himself. We've just authenticated the handwriting, it's his. Now we have to decide what to do about it."

"In the past when he offered his friendship, he killed the leader and destroyed the city," said Tar-Númendur.

"You're referring to the destruction of Númenor," said Tar-Castamir.

"And Eregion before that. And probably others I don't know about," said Tar-Númendur.

Súrion raised a hand. "Sauron burned Eregion because he felt Celebrimbor used him for his knowledge, then cast him aside. And in Númenor, Ar-Pharazôn took Sauron prisoner and publically humiliated him."

Urzahil had playacted that scene once, back in school. He still remembered the taste of dirt in his mouth, and the mocking laughter of his classmates. At that moment, he'd been just about ready to destroy Númenor himself.

"As far as I can tell, he's only dangerous when he feels threatened. We don't threaten him," said Súrion.

"How can we sign a treaty with someone whose word isn't good? Can we trust him?" Tar-Miruvor asked Súrion.

"To speak the truth? To keep his word? The Elves call him Sauron the Deceiver. He's a habitual liar who uses false names, denies his past, and conceals his true intentions.

"But can you trust him to keep the alliance? In the Second Age, he kept every alliance he made with Umbar, Harad, and Khand."

"Why does he want this alliance?"

"He feels threatened by Gondor. Same as us," said Tar-Adûmir.

"It's as simple as that? He wants an alliance because we share a common enemy?" Tar-Castamir got to his feet. "My Lords of the Council, it's time to cast stones."

A servant was sent to find a Go set. He returned carrying a crosshatched board with two bowls of stones balanced on it. Tar-Castamir emptied the bowls on the table and mixed the black and white stones together.

"White is in favor of the alliance with Mordor, black is against." He found a pen case and shook out the pens.

"Tar-Miruvor?" Tar-Castamir's held the leather cylinder where Tar-Miruvor could reach it.

Tar-Miruvor reached to the center of the table and took a handful of stones from the pile. He selected one, and shielding it with his hand, dropped it into the case. He returned the other stones to the pile.

"Tar-Adûmir, you're next." Tar-Adûmir concealed a stone in his hand and dropped it in the case.

Tar-Castamir went last, after everyone else on the Council had voted, then emptied the stones onto the table, eight white and two black.

"It's decided. Umbar agrees to the alliance," said Tar-Castamir.

-o-o-o-o-o-

dong Dong dong Dong dong Dong

Urzahil was crossing the Temple grounds and looked up, startled. Normally, the Temple bell only rang to summon priests to the sanctuary, but as far as he knew, the next ceremony wasn't until tomorrow morning.

dong Dong dong Dong dong Dong

People were pouring out of the buildings. In the tower above their heads, the bell was still tolling. Urzahil cut through the garden and rounded the corner of the Library. The square in front of the Temple was filled with people, and more were spilling in from every avenue and side street.

Tar-Castamir stood at the top of the temple steps. "People of Umbar, I have an announcement to make." There was a murmur from the crowd, like the hiss of foam sliding up the beach. "Something's happened, quite possibly the most important event in all our lifetimes."

A bird scolded in the distance and someone coughed, but there was no other sound.

Tar-Castamir held up the crumpled letter, decorated with red and black designs. Red tapes dangled from the broken seal.

"Sauron has declared himself in Mordor, and seeks our friendship. He wishes an alliance with Umbar."

There was a collective gasp, and then, "Huzzah, huzzah!" The square rang with their voices. The cry reflected from the faces of buildings and the inside of the city wall.

"Throw down the Pillar!" shouted a voice at the far side of the square.

Urzahil ground his teeth. The Pillar, a humiliating reminder of the Occupation symbolizing everything that made him feel beaten, belittled, or afraid.

"Throw down the Pillar, throw down the Pillar!" The cry was taken up all over the square. Urzahil started yelling it himself.

The crowd surged up the main road toward the gate in the outer wall, and climbed the steep bluff above the city crowned by the Pillar. The crystal globe on top caught the rays of the sun, dazzling bright.

Corsairs and shopkeepers attacked the Pillar with wooden planks, rocks, and their bare hands. They scarred the stone, but did little damage.

A team of stonemasons shouldered them aside. They scored a circle around the base of the Pillar, and then used a hammer and chisel to cut a wedge in one side. Anchor cables were attached as high as they could be lifted by ladder and pole. The master stonemason arranged men along the length of the cables, and told them to wait for his signal.

He cleared the slope between the two cables of all spectators. After the crowd had backed away, the master mason gave the signal, and a huge man swung a sledge which sent a crack through the stone. The teams on the cables pulled. The wedge opened wider. The Pillar seemed to stand firm, then it trembled slightly. All at once it tipped and came down with a horrible tearing noise as the stones fell apart and broke.

A roar arose from the crowd, shouting and cheering and applause all at once. The cloud of stone dust from the devastation reached them, white and gritty. Urzahil accidently inhaled it and started coughing. He squeezed his eyes shut, but not soon enough. He had to blink away the grit.

The wind picked up. The stone dust cleared away, revealing a line of stone discs scattered down the slope. Some had huge chips knocked out of them, some were cracked in half. The crystal globe had smashed into knife-like fragments sharp enough to slice through boot leather. The last reminder of Gondor's occupation was gone.

Chapter 3 - The Delegation

Haven of Umbar, TA 2951

Urzahil returned to the Temple with barely enough time to change into clean clothes before the late afternoon services. He'd forgotten to tell anyone he'd left the compound, a small violation of the rules. Hopefully, his absence had gone unnoticed.

Footsteps echoed in the corridor behind him. He picked up his pace. So did the person behind him.

"The High Priest would like to see you in his office," said a clerk, a spotty faced youth with rounded shoulders.

Urzahil's heart sank. He followed the clerk to the reception room where the High Priest met with important visitors. The door stood ajar. Urzahil knocked and waited to be admitted.

A group of men stood on the patterned carpet in front of the High Priest's desk. Tar-Castamir and Tar-Adûmir were covered with dust. The High Priest was immaculate as usual, but wearing different clothes than he'd had on earlier. Súrion's silver robes were as grimy as Urzahil's.

"The messenger will return tomorrow. I could hand him a letter, but I'd rather give him our answer in person, so I'm going to send a delegation to Mordor. Tar-Adûmir will lead it."

Urzahil knew the ambassador slightly, having interviewed for a position as tutor in his household right after Urzahil left school. He learned that Tar-Adûmir was pleasant, but didn't have much of a spine.

"Tar-Adûmir will be assisted by two envoys, Marös and Mírdain, and a scribe, Gaerna, to take notes." Urzahil knew all of them from school. Marös, the second son of the wealthiest family in the Haven, was an average student, but Mírdain sat in the back of the room all term making comments under his breath. How did he even get into the Diplomatic Service? Oh right, he was Tar-Adûmir's son.

And how had Gaerna gotten in? He had the table manners of a day laborer and no family connections at all. But he'd been a brilliant student, with more natural ability than most of their instructors. More to the point, he had neat, well-formed handwriting.

"I also want to include a priest of Melkor, to show Sauron we still practice the religion he founded." Urzahil glanced at Súrion and silently wished him luck on the trip. It was not without risk.

Tar-Castamir turned to Urzahil. "I asked the High Priest if I could borrow you for a week or so, and he agreed."

Urzahil sank onto a stone window seat without asking permission. Spots swam before his eyes, and he considered putting his head between his knees. Why not send Súrion, a Loremaster who'd studied Sauron his whole life? Perhaps the High Priest thought the younger priests were more expendable.

"What would you have me do?" Urzahil asked.

"My son tells me you have an almost supernatural ability to read people," said Tar-Castamir.

It was true. Urzahil could read a man's thoughts from a twitch in his mouth or the way he lifted his shoulder.

"While the others are talking, stand unnoticed behind them, and watch Sauron's face. Sort out truth from lie. Learn his intentions, and find out if he's dangerous to us. And if he makes a promise, determine whether he intends to keep it."

-o-o-o-o-o-

They would leave in the morning. Urzahil started packing, but took a break when the bell called them to the refectory for the evening meal.

On the short walk between buildings, he impulsively left the Temple grounds and turned in the direction of the house where he grew up. He passed through the gate in the old wall to reach the newer part of the city, where the houses were larger and further apart.

The servant who answered the door was surprised to see him. He said the family had already sat down to supper, but Urzahil was welcome to join them. A place was set for him between his younger brothers, across from Lady Lintoron. He couldn't think of anything to say to her, and sat in silence, feeling awkward.

"Did you see the Pillar come down?" asked the older of his two brothers.

"The crystal smashed into bits. I saved a piece. Do you want to see?" His youngest brother ran off to fetch it.

Urzahil pushed food around the plate and hoped no one would notice his appetite was gone. What if he never saw them again? When he thought he was unobserved, Urzahil studied each of their faces and committed them to memory.

"What brings you here tonight, Urzahil? We just saw you three weeks ago when you were anointed," Lady Lintoron said.

"I'm going away for a while. I've been asked to travel with a diplomatic mission," said Urzahil.

"You've wanted to do that for as long as I can remember." She sighed. "Did I ever tell you, you look exactly like your father."

He stayed as late as he dared, trying to make the visit last as long as possible.

-o-o-o-o-o-

The delegation assembled in the foyer of Tar-Castamir's house the next morning. When he got arrived at the great marble hall, the others were already standing around in a group, their baggage at their feet.

Urzahil joined them. Like the others, he was dressed for travel in a heavy cloak, wool leggings, and tall boots. The silver robes which marked him as a priest were folded in tissue and packed in his bag. He'd brought along his father's court clothes, as well.

Tar-Adûmir wore traveling clothes, and his manner was calm. Mírdain and Marös were joking loudly, as if they were nervous. Gaerna kept his face and hands still. Urzahil couldn't read him, even though he knew him well.

"The messenger will return for our answer at noon. Let's be there to greet him." Tar-Castamir headed for the door.

Urzahil hoisted the strap of his bag over his shoulder. In front of the house, Tar-Castamir's grooms brought in six horses, already saddled and ready to go. A groom led over a chestnut mare. He gave Urzahil the reins and fastened Urzahil's bag behind the saddle, then gave him a leg up and helped him to shorten the stirrup leathers.

Tar-Castamir wheeled his big stallion around and spurred it toward the road. "Let's go."

Urzahil kicked his mare to a trot. They rode through the Main Gate an hour before the appointed time, and stood watching the road. They waited. The shadows got shorter as the noon hour approached.

"There he is!" Marös pointed East, toward Haradwaith.

A plume of dust rose from the road far away in the desert. After a while, they saw a speck that could have been a rider on horseback. They watched while he drew closer. The rider was dressed all in black and he rode a black horse. He drew rein ten paces before he reached them. The hood of his mantle was pulled low, concealing his face.

Tar-Castamir hailed him. "Who are you, and what brings you here?"

"My name is Dwar[1]. I am from Mordor, and I come for your answer," he said. His voice was a hiss.

"Esteemed emissary from Mordor, this is our answer. We accept Sauron's friendship, and offer our own in return."

The messenger nodded. "Do you have a letter for my Master?"

"I ask that we be allowed to give him our answer in person. May our embassy accompany you on your journey home?" Tar-Castamir made a sweeping gesture toward the five men behind him.

The messenger moved forward. Urzahil's mare tossed her head and danced from foot to foot. He fought to control her. Another horse whinnied and reared up.

"You may travel with me, but do not follow too closely." He backed off a few paces, and their horses settled down.

-o-o-o-o-o-

They traveled due east through an empty stretch of desert, taking care to stay ten paces or more behind their guide. Any closer, and their horses became too hard to manage. Urzahil still hadn't seen the creature's face. He guessed the creature wasn't human, or at least, not a living human.

The road took them through a small town built around clusters of palm trees. In its center, where they grew so thick they completely shaded the road, their guide reined in. He pointed to the side of the road. A low wall of stones enclosed a public well. Urzahil kicked his feet loose from the stirrups and slid to the ground, his legs trembling.

Small children clamored around them, asking questions and trying to sell them homemade trinkets. Tar-Adûmir shooed them away. They moved toward the black-robed creature, who was standing perfectly still. The children slowed and then stopped. All at once, they wheeled like a flock of birds and scattered as quickly as they'd arrived.

Tar-Adûmir watched them go. "What do you bet we're the most exciting thing that's happened here in days?"

While the horses were drinking, the men filled their water skins and stretched their legs. Gaerna strolled over to the far side of the clearing where the creature was unsaddling his horse.

"There's not a cloud in the sky. Will there be frost on the ground tonight? I hear it gets cold in the desert when it's clear." Gaerna hugged himself and shivered.

"It shouldn't be too bad this time of year," the creature replied.

"That's a fine animal you have, by the way. He's not afraid of you?"

"Not a bit. I raised him from a foal." He patted the animal's flank. "Your horses will get used to me too, if allowed to do so at their own pace."

At a stop late on the second day, Gaerna approached him again. "How much further until we make camp for the night?" A streak of brown flashed by. "Was that a jackrabbit? My dog would enjoy chasing something like that."

"What kind of dog?" the creature asked.

"Bull mastiff."

"That's a nice animal, but for wild boar or deer, you can't beat a wolfhound."

"You have one?"

"Oh, aye, half a dozen. I keep a pack for hunting," said the creature.

On the third day, they turned north on the Harad Road which passed between Gondor and Mordor. The Ephel Dúath, the mountains encircling Mordor, dominated the view to the east.

When they made camp that night, the creature joined them at the edge of the firelight. Gaerna went over to talk with him. Urzahil heard the murmur of their voices and assumed they were having another tedious discussion about the merits of wolfhounds vs. mastiffs. Then the wind changed, carrying their words with it.

"What's your Master like?"

"You can't describe what he looks like because of the shape shifting. He takes different forms depending on his mood."

"So you don't always recognize him?"

"Well, that's the funny thing about shape shifting. Whatever form he takes, wolf or demon or monster, he still looks like himself. He has the same eyes, the same walk. I'd know him anywhere."

"And what sort of man is he?"

"It's hard to say. Whatever you see, it's a mask. It's like he's figured out what you want him to be, and he becomes that. And what's behind the mask? I have no idea."

"But some things must be consistent."

"Aye. He wants to be admired. He always has to be in charge. He needs to have people around him. He talks a great deal but reveals little about himself. I've known him almost five thousand years, and I still don't know his father's name, or how old he is, or whether he's ever been married."

"Do you know his real name?" asked Gaerna.

"Aye. It's Mairon. He's only told me about a thousand times."

-o-o-o-o-o-

The light was fading, and Urzahil just wanted this day to be over. After four days in the saddle, there was no part of him that wasn't chafed raw. Today had been the worst. They'd been riding through increasingly difficult terrain, and he was almost too tired to speak. The others were no better. The jingle of harness and the sound of hooves stumbling over rocks were the only sounds.

The road climbed and climbed. The Ephel Dúath, the mountains encircling Mordor, loomed before them, orange in the setting sun. There was a great notch between the peaks. The wraith who was their guide lifted what appeared to be an empty sleeve and pointed, his voice a hiss.

"That's the Nameless Pass. This road goes through it, and once you're on the other side, you're in Mordor."

Urzahil had never wanted to go to Mordor. From what he'd heard, it was a desolate country. The land was black, stained dark by ash and cinders from the burning mountain, which, they said, had erupted fiercely long ago. Almost no rain fell, and the few streams were said to be bitter and poisonous. Nothing grew there but thorn bushes, and the land was filled with stinging insects.

It was cold in the mountains, particularly down here in the shadows. He shivered and pulled his cloak more tightly around him, the heat from the horse's body warm against his legs.

"When will we reach Minas Morgul? Is it far beyond the pass?" he asked the wraith.

"We're almost there. It's at the top of a high valley, just a little above where we are now."

"Wait. It's on this side of the Ephel Dúath? I thought the Encircling Mountains defined the border."

"They do. Technically, Minas Morgul isn't inside Mordor itself. It was built to control the road into Mordor. It's only ours because we took it from Gondor by force."

They rounded the final bend, and there it was, the fortress of Isildur. Made of white marble, it seemed to glow as if lit from within. Urzahil assumed at first it was an illusion of the reflected moonlight, but it was a pale phosphorescent light like the wake behind a sailing vessel on a moonless night where the seas were warm.

The moon was high in the sky when they reached the main gate. They passed beneath the arched entryway, and the gates closed behind them. The moon cast gray shadows of towers and ramparts, and themselves and their horses, on the colorless ground. Urzahil slid from the saddle and stood on shaky legs. He gave the reins to an orcish soldier and followed Tar-Adûmir and the others inside.

The inside of Minas Morgul was made from the same white marble as the outside. In the passageways where the light was dim, the walls glowed faintly green.

An orcish servant, long-haired and smaller statured than most, showed them to their rooms. She had elaborate patterns tattooed on her cheeks, but no scars. Urzahil had never seen a female orc before. He hadn't known there were any.

The delegation was shown to an impressive suite of rooms. The main chamber was furnished with a large fireplace and a long table surrounded by enough chairs for all of them. A wrought iron chandelier with candle holders like dragons' heads hung over the table.

Off the main chamber was a room with an enormous four-poster bed with silken hangings. The fireplace was framed by an alabaster mantle carved in a pattern of crescent moons. Embers crackled on the hearth. Tar-Adûmir dropped his bag on the foot of the bed and led them to the next room.

A second chamber, slightly smaller than the first, held a pair of beds made up with bolsters and embroidered coverlets. A narrow carpet, dark red with geometric patterns, covered the floorboards between the beds. The fire had been lit there as well. Tar-Adûmir told Marös and Mírdain to choose beds for themselves. Urzahil opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again. He'd just assumed he and Marös, one of his closest friends from school, would share a room, and Mírdain would share the state bedroom with his father.

The third room was a small space for servants, a windowless cubby that barely held a washstand and two hard, narrow beds. There was no fireplace. On the foot of each bed there was an extra blanket, the thick gray sort used by soldiers. They would need them. The air in the mountains was chilly at night.

"Urzahil, Gaerna, this is your home for the next three days," said Tar-Adûmir.

Urzahil recoiled in surprise. Tar-Adûmir was implying Urzahil didn't have the status Marös and Mírdain enjoyed as noblemen. Urzahil resented having to sleep in the servants' quarters with the son of a day laborer, but at least Gaerna was good-natured and easy to get along with. Still, Urzahil would have preferred to bunk with either of the two envoys. Gaerna was outside of the aristocracy, and Urzahil feared that by implication, so was he.

The she-orc who'd shown them up here brought their supper, pieces of meat in a thick sauce of spices and raisins. She ladled from the tureen onto their plates, filled their wine goblets, tended to the fire, and then left them alone. They dined at the long table under the dragon chandelier.

Mírdain leaned over and sniffed the aromatic steam rising from his plate. "I wonder what kind of meat this is? Or perhaps I should ask, who?"

Urzahil froze, the tip of his dagger halfway to his lips. He lowered it to his plate, untouched.

Tar-Adûmir glared at his son. "I believe you're referring to something that happened during the Siege of Barad-dûr, just before they surrendered. That was a long time ago. I doubt the practice still exists."

Urzahil ate the bread and cheese, but didn't touch the meat. It didn't hurt to be careful. He noticed that no one else touched the meat, either.

Mírdain reached for an apple. "What will happen tomorrow?" he asked his father.

"Well, our audience with Sauron will be purely ceremonial. We'll give him our answer, that we accept his offer to ally against Gondor. Of course, he already knows. We wouldn't be here otherwise." Tar-Adûmir gestured with his eating dagger.

"Unofficially, we're here to size up our new ally. What sort of man is he? Will he keep his word? He's a habitual liar; the Elves call him Sauron the Deceiver. That's where you come in, Urzahil. You're to watch him and read his thoughts, and if you can, learn his motivation."

-o-o-o-o-o-

They rose early the next morning. Urzahil dressed in the silver grey robes of the priesthood, Gaerna in a dark green tunic lined in apricot silk. It was odd seeing Gaerna in aristocratic silks. He looked nothing like the brawny youth who'd put himself through school prizefighting in taverns.

"Gaerna, I've never seen you in court clothes before."

The embroidered silks was ordinary as far as court clothes went, but Urzahil couldn't imagine Gaerna, a scholarship student and the son of dockworker, in anything but the course linens and wools of a laborer.

"The diplomatic service loaned them to me," Gaerna said.

An hour later, the Embassy from Umbar stood in the antechamber outside the Great Hall, where Sauron of Mordor, thought to have died three thousand years ago, would receive them.

The doors were flanked by a pair of sentries, orcs with scarred faces and ragged looking armor. They held weapons taller than themselves, spears with ragged scythe-like blades. Neither paid any attention to the diplomatic Embassy.

"Are we supposed to kneel before Sauron?" asked Marös.

"No, you're not his subjects, you don't have to kneel. Just bow respectfully," said Tar-Adûmir.

Urzahil studied the massive bronze doors to what had once been the audience chamber of Isildur. They bore designs of trees and stars, relics of a time when this place was called Minas Ithil, Tower of the Moon.

"Aren't these the work of Gondor? Why hasn't Sauron melted them down for scimitars?"

"Sauron has great respect for craftsmanship, and the smiths of Gondor were among the best in the world, after the Elves," said the official who brought them there. "And you should never call him Sauron, he doesn't like it. Address him as Lord Zigûr, which means wizard."

"But everyone in Minas Morgul calls him Sauron, including you."

"Yes, but he doesn't need to know that," said the official.

With a screech of metal, a line of light appeared between the doors. There was a low thrumming noise from within, more felt than heard. It came through the paving stones and reached into his bones. Urzahil tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. Tar-Adûmir brushed an imaginary speck of dust from his robes.

The doors swung wide.

Tar-Adûmir raised his hand. "Follow me. I'll do all the talking. Don't make eye contact, and whatever you do, don't draw attention to yourselves."

Chapter End Notes

[1] Dwar, the Dog Lord of Waw, was Nazgûl #3 (Iron Crown Enterprises)

Chapter 4 – First Contact

Minas Morgul, TA 2951

It was surprisingly light inside the Great Hall. Urzahil blinked as he looked around. The light came through the clerestory windows high up near the vaulted ceiling and reflected against the polished marble, blindingly bright. It was dimmer in the shadows near the floor where the marble glowed faintly green, the color of lake water far below the surface.

Tar-Adûmir stepped through the doors, and the others followed. Urzahil lagged behind them in the dim, underwater light, his eyes on the slates a few paces ahead.

At the far end of an aisle formed by pillars of white marble, a low platform supported a throne. Behind it hung the largest banner Urzahil had ever seen, black with a red device, the Lidless Eye.

Light glinted from steel. Urzahil's eyes searched the dimness. A tall figure stood beside the throne, his gloved hands wrapped around the hilt of a great two-handed sword. His black garments were almost invisible against the banner behind him. A steel crown rested on his head. The Witch King of Angmar. On the other side of the throne, a second figure was similarly armed. For more stood at the back of the platform.

And what was that on the throne itself? Blackness filled the space, draped across its arms, swept against the floor. The shade unfolded itself and stood, liquid darkness, a blacker outline silhouetted against the black banner behind it.

Tar-Adûmir stopped ten paces before the platform.

"Ambassador from Umbar, I welcome thee." The Lord of Mordor spoke the traditional diplomatic greeting. His voice was a whisper, grating and harsh.

"Lord Zigûr, you do us honor." Tar-Adûmir spoke the customary reply.

"I offer thee my friendship. Let our two nations be allied against Gondor, our common foe. What sayest thou?"

"Umbar gladly accepts thy offer, Lord Zigûr." Tar-Adûmir mirrored Sauron's use of the ancient diplomatic language.

While they talked, Urzahil studied their host. Sauron was dressed entirely in black, without ornament of any kind. Unlike the servant at his right hand, he did not wear a crown. The light was behind him, it was impossible to see his face. Black gloves covered his hands.

Urzahil was here to watch Sauron and determine when he was lying, but how was he supposed to tell when he couldn't see him? Even if he could, it was said that Sauron lied as easily as he drew breath. If Sauron lacked remorse, as the Loremasters said, there'd be nothing to see.

Sauron took a step closer to Tar-Adûmir, leading with his right foot. That meant he was right-handed.

Urzahil watched Sauron's hands. They were relaxed and still, so Urzahil studied his feet. While Sauron was describing the strength of his army, the leather flexed over the tip of his right boot, which meant he was curling his toes. Why would he lie about the strength of his army? Everyone knew he'd just arrived here, and that Mordor was virtually unpopulated. Urzahil continued to watch him. Later, when Sauron promised to honor their alliance, his feet were as still as his hands. Good.

At one point, Tar-Adûmir gave Sauron an insincere complement. Urzahil saw Sauron's shoulders stiffen. Tar-Adûmir must not have noticed, because he did it again later. Marös, and then Mírdain also spoke to Sauron in an obsequious manner, and didn't seem to realize he found it annoying.

The audience drew to a close. It was time to exchange diplomatic gifts. Umbar's gift to Mordor was a fragment of the crystal globe that smashed when they pulled down the pillar. It was a large piece, smooth and curved on one side and ragged on the other. It was mounted on a block of white coral characteristic of Umbar, and on the side was a brass plaque commemorating the event.

Sauron's gift to Umbar was an ornamental dagger with a gold handle sat with gemstones. The blade was made of obsidian from Orodruin, the burning mountain. It was a handsome gift, worthy of the occasion.

-o-o-o-o-o-

After their audience, they had the afternoon free. Their minder took them on a tour of the fortress. They passed a small squadron of orcs going the other way, their armor clanking. Except for their guide, Urzahil hadn't seen anyone here who wasn't an orc.

"How many people are there in Minas Morgul?" asked Urzahil.

"Half the people from Dol Guldur followed him here, including myself. So let's see, Sauron and the nine Nazgûl make ten … " He countered on his fingers. "Including myself, I'd say twenty-two people."

"There must be more inside Mordor itself?" asked Urzahil.

"Mordor is empty," said the man.

The music of water reached him as they entered a courtyard in the middle of the fortress. In its center was a large fountain, alabaster white, carved in patterns of shells and vines. Water spilled over several basins before it fell into a tiled pool. The wind shifted, carrying with it a cold spray and the scent of water. Urzahil shivered. Even in the summer, it was cold up here in the mountains.

Near the fountain was the stump of a long-dead sapling, falling apart from age. Marks from a blade were visible on its cut surface.

"What's that twisted stump?" Urzahil asked.

"That's all that remains of the White Tree, the one Isildur brought from Númenor. The Witch King cut it down when he captured the fortress from Gondor."

Tar-Adûmir walked over to the fountain and sank down on the alabaster curb around it. He was a slender man with rounded shoulders, but slumped over with his white hair hanging in his face, he looked suddenly frail.

The guide crossed the courtyard to the stairway leading to the top of the wall. "May I take you to see the sights? From the Western Wall, you can look down the valley and see the meadow flowers in bloom. They have grey leaves like frost, and the flowers are a dark purple color. When you look down the valley, it's like a purple mist."

"Go on without me, I'm content to sit here in the sun." Tar-Adûmir made a gesture of dismissal.

"You don't mind being alone?" Their minder looked concerned.

"Urzahil will keep me company." Tar-Adûmir patted the curb beside him.

Mírdain's right here, why not him?

Urzahil sat down beside Tar-Adûmir and watched Marös, Mírdain, and Gaerna climb the stair and disappear along the wall. Urzahil scowled, he would've liked to see the meadow flowers too.

Tar-Adûmir's eyes scanned the edges of the courtyard. He twisted around and looked over his shoulder. They were alone. This close, the splashing from the fountain was so loud it may conversation difficult. He leaned over the water and reached for a leaf that was floating on the surface. Urzahil bent forward to see what he was looking at.

"So what did you observe of our host?" asked Tar-Adûmir, his voice low.

"He was easier to read than I expected," said Urzahil. "He lied a great deal, but mostly about insignificant things to save face, or make himself seem more important."

"What about our alliance?"

"As far as I can tell, he wants to ally with us against Gondor for mutual protection. There's no more to it than that."

"Good. You've just earned your keep on this trip."

-o-o-o-o-o-

A banquet was held in their honor that evening.

Before they left their rooms to go to the banquet, Tar-Adûmir lined them up and delivered a lecture.

"About that foolishness yesterday, when it was just us? That's not going to happen again. You're diplomats, you will behave like diplomats. I don't care what they put in front of you tonight, you're going to eat it without a single word of complaint."

Urzahil was apprehensive when he entered the feasting hall, a long chamber with high arched ceiling. They were shown to places has the High Table. Tar-Adûmir sat near the center, then the two envoys, then Urzahil, with Gaerna at the end.

Sauron didn't attend the banquet, his Chief Ambassador sat in his place.

"Why do you suppose Sauron's not here?" asked Mírdain.

"He's a supernatural creature, a spirit. I don't expect he eats," said Tar-Adûmir.

"Or perhaps he doesn't show his face to strangers," said Gaerna.

The first few removes were vegetables, bread, and rice. Then the main course was brought in, platters of roast chicken. Urzahil sagged with relief.

That night, as he lay between waking and sleeping, Urzahil saw again the audience with Sauron that morning. But in his dream, Caldûr, his former teacher, was on the stage with Sauron, positioning him in the shadow of the hanging banner and arranging the folds of his hood.

"Hold your head high and pull your shoulders back." Caldûr put a hand under Sauron's chin and tipped it up, then pulled the hood low over his eyes. "Just like that. It adds an air of mystery if they can't see your face, just like the low tones of music create a sense of dread."

Urzahil's eyes snapped open. He'd been in enough of Caldûr's plays to recognize theatrical illusions when he saw them. The whole audience that morning had been staged. Urzahil felt disappointed, and more than a little disillusioned.

-o-o-o-o-o-

They rose at first light. Urzahil dressed in the silver grey robes of the priesthood, and Gaerna put on a dark blue tunic with silver embroidery at the cuffs and hem. He struggled to fasten the closely spaced pearl buttons at the throat, which hadn't been made for a laborer's calloused hands.

When he finished, Gaerna gathered up his writing tools, and they joined the others at the long table under the dragon chandelier for breakfast. A fire was burning on the hearth. The main chamber was pleasantly warm after the unheated room where they'd slept.

Tar-Adûmir was lecturing his two envoys. "Our audience with Sauron yesterday was purely ceremonial. The real work begins today. We're going to negotiate a contract between our two nations, and record every nuance in precise legal language. It's going to be a long day. Plan to be there for eight or ten hours." Tar-Adûmir looked from Marös to Mírdain.

"Now, what should be on the forefront of your mind when you enter the Council chamber?"

"Mordor and Umbar are traditional allies, and have always helped each other," said Marös.

"And?"

"Mordor and Umbar share a common enemy," said Mírdain.

"And?"

Marös frowned, and Mírdain bit his lip. Tar-Adûmir looked impatient.

"We fear Sauron will pressure Umbar to become a vassal state. That must not happen," said Gaerna.

"That's the answer I was looking for," said Tar-Adûmir.

Then he turned to Urzahil. "Remember why you're here. Observe Sauron closely when he speaks. He may let down his guard in a way he didn't yesterday, and reveal more than he intends."

They followed Tar-Adûmir into the corridor. Their minder appeared shortly and led them to the Council chamber. Tar-Adûmir stepped inside and the others followed.

The walls of the Council chamber were the same white marble as the rest of the fortress. A long table ran almost the length of the room. Light poured through a bank of windows, reflecting from the pale walls and the polished oak table.

The Embassy from Mordor sat on the far side of the table. They were dressed entirely in black. Near the windows, a heavyset man, older and more formally dressed than the others, was speaking to a scribe. He'd been at the banquet last night, the Chief Ambassador for Mordor. The massive chair at the head of the table was empty.

Their minder showed Tar-Adûmir to a seat opposite Mordor's ambassador. Marös and Mírdain were given seats next to Tar-Adûmir, and Gaerna sat behind them on a stool near the wall, his writing box balanced on his knees. A wraith got up and moved to Mordor's side of the table, and Urzahil took its seat. The wood was cold.

A narrow door near the head of the table swung open. Something blocked the light. A figure robed in black placed a hand on either side of the doorjamb, then ducked under the lintel and entered the room.

Chairs scraped against stone. With the whisper of fabric, those on the Mordor side of the room rose to their feet. Tar-Adûmir stood also, and the delegation from Umbar followed his lead. Sauron crossed the room in three long strides. The flagstones rang under the weight of his tread. His people bowed their heads as he swept past and took his place at the head of the table.

Everything about Sauron's posture was confident, self-assured, and aggressive. Even if Urzahil hadn't known who he was, or known anything else about him, he would have been able to tell he was dangerous. Urzahil tried to see Sauron's face, but he was visible only as a black outline against the windows behind him. A theatrical trick, almost certainly done on purpose.

A second figure followed Sauron into the room. It wore a steel crown and carried a great, two-handed sword. It was at least as tall as its master, and wore the same featureless robes, but it looked utterly different. It moved fluidly, as if sliding in the shadows, unseen, invisible. Its footsteps made no sound. It reached the window and stood beside Sauron's chair, holding its weapon in both hands, the tip of the blade resting on the flagstones.

"Shall we begin?" Sauron's voice was a whisper, low and harsh. He introduced his Chief Ambassador, the older man on his right, and the junior envoys supporting him.

"And who is standing beside you? The one with the crown?" asked Tar-Adûmir.

"The Witch King of Angmar, a great general and my second-in-command," said Sauron.

The tip of the two-handed sword scraped against the flagstones, and Urzahil thought he saw the High Nazgûl stand a little straighter.

Tar-Adûmir introduced himself as Ambassador from Umbar, and named each member of his own delegation.

When the formal introductions were complete, the Witch King leaned his sword in a corner and pulled up a chair, wedging himself between Sauron and his Chief Ambassador, who moved over to make room for him. A look of annoyance flashed across the ambassador's features, but it disappeared an instant later behind a neutral expression. The Witch King moved so close to his master, there was little space between them, but Sauron didn't seem to notice or mind.

Drafting the contract was long and tedious. After they'd been working for a couple of hours, people on both sides of the table put down their quills. At the head of the table, Sauron stood up and stretched, then turned to Tar-Adûmir.

"Let me pose you a diplomatic puzzle. At the end of the Second Age, when my army was wiped out and my fortress besieged, I sent a message to Gil-galad and Elendil offering terms, which were rejected. If you'd been there, what would you have advised me to do?"

"Exactly what you did do. Retreat behind the walls of Barad-dûr and wait. You were well provisioned inside the fortress, while outside, the enemy had long supply lines and were camped on the plains of Gorgoroth where there's no water." Tar-Adûmir's voice was deferential.

"No one could've handled it better." Mírdain assured him, and Marös nodded in agreement. Sauron leaned back and crossed his arms. He looked down the table and his attention seemed to rest on Urzahil.

"What does our priest have to say?" asked Sauron.

I would have told you to not attack Gondor the first place. Then you wouldn't have provoked the counterattack that cost you your realm, and your life.

Urzahil bit his tongue and murmured that he wasn't trained as a diplomat.

"Even so, I'd like to know your opinion," Sauron said.

Urzahil weighed his words. He would be polite but honest.

"Well, I think they were options available that may have served you better. For instance, instead of meeting Gil-galad in single combat, you could have escaped through one of the sally ports and gone into hiding. You'd have lost Barad-dûr, but you'd still have the Ring."

Sauron's fingers, which had been drumming on the table, suddenly stopped. Tar-Adûmir leaned around Mírdain and shot Urzahil a look of warning.

Gaerna leaned forward from his place against the wall. "Or, after they rejected your terms, you might have had Gil-galad and Elendil assassinated."

Tar-Adûmir's breath hissed between his teeth. No diplomat in the world would have suggested assassination, not even in jest.

"Well, he killed them later, anyway," said Gaerna.

Tar-Adûmir turned around in his chair. "Gaerna, that's quite enough."

Gaerna wouldn't be going on any more diplomatic missions for Umbar. Sauron tapped a finger on the table. Urzahil thought he looked amused.

"All right, back to work," said Sauron.

By late afternoon, the envoys from the two nations began to relax around each other.

"So, how did you come to join the diplomatic service?" a young envoy across the table asked Urzahil.

"I'd always wanted to go on a diplomatic mission. There was a time I didn't think I ever would. My stepmother wanted me to do something practical, but I told her there was no way I'd ever fall so low I'd allow myself to be apprenticed to a blacksmith …"

At the head of the table where Sauron was writing, his quill froze for a moment. All conversation in the room stopped.

Stupid, stupid, stupid! How could he have forgotten about the Forging of the Ring? Before Sauron was anything else, he'd been a blacksmith's apprentice.

Tar-Adûmir's head snapped around. He looked daggers at Urzahil, then turned to Sauron, his eyes pleading.

"My Lord Zigûr, I wish to apologize…"

Sauron continued writing and gave no sign he'd heard. The room was silent except for the scraping of quill against vellum.

Sauron's Chief Ambassador shuffled through a sheath of papers. "I'd like to revisit the clause about establishing a permanent Embassy in each nation. Should the host supply the ambassador's residence, or should the foreign delegation rent the property?"

Everyone in the room had an opinion, and the buzz of conversation resumed. Urzahil stole a glance at Tar-Adûmir, who was looking straight ahead, his face white. Urzahil dreaded the private conversation they would surely have later. He also knew it was unlikely he'd be asked to come on a diplomatic mission again.

Urzahil remembered when his biggest fear was that he wouldn't be allowed to leave Minas Morgul. The last King of Gondor had accepted a challenge of single combat from the Witch King, rode through the gates of this fortress, and was never seen again. After the look Tar-Adûmir shot him, that had dropped down to being his second biggest fear.

It was late afternoon when the last clause was worked out. The scribes, Gaerna and a clerk from Mordor, moved to the table and laid out fresh sheets of vellum, pens, and ink. Tar-Adûmir and the Chief Ambassador for Mordor took turns reading aloud from scraps of paper covered with crossings out and marginal notes, and the two scribes wrote clean copy from it.

Soon, a dozen sheets of vellum were laid side-by-side along the length of the table. When the ink was dry, the contracts were signed by both parties, and the work of diplomacy was over.

There were no more diplomatic events ahead of them. They would dine in their rooms, and in the morning, they would begin the long ride back home. Tar-Adûmir stayed behind to speak informally with the Chief Ambassador from Mordor, but the rest of the delegation was free to go.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Back in the confines of his unheated room, Urzahil stripped off his silver robes and changed into an everyday tunic and leggings. Gaerna was sitting on the other bed, putting his pen nibs back in his writing box. Urzahil had just finished folding the priestly garments in tissue and packing them in his bag with the journey tomorrow, when there was a knock on the outer door. Gaerna got up and crossed the main chamber to answer it. An ancient orc stood in the doorway. Gaerna looked over his shoulder and shouted, "He wants you to come with him."

Urzahil's mouth went dry. Tar-Adûmir must have finished his meeting with the ambassador from Mordor, and now Tar-Adûmir and Urzahil were going to have a cozy chat about Urzahil's lack of tact this afternoon. Urzahil got to his feet, his heart pounding.

He followed the orc, who limped but moved at a brisk pace, downstairs to the main corridor. But before they reached the Council chamber, the orc turned down a narrow passage and climbed several flights of stairs into a part of the fortress Urzahil hadn't seen before. They stopped in front of a wooden door fitted with decorative ironwork. The orc knocked, then pushed open the door and stood back for Urzahil to enter.

The room looked like a private study. Tapestries hung on the wall, and there was a long table in the center. A figure in black sat at its head. His hood was pulled low, and the light was behind him, leaving his face in shadow. It was like something from one of Caldûr's plays.

Behind Urzahil, the door clicked shut. The black-robed figure placed his gloved hands on the table. One finger was missing. Urzahil backed toward the door. The roaring in his ears blocked out all other sounds.

"I want to apologize for what I said earlier. I didn't mean to give offense…" Urzahil stumbled over his own words.

"It is forgotten. Sit down." Sauron pointed to the chair on his left.

Urzahil sat. Heat radiated from the creature, far more than from an ordinary person, and he smelled of smoke. It was said the heat of his body alone had killed Elendil. Or Gil-galad. Urzahil couldn't remember.[1] It was said that Sauron's skin was black with invisible flames running over it. Why didn't his clothes catch fire?

Urzahil yanked his thoughts back to the present. He studied his host. Sauron's hands were still and his shoulders relaxed. Beneath the hood, a veil covered his face. It moved slightly with his breathing.

"I'm negotiating alliances with Harad and Khand, but I don't have enough people. Will you enter my service as an emissary?"

Urzahil blinked in surprise. He understood each individual word, but for a moment, the sentence didn't make any sense.

"It's a great honor, Lord Zigûr, but I'm bound to serve the Temple for another three years."

"I founded the Temple of Melkor, and was its first High Priest. I'm sure your High Priest would release you if I asked him to."

"This is very sudden. I need time to think about it." Urzahil just wanted to get out of there.

"Take your time. The next time you come out, we'll talk again."

It was a moot point. There wouldn't be a next time.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Tar-Adûmir paced back and forth, waving his arms as he ranted.

"What were you thinking?" The ambassador sprayed his words. Urzahil stared straight ahead, his arms at his sides.

"Do you realize you just insulted the most powerful being in Arda?" Tar-Adûmir's face was scarlet, and a vein pulsed in his forehead..

"I'm sorry, it was an accident. And anyway, I don't think he was insulted, I think he thought it was funny."

Tar-Adûmir continued to berate him. The door to Marös said Mírdain's room opened a crack, and closed again. Gaerna was nowhere to be seen. Urzahil's attention wandered. He didn't tell Tar-Adûmir about Sauron's offer. It was his alone, he didn't want to share it. Tar-Adûmir wouldn't have believed him anyway.

"Urzahil, you aren't cut out to be a diplomat. You have a fresh mouth, and you don't think before you speak. Tar-Castamir was wrong to send you here. We'll leave for home tomorrow, and not speak of this again."

That night, Urzahil lay awake staring into the darkness while Gaerna snored softly in the narrow bed next to his own. Or not so softly. But that's not what was keeping him awake.

Sauron's offer was flattering, but it wasn't right for him. He was comfortable in the Temple. His position was secure, and he was well taken care of. He'd just been anointed a priest a few weeks ago, on Midsummer's Day. He still owed three years of service for his education. Even if he wanted to accept Sauron's offer, he wasn't free to at the moment, but it was nice to have been asked.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Before first light the next morning, they assembled in the courtyard behind the gates of Minas Morgul. Their horses were waiting for them, already saddled and bridled. A small group of men-at-arms would ride with them as far as Haradwaith.

Gaerna was the last to join them. He was wearing clothes unsuitable for travel, a silk tunic and soft boots, and he didn't have any luggage.

"Gaerna, you're going to make us late," said Tar-Adûmir.

"I'm staying on. I've been offered a position as an emissary."

Chapter End Notes

[1] Tolkien told the story both ways.

Chapter 5 – Regrets

Urzahil rode with the rest of the delegation down the Harad Road towards the deserts of Haradwaith, and then home. The creak of saddle leather and the jingle of harness were the only sounds other than the wind and the occasional squawk of scrub jays. Even in the wilds of Ithilien, they were perfectly safe. A group of men-at-arms rode with them as their personal guard.

To the left, the peaks of the Ephel Dúath clawed the sky. A steep incline of loose stone led to the base of a sheer cliff. Those mountains couldn't be crossed. No one could enter Mordor without its Lord's consent.

Marös led a sorrel mare with an empty saddle by a lead line, the mount that had been Gaerna's on the trip here. Until yesterday, Gaerna had been Tar Adûmir's scribe, slightly above a servant. It wasn't until they were mounting up for the ride home that Gaerna appeared in court clothes, obviously not planning to travel, and announced he'd been asked to stay on an emissary for Mordor.

Urzahil had been offered the position first. He hesitated, and it was given to Gaerna instead. Urzahil hadn't realized how badly he'd wanted it, but by then, it was too late. Now Gaerna was an emissary for Mordor, and Urzahil was returning to his life as a priest in Umbar. Stupid, stupid, stupid! He slammed a fist into his thigh and cursed.

What was Gaerna doing now? Probably being instructed in the duties of an emissary. Being fitted for black robes with Sauron's badge on the left shoulder, the stylized Eye in red on a black background. Being assigned quarters far nicer than the windowless closet he'd shared with Urzahil during their stay in Minas Morgul. He ground his teeth.

Urzahil had never wanted to be a priest. When he entered University, he wanted to be an emissary, although he'd assumed it would be for the Haven of Umbar. Urzahil brightened. Maybe there were other positions available. The next time he came to Minas Morgul, he would ask.

In contrast to his own bad temper, Ambassador Adûmir's mood was buoyant. "We accomplished everything we set out to do. We met Sauron, we decided he was no threat to us, and we agreed to ally with him against Gondor."

"We could have signed the treaty and had the same agreement without ever leaving home," said the Ambassador's son Mírdain.

"Yes, we could have, but I wanted to see Sauron with my own eyes and size him up before committing the Haven of Umbar to join forces with someone so dangerous. But as far as I can tell, Sauron's intentions are exactly what he says they are, to ally with us against a mutual enemy."

Urzahil sat up a little taller. No one in the delegation could read people like he could. They couldn't read Sauron's face because it was always veiled. But Urzahil could just as easily read a walk, a sag in posture, or the intake of breath. He looked at Tar-Adûmir, waiting for praise.

Tar-Adûmir turned away, unsmiling. It was possible he was still mad about the gaffe Urzahil made at the negotiating table.

The men-at-arms escorting them had ridden slightly ahead. Marös lowered his voice. "The man in the black robes, do you think he was really Sauron? How could someone come back from the dead after 3000 years?"

"Sauron is an ancient being. Some would call him a demon. I imagine the black wrappings cover something deformed and hideous. Those who saw him in the Battle of the Last Alliance said his skin was coal black, with tongues of flame running over it. I sat beside him in the Council chamber, and I could feel an unnatural heat coming off his body," said Tar-Adûmir.

Urzahil had noticed that too. When he'd sat next to Sauron in Sauron's private study, it felt like being next to a stove or a hearth. Urzahil still hadn't told Tar-Adûmir about that secret meeting, or the position Sauron had offered him.

Mírdain, who in their University days sat in the back of the room mocking their instructors, twisted in the saddle to face his father.

"I don't believe in demons, but I do believe in minor warlords with big ambitions. Why be Tar-Never Heard Of Him when you could be Sauron the Dreaded, scourge of the Second Age?" He feigned draping a veil over his face. "A black robe and a square of silk could make you the most feared creature in Arda."

Marös turned around to face Mírdain. "You're right, we never actually saw him. Between the veil, the gloves, and the loose-fitting robes, it could've been anyone under there."

Tar-Adûmir cleared his throat. "You're forgetting one thing. The letter announcing his return matched the only known sample of Sauron's handwriting. And I sat beside him during negotiation and watched him write. The handwriting was the same."

"Your father's right, Mírdain. I watched Sauron closely. He lied repeatedly about a number of things, but when he told us who he was, I saw no sign of deception." Urzahil looked to Tar-Adûmir, expecting to see him nod. Instead, Tar-Adûmir looked straight ahead as if Urzahil wasn't there.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Inside the Temple, Urzahil looked up at the underside of the dome, hundreds of feet above his head. The Temple was the tallest structure in the Haven of Umbar, and the most magnificent.

Every day, Urzahil took his place in a row of priests clad in silver-grey and sang the words of prayer to Melkor. The ceremony today was the same as yesterday, and the same as the day before it, stretching back to the day he'd joined the Seminary almost three years ago. He yawned with his teeth clamped shut, hoping no one noticed.

Urzahil glanced at Súrion. Súrion's eyes were closed, as if he were experiencing a mystery, something sacred and magical.

In the Temple, they were taught that by worshiping Melkor, first and greatest of the Holy Ones, they could stave off death, possibly for years. Every day, they chanted the words from the sacred texts, giving praise to Melkor, Giver of Life.

Urzahil had few religious feelings. He suspected the whole thing had been invented by Sauron to split the Númenorian people into two rival factions, which he proceeded to divide and conquer. It had worked, too. Urzahil hadn't shared his views with anyone else in the Temple. The Priesthood was his livelihood. He relied on the room and board provided by the Temple. Without it, he'd be sleeping in the streets.

Late summer arrived and with it, August Eve, the High Holy Day between the Summer Solstice and the Fall Equinox. On High Holy Days, the Temple offered a blood sacrifice to Melkor, along with ceremonies and prayers from first light until after sunset.

Before dawn, Urzahil entered the robing room beneath the Temple, one of the last to arrive. The other priests were already dressed, the hems of their white garments sweeping the floor. He changed into the fine linen under tunic that priests wore beneath their ceremonial garb and took his place against the wall.

Temple servants brought in the vestments of heavy silk brocade embroidered in metallic thread. When it was his turn, Urzahil stood motionless while they lifted the sacred garment over his head and arranged it so it lay flat. Once he had been arrayed in sacred finery, Urzahil stood with Súrion and the others waiting to be called into the Temple.

A priest famous for his piety had been selected to perform the sacrifice. He entered the room. The others drew back and bowed their heads as he passed. His face was the color of wax, and there were shadows like bruises under his eyes. The rituals of purification required the priest who would wield the knife to fast and to kneel before the altar all night before the ceremony.

This particular priest was said to fast longer and to stay kneeling longer than was actually required by the rules of the Cult. He had no interest outside of the Cult of Melkor, and he was the High Priest's favorite. Neither Urzahil nor Súrion could stand him.

The favored one went to the center of the room and stood with his arms outstretched. Temple servants undressed him, then clothed him in a surplice of pure white wool. He wore nothing beneath it, and he was barefoot. His eyes held a faraway expression, as if he had entered a sacred realm.

They watched him leave. When the door closed behind him, Súrion said, "You do know, don't you, that the ritual to prepare for sacrifice wasn't designed by Melkor himself? If it had been, it might have involved sleeping late and eating a decent breakfast."

Urzahil's jaw dropped in feigned shock. "I think you're mistaken, this is Melkor we're talking about. If Melkor had designed the ritual, it would involve falling into bed drunk, rolling on top of a girl, and making the headboard bang in the ancient rhythm."

Súrion stared over Urzahil's shoulder, his eyes wide. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.

"Come on Súrion, it was just a joke."

"Urzahil, I could have you flogged for blasphemy." Urzahil wheeled around. The High Priest's mouth was set in a thin, hard line.

Súrion pushed between them. "Sir, you're a respected scholar, surely you know that's something Lord Melkor might actually have done. What Urzahil said was rude, but it wasn't blasphemy."

The High Priest turned on his heel and left without a word. The door slammed behind him.

Chapter 6 - Homecoming

That night, Urzahil lay awake in his curtained bed.

The High Priest had accused him of blasphemy. It was a serious offense. He'd said, "I could have you flogged," but he could just as easily have banished Urzahil from the priesthood. Súrion had defended him, and as far as Urzahil could tell, the High Priest had backed down.

But even if he'd escaped standing shirtless in the courtyard with his arms wrapped around a pole before a hundred witnesses, counting aloud while crosshatched stripes were laid across his back, there would still be consequences. He just didn't know what they were yet.

He thought of the day almost three years ago when Súrion's influence got him admitted to the Seminary. Urzahil was destitute. He was about to his mother's people and asking them to take him on as a farmhand, even though he had been raised in an aristocratic household.

Suppose he had gone to them, and his mother's people had taken him in? He'd be one of them now, a farmer working with a hoe, close to the land, the sun is clock, the change in seasons his only calendar. He'd see little of the outside world, save for the steward on horseback coming to collect the rents, or when they all made the long trip to market. He imagined wildflowers along country lanes, and new milk, and coming in at the end of the day tired, but tired in a good way.

He'd never wanted to be a priest. He only accepted the scholarship because it came with room and board. For someone who'd been scraping plates and eating scraps meant for the pig, who hoped to sleep indoors that night, it had the offer was too good to turn down.

Life in the Temple was secure and comfortable, but Urzahil didn't belong here. Everyone else seemed to have a spiritual connection with Melkor, and believed their relationship with him would give them years beyond their natural lives. Urzahil, on the other hand, didn't think Melkor paid any attention to them at all, assuming he even existed. Despite their unending prayers and sacrifices, no one appeared to be living a particularly long time.

Urzahil had never had gone to see his mother's people. All of a sudden, he longed to see the place where she was born, to meet the cousins who, he was sure, would look like him. He wanted to know where he was from.

Once, when he was traveling on the Main Road with his father, his father pointed out the turnoff leading to the farm where his mother's people lived. Urzahil committed the landscape to memory, but he couldn't find the turnoff later. Every farm lane had looked the same.

The farm where his mother's people lived was on Lintoron land. The next time he saw his brother Aldamir, he would ask him where it was. When would he see him next? He promised his family he would stop by the house when he returned from Mordor and tell him about his trip. He resolved to go to the house as soon as he could.

-o-o-o-o-o-

The next afternoon, Urzahil went to the house where he'd grown up.

The garden was bright with late summer flowers, not as meticulously tended as the plantings around the Temple grounds, but well cared for and cheerful. His hand was on the gate, but he hesitated. His stomach felt like acid. He hoped he wouldn't see Lady Lintoron. He couldn't remember a time when there wasn't tension between them, but it escalated after his father died, until after a particularly bad quarrel, he'd stormed out of the house, even though he had nowhere else to go.

He mounted the steps and knocked. A servant opened the door, and came back a few minutes later with his half-brother Aldamir.

"Urzahil! You're back! Stay for supper, and tell us about your trip to Mordor."

Urzahil's stomach lurched. But he'd dined with the family before he left for Mordor, and Lady Lintoron had spoken kindly to him. He hadn't quite known how to react.

He heard footsteps across the marble floor, and looked up. Lady Lintoron came into the front hall, the summer-weight silks of her long tunic rustling around her. She placed both hands on both his shoulders. "You look so like your father." She blinked hard and smiled at him.

The Lintorons filed into the Great Hall and sat around took their places around the long table. A servant set soup and bread in front of them and filled their goblets with wine.

"What was Sauron like?" asked Aldamir.

Urzahil considered. "I don't know what I expected, but whatever it was, he was different than that. I thought he'd be a demon, and he was, but I didn't think he'd be so funny.

"During negotiations, one of the Ringwraiths openly contradicted him. We were shocked, we'd all thought Ringwraiths were slaves without free will. Sauron said, "My servants are supposed to tell me what I need to hear. Of course, it would work better if I'd listen, rather than explain to them why they're wrong."

"Do you want to go on another diplomatic mission, or was this a one-time adventure?" asked Aldamir.

"I'd like to go again, but I don't know if I will," said Urzahil

"You've wanted to be an emissary since before you went to University. I've never heard you express an interest in the priesthood. In fact, when Súrion suggested it the first time, you almost choked," said Lady Lintoron.

A servant cleared away of the last of the plates and topped off their wine goblets. This was the most relaxed part of the evening, when the wind had begun to take effect.

Lady Lintoron excused herself and left the room.

"Aldamir, may I ask you a favor? I'd like to see a map of the Lintoron landholdings. I'm trying to locate the farm where my mother's people live."

"All the records for rents are in the study. I'll be right back."

Aldamir left the room and returned a minute later with a rolled-up scroll of vellum and a ledger book. He spread the scroll out on the long table and weighted the edges with a salt cellar and an empty goblet.

"These are the Lintoron landholdings. It's this entire swath between the High Road and the coast."

He pointed to an enormous tract of land, subdivided into tiny irregular shapes of individual farms had been drawn in black ink. Each had been given a number.

"Can you find it on the map?" Aldamir asked.

Urzahil studied the map. He traced a finger along the High Road looking for the turnoff. There are several farm lanes, it could have been any of them.

"Do you know their plot number?"

Urzahil had no idea.

"It's Plot 32," Lady Lintoron said from the doorway.

Urzahil looked up, his cheeks burning. He'd been talking about to his mother in front of Lady Lintoron, under her own roof. He held his breath and waited for the worst.

"How do you know?" asked Aldamir.

"Once I became aware she existed, I learned everything I could about her: her name, her character, where she came from. Even after all these years, I still remember everything about her."

She leafed through the ledger book. "Here it is, Plot 32. Your mother's people have rented it for generations. The current leaseholder is a farmer named Gareth."

Urzahil studied the map. On horseback, he could reach it in half a day. North on the High Road, left onto an almost invisible farm lane, then follow it for several miles to the first hamlet. Easy. Urzahil would have been able to find the turnoff on his own, without having seen the map.

-o-o-o-o-o-

After thinking about it for a few days, Urzahil asked for permission to be away for the day and made arrangements to borrow a horse from the Temple stables. He set off at first light and reached the turnoff from the High Road around midday.

He followed the narrow lane, little more than a cart track, for two or three miles. Green farmland stretched out on the either side of the rutted path. The wheat had grown tall, but he didn't see any people working in the fields. Now and then he saw a scarecrow, but that was all.

He went over a small rise, and on the other side, there was a group of three small cottages. Each one looked the same, with a thatched roof, a curl of smoke rising from a wooden chimney, and a woven withy fence enclosing a pigsty. Small towheaded children running around in front of one of the cottages froze and stared at him openly.

This was a homecoming of sorts; he'd never been here before. Would he see his own features reflected in those of his cousins? What they have the same coloring, use the same gestures?

He reined in. "I'm looking for Gareth."

There was a lot of giggling, and several children ran into one of cottages.

More farmers appeared in doorways and from around the cottages, in homespun clothes and wooden shoes, with broad straw hats to protect from some from the sun. They held agricultural implements with long wooden handles and iron blades. Urzahil couldn't even give names to them, but some resembled hoes, and others, pickaxes.

They looked at him, their faces closed. He guessed that a well-dressed stranger on horseback didn't come down this lane very often, unless it was the Steward collecting rents.

A man appeared in the doorway of one of the cottages.

"I'm Gareth." He regarded Urzahil cautiously.

Urzahil swung a leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground.

"I'm Urzahil, son of Faethe."

"Faethe's boy? After all these years? What brings you here?"

"I'm not sure. I want to know who my mother was, and where I come from."

Gareth stepped forward. "She was my sister, and dear to me." He clapped Urzahil on the back. "Come inside and share the midday meal with us."

It was dark in the cottage. At first he could only see the bright square of the small window, but as his eyes adjusted, he could see a long table with benches on each side, and a ladder leading up to a sleeping loft. The faces of small children peeked over the edge, watching him.

The round stones of the fireplace black were with soot. Cooking pots hung from hooks. A woman bent over an iron kettle sitting in the coals. She looked up and smoothed her apron.

"This is my wife, Arisen. I suppose that makes her your aunt." He waved a hand at the loft. "Those are your cousins. This one too, he's my oldest son." A young man in the doorway nodded.

Gareth's wife ladled rice gruel with vegetables into wooden bowls and set them on the table. She placed a horn spoon beside each bowl. She also set out a plate of pickled mushrooms, and a pitcher of goat's milk to drink.

"Sit, sit. And I suggest you eat quickly, if you don't want anyone to steal your food." He laughed.

The table filled up. Urzahil counted eight or nine people around the table, with several more moving around in the background. There were several dogs under the table, and a chicken pecked the dirt floor near the hearth.

"What was my mother like?" Urzahil asked.

"She had yellow hair and skin like new milk, and she was as good-natured as anyone I ever knew," said Gareth.

"When Faethe got in trouble, it broke Father's heart. He never again allowed her name to be spoken in his presence. But even though he'd disowned her, Faethe loved him, and she named you after him."

Gareth looked off in the distance, lost in thought.

"She died two years later, and some people from the city tried to bring the baby here. Oh, that's you! Anyway, Father wouldn't allow a bastard under his roof, even though Mother wanted the baby very badly."

Gareth studied his hands. "Both of our parents are gone now."

Urzahil looked at the faces around the table, hoping to see a family resemblance between them and himself. They were blond with round faces. He was tall and dark, with long, angular features. But why would he look like anyone in his mother's family? He looked exactly like his father.

When he was ready to leave, Gareth walked outside with him. He started to say something, looked at the ground, and shifted his weight. All the signs were there, he was going to ask for money.

"I hate to ask, but the harvest won't be as good as we'd hoped, and we're going to be short on the rent. You're a Lintoron, aren't you? Could you forgive the difference, just for this one year?" Gareth's face was red.

Urzahil took his purse from his belt and emptied it into his hand. It was all the pocket money he had. The Temple wouldn't pay him his stipend until the next full moon, several weeks away. He gave the handful of coins to Gareth.

"Is that enough?" Urzahil asked.

"It's the answer to a prayer," said Gareth.

On the ride back, he thought about how the day had gone.

His mother's people had greeted him warmly and welcomed him into their home, but they were strangers to him. He'd searched for a family resemblance, but there was none. Their conversation was limited to farming and the weather, and their country accent grated on his ear.

He was a nobleman and they were rustics. The chasm was too wide to bridge. Urzahil was filled with sadness, he didn't fit in there, either.

Chapter 7 - The Letter

All those who served in the Temple, the priests, acolytes, and servants, were just sitting down to breakfast in the Refectory. The High Priest was sitting in the center of the High Table. Urzahil kept his head down and avoided making eye contact with them. The High Priest hadn't said anything further about Urzahil's quasi-blasphemous remark. Urzahil hoped he'd forgotten ever happened, but it was hard to be sure.

The High Priest pushed back his tall chair and got to his feet.

"May I have your attention." The murmuring in the Refectory fell quiet.

"The Captain of the Haven has arranged the marriage of his son to the daughter of one of the most prominent citizens of the city. This union will promote the security of the Haven of Umbar. I want each of you to include a benediction for this union in your prayers."

Tas was betrothed? Urzahil had spoken to him just a few days ago and he hadn't said a thing. Urzahil resolved to visit him as soon as possible, and offer his congratulations. Plus, he wanted to see him. He needed to talk to someone about his feelings of not fitting in, and Tas had been his best friend since before he could remember.

That afternoon, as he was crossing the foyer of the small building that guarded the entrance to the Temple compound, the clerk at the desk called his name.

"Urzahil? There's a letter here for you." The clerk pulled something from a pigeonhole and handed it to him.

It was a square of parchment, folded into a tight package. Urzahil's name was written on the front. He snorted with annoyance. He'd been to see his mother's people at their farm just a few days ago, and he'd given Gareth all the money in his purse. It was a little early for Gareth to be asking for more. He hadn't even known Gareth could write.

He turned it over and studied the back. The letter was sealed with red wax, which was normally too expensive for ordinary use. He looked for an imprint of the sender's seal, the wax was smooth, there were no markings of any kind.

Urzahil felt the color drain from his face. It must be an official reprimand. He shoved the letter deep in his pocket and crumpled his fist over it.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Just inside the outer city wall, in the part of the city where the houses were the size of palaces and separated by well-tended gardens, he stopped in front of the Castamiri house, five doors down from the house where he grew up.

A servant showed him in. He waited in the white marble foyer while he was announced, then ascended the sweep of marble stairs. He found Tas in his room. Marös was with him.

"Let me be the first to tell you my news. Father has negotiated my betrothal," said Tas.

"It couldn't have been easy for Tar-Castamir or his lady wife, either. Our young friend rejected the first two brides offered for his approval," said Marös.

"Unlike my older brother, I'm not the heir. I can pick and choose," said Tas.

Urzahil knew he should be happy for Tas, that he should be congratulating him and slapping him on the back. But he felt more like slinking away and sulking. He knew he would never have an arranged marriage, and felt left out.

The discussion never left the details for the betrothal banquet, who would be invited, what would be served, what they would wear. He tapped his foot with impatience. No one noticed.

"Sauron offered me a position as an emissary for Mordor." The moment the words left his lips, Urzahil clapped his hand over his mouth. It didn't matter, no one looked up.

He listened to betrothal talk until the city bells rang the hour, then said goodbye to Tas, who barely looked up from his list of influential guests.

-o-o-o-o-o-

On the way down the stairs to the door he spotted Tar-Castamir crossing the wide marble foyer and hurried to catch up with him.

"Tar-Castamir, I'd like to go on the next delegation to Mordor. Will you ask Tar-Adûmir to include me?"

Tar-Castamir looked uncomfortable. "Tar-Adûmir didn't request you for the next mission. Actually, he asked that you not be included. He says you're a liability."

Urzahil cheeks burned. "Because of the blunder I made, about not wanting to be a blacksmith's apprentice?"

"That was worse than a blunder. You insulted a head of state, one who happens to be our most important ally. You endangered the entire mission."

Urzahil shoved his hands in his pockets. His fingers closed on the square of parchment.

"It was an accident, and I don't think he was insulted, I think he thought it was funny."

"A diplomat isn't supposed to make mistakes like that. I'm sorry, Urzahil, I can't let you meet with foreign dignitaries any more, not when the stakes are so high."

Urzahil's fingers traced the outline of the wax seal, a smooth bump on the rough surface of the parchment. He broke off a piece of wax and rolled it between his fingers until it crumbled into bits.

"What about my gift for reading people? I'll sit in the shadows, unseen and invisible. I won't even open my mouth."

"It's not enough. There's more to diplomacy than reading people. Emissaries are polite. They think before they speak. They don't react to insults. The emissaries under Tar-Adûmir receive months of training in diplomatic manners before they're allowed to meet with their counterparts from other nations.

"You, on the other hand, are given to eye rolling and making sarcastic comments under your breath. Now, I think it's funny, but we can't risk anyone doing that on a mission.

I'm sorry, Urzahil. You aren't you are cut out to be a diplomat. I think you're more suited to the priesthood. You won't get in trouble there, where all your lines are scripted."

Urzahil bent a corner of the parchment forward, then back, until the material started to come apart. He looked at the ground, blinking hard.

"I'm sorry, I'd like to talk more, but I have to go. The delegation from Mordor is about to go home, and I should say goodbye to their ambassador before they finish up this afternoon."

Urzahil watched him cross the foyer, a large confident man, full of purpose. A servant opened the door for him, and light from outdoors reflected off the marble floor, blinding white.

Urzahil considered following him to learn where the delegation was meeting. Maybe he could give a message to one of them. But he didn't try, even for him, the breach in protocol was too great.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Urzahil was in no hurry to return to the Temple. He took a meandering path from the Castamiri house back to the old city. By exploring every side street and putting his hand in the water of every public fountain, he was able to turn the short trip into a journey of over an hour.

Although he delayed as long as he could, eventually the gold dome of the Temple came into view, and soon after, the library and dormitories, and the walls around the Temple grounds.

He climbed the steps to the entrance of the small building guarding the Temple compound. The front of the building was closed off, but in the back, tall windows looked out onto the formal gardens.

A man in dark clothes leaned against the wall that separated it from the City of the Dead. Blond hair hung in his face, covering his eyes. He looked familiar, but Urzahil couldn't place him. He could be one of his mother's people.

The clerk at the front desk was busy writing something in a register book. Urzahil glanced at the pigeonholes above his head fearing a note from the High Priest, but his was empty.

The clerk looked up. "Urzahil? The High Priest would like to see you in his office at your earliest convenience."

Urzahil cast about for a delay. Any delay would do. "Who's that man in the garden?" he asked.

"Someone to see you. He wouldn't leave his name, he said had to speak to you in person. I told him to wait for you outside."

Urzahil grimaced. He'd just given his mother's family all the pocket money he had, and wouldn't receive his stipend until the next full moon. He had nothing to give the man, even if he'd wanted to.

"How long has he been waiting? I suppose I should speak with him." Urzahil went out the back door into the garden.

Up close, the man didn't look like a farmer. His clothes were plain but well made. He could be a merchant's clerk or fish broker, someone from the wealthy part of the middle class.

"Did you get the letter?" he asked.

Urzahil's hand closed on the square of parchment in his pocket.

"We're leaving first thing in the morning. Are you coming with us?"

"Um… remind me how we know each other?"

"I'm Gillis. I was sitting across the table from you. Remember? I'd never fall so low I'd let myself be apprenticed to a blacksmith." The man slapped his thigh. "Sauron is still quoting that. Anyway, he likes you, probably because you're sarcastic and mouthy. Takes one to know one, I guess."

Gillis was Sauron's emissary. When the delegation from Umbar negotiated an alliance with Sauron, Gillis sat across the table from him.

Urzahil pulled out the square of parchment. It was grey from having been in his pocket all day. He broke what remained of the seal and unfolded the square of parchment. He recognized the handwriting immediately - the slanted cursive of a layman, the descenders fading to grey as the pen ran out of ink. The letters were decorated with ornate diacritics, identical to the 3000-year-old fragment preserved in the Temple archives. It was Sauron's handwriting.

He read what Sauron had written. He would be an emissary representing Mordor. As a member of the nobility, he would be entitled to a furnished suite of rooms, a servant to look after his needs, and the right to be called Tar-Urzahil.

The nobility. He would have a title, and he would belong to the nobility. If he accepted, he would be Tar-Urzahil, which he never could be here.

He turned back to the letter. The stipend was more than what he received from the Temple, by a slight margin, although it was nowhere near what he could've made as a merchant's clerk. He was to come as quickly as possible because he was needed for a mission to Khand.

Bile rose in his throat, and a sense of fear.

"What happened to Gaerna?" Urzahil asked.

"He's in Far Harad, making promises and distributing small presents to tribal chieftains. Taher is responsible for Núrn, and I come to Umbar. The Chief Ambassador will deal with Gondor himself, if the situation ever comes up. There are still two more positions unfilled."

"What about the High Priest? I need his permission to go."

"Sauron founded the Temple. I doubt your High Priest will refuse him." Gillis made a dismissive gesture, and then turned to practical matters. "Meet us outside the Main Gate first thing tomorrow morning. We'll have a horse for you, and room for your things in the baggage cart. Don't be late. We're leaving as soon as it's light enough to see."

Gillis left the garden and strode down the main road, whistling. Urzahil watched him disappear in the deepening twilight.

Urzahil's mouth went dry. He hadn't agreed to enter Sauron's service, but he hadn't refused, either. It was what he'd wanted, but it was too much, too fast. He would sleep on it before he gave Gillis his answer.

But now, he had a more immediate problem. With slow steps and a mouth as dry as cotton, Urzahil made his way to the High Priest's office. The door to the high priest's office was ajar. Urzahil cleared his throat and rapped on the doorjamb.

"Come in." The High Priest sat behind his desk, writing. It was purple twilight outside, light from the lamp played on the old man's pinched features. He didn't invite Urzahil to sit, so Urzahil stood on the carpet in front of the desk, shifting from foot to foot.

The High Priest looked up. He rested his elbows on the desk with his fingers tented. In

"Of all the priests three weeks out of Seminary, you are unique. Not only did you commit blasphemy inside the Temple itself, right before services began, but you met the founder of our religion and insulted him. If we ever had a worse example of the priesthood among our numbers, I'm sure I don't know who it was."

"I didn't insult him…"

"Really? Tar-Adûmir tells me you told him to his face that his chosen occupation was beneath you."

"I didn't insult him, he thought it was funny. He this asked me to join his organization. " Urzahil pulled out the letter and handed it to the High Priest, who read it in silence for some moments.

"I don't suppose your decision is based on religious feeling for the founder of our Cult? I see he offered you a title. No one there will know you were born a bastard."

Urzahil dug his nails into the palms of his hands, his pulse hammered in his ears.

"And you're not doing yourself any harm by joining now, when he has what, thirty people? In a few years, he'll have thousands, and those who joined early will be at the top. I understand your motivation, but I hope you're good at court intrigue, because where you're going, you'll have to be."

The High Priest handed the letter back to Urzahil, who nodded and turned to go. But before he reached the door, the High Priest called after him, "One more thing. Whatever you do, don't mock the cult of Melkor in front of your new Master."

-o-o-o-o-o-

Urzahil had trouble falling asleep that night. Tomorrow he would travel to Mordor, where he would enter Sauron's service. He didn't know what he was getting into. Quite possibly, he had just made the biggest mistake of his life.

Why had he agreed to it? Because Sauron was a figure out of a legend. People in Umbar hero-worshiped him, Urzahil among them. But it was more than that. When Urzahil left Umbar, he would no longer be Tar-Lintoron's bastard, he would be Urzahil of Umbar. He would finally be free of the stigma of illegitimacy that had plagued him all his life.

When he opened his eyes, the sky had already lightened to a grey dawn. He sat up in a panic, and reproached himself for not asking a servant wake him. Gillis had said to meet him at the main gate at first light, and that they were leaving promptly. Urzahil might already have missed him.

Urzahil pulled on traveling clothes as quickly as he could, heavy wool leggings, a linen shirt, and a leather jerkin. When he was dressed, he draped a woolen cloak long enough to serve as a blanket over his shoulders.

There was no time to shave or to go down to the kitchens and snag a piece of bread for breakfast. There was barely time to find anyone to carry his chest. He was suddenly glad he finished the night before, and not left any last-minute packing for this morning. The small wooden chest held everything he owned, all his books from University and Seminary, and a few more he'd been given by the library when they got so worn they were pulled from the shelves.

He'd left almost no room for clothes. He'd managed to fit in his everyday shirts and leggings, an embroidered tunic of his father's, and one of the silver-grey robes of a priest. And one other thing. Wrapped in a linen shirt was a small river rock painted to look like a crab, with a blue shell and orange-red claws. He made it for his father when he was small. It was the only memento he'd kept when he left home for the last time. He'd managed to fit them all between the spines of his books, but it took doing.

Two servants lifted it by the rope handles at each end, and followed him down the hall.

He stepped out of the building that had been his home since he'd entered the Temple as an acolyte three years ago. It was cold in the predawn. He hugged himself and shivered.

He walked along the low wall which separated the garden from the City of the Dead. He stopped, and the two men carrying his chest almost ran into him. He scanned the tombs for the one marked Lintoron. He'd only read Sauron's letter yesterday evening, and since then, everything had happened so fast, he hadn't said goodbye to his father.

The sky was beginning to get light, even though the sun had not yet risen. What had Gillis said? Were they were leaving at sunrise, or at first light? Urzahil wasn't sure. It would only take a few minutes to vault the low wall and reach the Lintoron tomb, but he wasn't sure there was time. He'd overslept and gotten a later start than he'd meant to.

"Goodbye, Father. I'm going to make you proud of me." He touched his fist to his opposite shoulder in salute. "Let's go." The Temple servants picked up their burden and followed him.

They reached the main square in the center of the old city. The first of the vendors were just beginning to set up their wares in the marketplace, and the songs of birds were louder than during the middle of the day.

Just before they passed through the gate in the city's inner wall, he stopped again and looked back. Sunlight was just beginning to hit the golden dome of the Temple, the highest structure in Umbar. The Temple grounds were in shadow. He thought he could make out his father's tomb, a white coral structure in a sea of white coral structures, but from an unfamiliar angle, he wasn't sure.

From there, they caught the main road through the city, which took them through the cramped gate in the old city wall and on to the main gate in the outer wall. The main gate was barred closed at this hour, but a night watchman opened the postern door and let them out.

Outside the city gates, the delegation from Mordor was breaking camp. Men-at-arms were rolling up a tent or lifting wooden chests into the baggage cart. A group of horses and men were milling around. Some were mounted, and some were standing in holding the reins. There was an extra horse, already saddled.

"I thought you'd changed your mind. Any longer, and we would have left without you." Gillis went back to helping load the cart.

The Temple servants struggled to lift his chest into the baggage cart.

"Let's go!"

Chapter 8 - Enter on Duty

After three days of travelling, they rounded the last bend up a narrow, rocky path. They emerged from the tangled trees, and there it was, Minas Morgul, phosphorescent in the moonlight.

They rode over narrow bridge and entered the gates of the fortress. The gates banged shut behind them. Urzahil swung a leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground, his legs shaky with exertion. They were standing in the same courtyard where, two months ago, Gaerna had told them he wasn't coming back to Umbar with them.

It was late, and few were about. Sauron's Steward came down to meet them, his nightshirt not quite tucked in, his hair rumpled from sleep.

Orcs swarmed over the baggage cart, passing down bundles and bags. Urzahil saw one lift the chest and struggle with it towards the back of the cart.

"Be careful with that!" Urzahil warned.

The Orc wrestled Urzahil's chest over the side and lowered it into the arms of the companion, then let go of the rope handles the other Orc staggered backwards under the weight.

"Sauron's butt crack! What's in there, your rock collection?"

Urzahil glanced at the Steward, expecting him to react, but the Steward never looked up from his sheath of notes. Perhaps he didn't understand Black Speech? Or was that just how Orcs talked?

"Urzahil, one of the new emissaries? Let's see, where did I put you? Third floor overlooking the main gate. Follow me. Someone carry his things."

Urzahil followed the steward along a phosphorescent hallway, a broad flight of steps, and after that, a twist of spiral stairs built into the wall.

The Steward pushed open an ironbound door and stepped into the room. The light from his lamp revealed a large fireplace with a carved stone mantle, and a table with a pair of chairs.

The Orcs dropped his chest near the door with a thump and stood beside it. The Steward made a gesture of dismissal, and they scurried out of the room.

You can't see it at night, but this room has a view of the Ithilien valley," said the Steward.

Urzahil had been here just after Midsummer, when the High Valley was covered with dark purple flowers. He would enjoy seeing that again next year.

The Steward crossed the tiled floor and opened the door in the back of the room. Most of the small space was taken up by a canopied bed with embroidered hangings. There was also a washstand in the corner.

"Come find me in the morning, and we'll finish getting you settled." He said good night and left Urzahil alone. I have breaking

Half an hour later, Urzahil lay in the center of the curtained bed. With his arms outstretched, he could just touch either side. The rounded bolster reached from one side to the other, and plumped out the slim feather pillows. The walls glowed faintly green, and their light competed with the light from the full moon streaming through the window.

-o-o-o-o-o-

When Urzahil woke, daylight filled the room. The morning was half gone. He dressed and went into the outer room, where breakfast had been laid out on the table for him.

He picked up a slice of bread. It was dark with a coarse texture, and heavier than he was used to. Instead of butter to spread on it, there was lard. He was used to bread made from

finely ground wheat flour. Back home, only poor people would eat this.

After he finished eating, he went downstairs and found the Steward in his office.

"Urzahil, how are you settling in?" The Steward asked.

"Your rank as an emissary entitles you to a servant who will see to your needs. Most likely it will be an Orc. I don't expect you're used to them, but they make perfectly good servants." He pulled out a list. "Of course you know that Sauron is our Master. We address him as Lord Zigûr, which means Wizard, or Tar-Mairon, which means Admirable Lord.

"The Nazgûl, the Ringwraiths, are his most powerful servants. They've served him for thousands of years, and each of them wears one of the Great Rings. They fall just below our Master in rank. You should take an order from a Nazgûl as if it came from Sauron himself, because it may have."

"How do you tell the Nazgûl apart?" asked Urzahil.

"You can't. They all look alike. The Witch King of Angmar is taller than the others, and on State occasions, he wears a steel crown. As for the others, it's anybody's guess."

The Steward leaned forward and lowered his voice.

"You need to know, it can be hard to be around the Nazgûl. They're Undead, and carry an aura of fear about them. It makes some people go to pieces. But you're a Sorcerer, right?"

Urzahil nodded. He'd had three University-level courses in Sorcery at the Seminary.

"Then you're used to supernatural things. The Undead shouldn't bother you much."

The Steward began to shuffle papers as if the appointment were coming to an end.

"Oh, one other thing. You should see the tailor as soon as possible. You'll need proper clothing for official occasions. You know, black."

"Don't people in Mordor wear black all the time?" asked Urzahil.

"The Nazgûl's robes are black, so are the soldiers' uniforms. As for the rest of us, we only where black on formal occasions. The rest of the time, we wear whatever's handy. Just make sure that you don't have on bright colors when foreign guests are there to see you. We have a reputation to maintain."

The Steward gave him in advance on his stipend so he could pay the tailor. Urzahil pressed his lips together. At the Temple, their ceremonial robes were provided to them. His stipend in Mordor was higher, but it had to cover more.

"Do you think the tailor can have my robes finished before I'm summoned for an audience with Sauron?" asked Urzahil.

"There's time. Sauron's overseeing the rebuilding of Barad-dûr. He won't be back for several days."

Urzahil's shoulders sagged. He'd hoped for an audience before the Dark Throne, or at least to be summoned to Sauron's private study. Urzahil had completely rearranged his life and traveled a long distance to be here. It would've been nice if Sauron had bothered to greet him properly.

Chapter 9 - Minas Morgul

Twilight came early in the high mountain valley. It was getting dark when the bell announced the evening meal. Urzahil descended from his room on the third floor and found his way to the Great Hall. Rows of trestle tables stretched the length of the room. Hundreds of people, mostly Orcs, were packed elbow to elbow on the long benches. Others walked up and down between the tables, looking for a place to sit. The sound of so many talking at once filled the Hall with a dull roar.

At the far end of the room, the High Table sat on a raised platform. It was covered with a white cloth that hung to the floor. At its center was an empty chair, as massive as a throne. Behind it hung Sauron standard, the Lidless Eye in red against a black background.

Almost every other place was filled. Urzahil recognized the Steward and the Chief Ambassador, but all the others were Nazgûl. Their faces were invisible, and they were identically dressed in black.

Two lesser tables flanked the High Table. Like it, they were covered in white cloths, and had chairs with high backs and arms. The steward pointed Urzahil to his place at one of the lesser tables, next to Gillis. The chair on his other side was empty.

"That's Gaerna's place. He's in Harad right now," said Gillis.

Urzahil narrowed his eyes. Gaerna was probably fine, but Urzahil would feel better once he saw him in person.

The room went suddenly quiet. Everyone looked towards the High Table. The Orcs and servants at the trestle tables rose to their feet. A tall figure in black swept across the platform and took the place to the left of the throne-like chair in the center.

"That's the Witch King of Angmar. He's the Lieutenant of Minas Morgul, and Sauron's Second-in-Command. He's in charge of the Garrison here," said Gillis.

"What kind of man is he?" asked Urzahil.

"He's a great general, but humorless and unapproachable. He has a wicked temper. Whatever you do, don't get on his bad side."

The Witch King sat down at one of the few empty places at High Table, to the left of the large chair in the center. A servant with a pitcher came over and filled his goblet.

The conversation at the center of High Table drifted to the lesser table where Urzahil was sitting. He tipped his head to listen.

"… never have enough horses… have to go back to Rohan…" The Witch King's voice rich with the cadences of Númenor.

Like most nobles in Umbar, Urzahil spoke with the trace of a Númenorian accent, which got stronger when he felt the need to impress others with his social status. But the Witch King's accent was more ancient and refined than any Urzahil had heard before.

"He speaks as if he came from Númenor itself," Urzahil said to Gillis.

"I imagine he did. He's the son of Ciryatan the Shipbuilder," said Gillis.

Ciryatan the Shipbuilder, Twelfth King of Númenor. Urzahil's eyes widened. Ciryatan had two sons, the Thirteenth King of Númenor and Er-Mûrazôr, the Black Prince.

Er-Mûrazôr, a famous navigator and a great general, founded the Haven of Umbar. Urzahil had visited the colonial-era house once on a school trip. It was on the Square in the oldest part of the city, a one room mud brick structure with furnishings of astonishing workmanship, imported from Númenor.

"The Witch King is Er-Mûrazôr?" asked Urzahil.

"That's what I hear from Akhôrahil. He was court physician at Armenelos[1], and they knew each other before either of them became a Nazgûl," said Gillis.

Urzahil looked at the center of High Table from the corner of his eye, trying not to stare. The Witch King sat rigidly straight, his back not touching the back of the chair, his elbows against his sides. The posture was characteristic of one who been born into the highest strata of the most civilized nation in Arda. But it could also be a mark of inhibition, of holding something back.

A servant set a plate in front of the Witch King, then served each of the others at High Table from the center of the table to the edges. Urzahil glanced at the High Table. Everyone was concentrating on their food. Urzahil lowered his voice.

"What's his relationship with Sauron?" he asked.

"They're seldom together[2], and when they are, they're fighting," said Gillis.

"What about?"

"The Witch King speaks up when he thinks Sauron is wrong. Sauron doesn't like that."

When everyone at High Table had been served, servants carried plates to the flanking tables. An Orc set a pewter plate was set before him. The main course was a thick stew in a dark colored sauce. Another filled his cup. He raised it to his lips and tasted ale, not wine. It wasn't even well brewed; it was cloudy, with bits floating in it.

Urzahil broke off a piece of bread and soaked up some of the sauce. It had a flavor he hadn't encountered before, pungent but not unpleasant. He speared a piece of meat with the tip of his eating dagger and lifted something white and angular with a rough texture He wasn't sure what he was looking at.

"It looks like we're having tripe tonight," said Gillis.

Not likely, that's what poor people ate. Urzahil waited for the rest of the joke, but Gillis wasn't laughing.

"No, really. We use every part of the animal here. Mordor is a poor country."

-o-o-o-o-o-

Urzahil stood on the small platform in the tailor's shop, clad from head to toe in the transforming black. It was his second day in Minas Morgul, and Sauron had not yet met with him, or let him know what his duties would be.

"Here, hold this at arm's length and look at yourself." The tailor handed him a disk of polished silver, very like a shaving mirror.

Urzahil tilted the mirror, examining his official robes bit by bit. The tailor had done a good job. He'd shaped the fine wool into something that set off Urzahil's height and build to best advantage. It was a thrill to look at his left shoulder and see and see Sauron's badge, a stylized Eye embroidered in red on a black background.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Urzahil arrived for the evening meal wearing his new black robes, Sauron's badge on his shoulder. He sat down at his place just below High Table, and the Orc who filled his goblet called him 'Sir'. That hadn't happened the day before, even though it was the same Orc. The highest ranking officials in Mordor wore black all the time. He would, too.

There was a scraping of bench legs against the floor and a sudden hush. All rose. The Witch King strode the length of the Great Hall and mounted the platform. He took his place to the right of the massive chair in the center, the place where he'd been the previous evening.

The meal served on the evening of the second day was no more appetizing than it had been on the first, root vegetables and liver. In Urzahil's mind, parsnips and turnips were peasant food, and offal was for dogs.

Urzahil studied the High Table. Other than high-backed chair in the center, every place was full, four men and six Nazgûl.

"Aren't there supposed to be nine of them?" he asked Gillis.

"The others are in Dol Guldur. Khamûl the Easterling commands the fortress, Adûnaphel assists him, and Uvatha the Horseman carries messages between Dol Guldur and here."

"… did you ever do that when you were young?" another Nazgûl asked the Witch King, who stiffened and turned away. People of very high rank were often reserved, but not like that. Urzahil could guess what it meant. He's hiding something. Because people who are hiding one thing often hide everything.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Urzahil had been in Minas Morgul for three days now, and was running out of things to do. He'd no idea what his official duties were, or what he was supposed to be doing.

"You've never been in Mordor, have you?" asked Gillis.

"What do you call Minas Morgul?" asked Urzahil.

"Minas Morgul isn't in Mordor. It's in Ithilien, which is part of Gondor. It straddles the road just below the Nameless Pass, the only way into Mordor from the West. Let's take a hike up to the Pass tomorrow. It's steep, but it's not that far. If you stand in the Pass and then take one step, you'll be in Mordor."

It was a difficult hike. Just below the Pass, the road was a steep as a flight so steep, he was tempted to his hands and knees could stretch out his hands and touch the road in front of him.

And then, in a wedge between two pinnacles of rock, the road leveled off. Urzahil stood in the Pass itself. His chest heaved, and his mouth was dry from breathing hard. He stretched out his arms and touched the rock on either side. The wind whistled through the narrow slot, chilling the sweat on his body.

"Go on, take another step," said Gillis.

Urzahil walked through the notch, to the point where the road began to slope downward. He stopped and put his hands on his knees, breathing hard.

Beyond the Pass, the road descended into a knife-cut chasm with a sheer cliff on one side and a precipitous drop on the other. It had the look of deadly peril. He couldn't imagine anyone wanting to go there.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Urzahil was due to leave on his first mission as an emissary to Khand in a few days.

He spent the morning with Mordor's Chief Ambassador, who told him what he would need to do.

"This first mission is very simple, really. You'll carry a message to their Caliph, inviting him to send an emissary of his own to Mordor for an audience with Sauron."

"Is that how one gets an audience with Sauron? By being an emissary from another nation?"

"I trust you won't use that tone with the Caliph? See that you don't," said the Chief Ambassador.

They went over countless details of what was a simple mission. "Khand is one of our traditional allies. You can expect to be well received. You don't have to do any negotiating. You're only delivering a message and waiting for reply."

The ambassador went on to say that while the mission would be uneventful, there were some danger in making the trip. There were always bandits and highwayman to worry about, so he would be traveling with an armed escort.

"I wish I could send Khamûl with you, he's from Khand. He knows how to get there, and could have explained the local customs. But since he's Lieutenant of Dol Guldur, he's in Mirkwood right now.

Urzahil left the Ambassador's study feeling reasonably well prepared for the mission, but he would have really liked some high-level guidance from Sauron himself. Sauron was supposed to have returned within a few days, and it had been more than that. Surely he would be back soon.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Urzahil went to the Steward's office, and after a couple of tries, found him in.

"When will Sauron be back?" asked Urzahil.

"He's been back for a couple of days. I met with him first thing this morning," said the Steward.

"He wasn't at High Table last night," said Urzahil

"He gets busy and forgets to eat. I had to send a plate up to his room," said the Steward.

Urzahil left the Steward's office, discouraged. He saw one of the Nazgûl on the stairs, and ran to catch up with him. It was one he hadn't seen before. This one was heavyset, and moved as if his joints hurt.

"Have you seen Sauron?" Urzahil asked.

"I passed him on the stairs a few minutes ago," said the wraith. His accent suggested he came from the Island of Númenor.

Urzahil hoped he would see Sauron at the evening meal tonight, but when he entered the Great Hall that night, Sauron's place at High Table was empty. When the meal was over, Urzahil approached another of the Nazgûl.

"I need to speak with Sauron about my mission to Khand. What's the best way to find him?"

"Oh, you just missed him. He's gone back to Lugbúrz." [3]

-o-o-o-o-o-

Later in the day, Urzahil passed another Nazgûl in the corridor. This one was medium height with a wiry build. He swung his arms and walked with the energy of a coiled spring.

"I think here for over a week and I still haven't seen Sauron. Is that normal?" said Urzahil.

"Most people aren't allowed to know this, but you're of high rank, I can trust you with the secret." He spoke like the desert people from the Far East.

A second wraith joined them, the one that always moved slowly, as if exhausted. "Indur, don't tell him that!" he said.

Indur lowered his voice until it was barely audible. "Sauron was killed at the end of the Second Age. He's not coming back. We Nazgûl take turns pretending to be him." He pointed to the other Nazgûl. "Ren played the role of Sauron when your delegation came here last month. The next time we have important visitors, it will be my turn."

Urzahil felt like he'd been punched in the stomach. The handwriting in the letter had matched the handwriting on the ancient fragment. For a few weeks, he'd really thought Sauron had returned.

The wraith was so close, Urzahil could feel the chill from his body. Nazgûl were undead and cold to the touch, but when Urzahil sat beside Sauron in his private study, Sauron had radiated heat.

"Liar!" Urzahil took a swing at Indur, but the wraith deflected it easily.

"You actually believed me, didn't you?" Indur hissed, laughing.

Chapter End Notes

[1] Armenelos was the capital of Númenor

[2] When Sauron was in Dol Guldur (TA 1100-2941) or Barad-dûr (TA 2951-3019) the Witch King was in Angmar (TA 1350-1975) or Minas Morgul (TA 2000-3019). They may have overlapped at Minas Morgul (TA 2941-2951) but it's more likely Sauron was overseeing the rebuilding of Barad-dûr during that interval.

[3] Lugbúrz is Black Speech for Barad-dûr

Chapter 10 - The Trip to Khand (rated M - for mature readers)

Urzahil stood on a rampart, looking down into the Morgul Vale, watching the shadows get longer. The purple flowers that filled the valley at Midsummer were gone now, only the tall grasses remained.

Since he'd arrived in Minas Morgul, the days had passed uneventfully, each one blending into the next. The sun was setting earlier now, and in this high mountain valley, it was already starting to get dark by late afternoon. He banged his fist against the railing in frustration.

Urzahil still didn't know what he was supposed to be doing. He hadn't set eyes on his new master, not once, not even from a distance, since he'd joined Sauron's service. Sauron should have been back from Barad-dûr two days ago, but had sent word he'd be delayed.

The wind picked up, and Urzahil shivered. With a sigh, he turned and went back inside. He had no particular plan other than to explore the corridors of the fortress until it was time to go to dinner, an hour from now.

On the way down to the main level of the fortress, Urzahil had to dodge and weave around people on the stairs. When he first came here as part of the delegation from Umbar, there were maybe twenty people in Sauron's service other than the Orcs. It was rare to see another person in the halls.

Urzahil returned three weeks later when he entered Sauron's service. There were a significant number of new faces, a hundred or more. Urzahil managed to learn the names of maybe half of them. Since then, their numbers had doubled. Forget about learning their names, he didn't know half of them by sight.

A servant tugged his sleeve. "Tar-Urzahil? The Chief Ambassador wants to see you in his study."

Had Sauron returned? No, Sauron would have sent for him directly, as he had when he offered Urzahil a position as emissary. Urzahil reached the main level of the fortress and knocked on the tall paneled door, wrapped in polished copper.[1] He found the Chief Ambassador at his desk, sifting through a sheath of papers. After a moment, the Ambassador looked up.

"Urzahil, you're going on a diplomatic mission. You're to carry a letter to the Caliph of Khand, with Sauron's greetings and his offer of friendship." He held up a diplomatic letter sealed with wax and red tape bindings. The outer wrapper bore a design of the Eye in black and red.

"Sir, wouldn't it be better if I accompanied someone who'd done this before? The alliance with Khand is important."

"You're only delivering a letter. The hard part is getting there without being sold into slavery, or killed by highwaymen. Dwar will go with you." The Ambassador turned his attention back to the sheath of papers, indicating the interview was over.

Dwar was the same Nazgûl who'd escorted him from Umbar. He was one of the lower ones on the pecking order, as far as Urzahil could tell. On the other hand, he was approachable, and Urzahil was used to him.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Early the next morning, Urzahil stood in the courtyard checking the girth of his saddle and mentally rehearsing what to say to the Caliph of Khand. Beside him, Dwar swung into the saddle and adjusted the reins in his hands.

Horses' hooves clattered against the cobblestones. A second Nazgûl rode out of the stables and reined in beside them.

"Khamûl, I didn't know you were here," said Dwar.

"I arrived late last night. I hear Mordor is going to pay an official visit to Khand."

"Yes, our Master's sending them a letter to announce his return. I'm to escort the messenger." Dwar gestured towards Urzahil.

"I'll escort him. I come from Khand. You don't even know where it is."

"But our Master said I was to…"

"Let's go." The second Nazgûl kicked his stallion into motion. Urzahil followed him through the Main Gate of Minas Morgul onto the stone bridge beyond.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Urzahil and the black-robed creature rode in silence. The creature's reserve made him uncomfortable. Urzahil opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. There were plenty of things he wanted to ask, like 'What's it like to be undead?' or 'Are we going to invade Gondor next year?' but he couldn't think of a polite way to phrase it.

"So, you're not usually in Minas Morgul?" Urzahil finally asked.

"No," said the wraith.

They traveled for several miles more, and the creature said nothing further. Unlike Dwar, this Nazgûl wasn't much of a conversationalist.

After sunset, when it became too dark for the horses to see, the wraith went off the road into a thick stand of trees and beckoned Urzahil to follow. He tethered his horse and went into the underbrush, gathering firewood. He moved delicately, like a forest animal.

Urzahil recognized that walk. The day the Embassy of Umbar sat down with the Embassy from Mordor, the same wraith had crossed the flagstones on silent feet and taken a seat on Sauron's right.

Urzahil hadn't been impressed with him. The entire day, he'd sat at the table either saying nothing, or nodding agreement with his master. Either. He was obsequious, or

timid. Urzahil didn't think much of either type, they were both weak.

Urzahil watched the wraith arrange branches in a pyramid. The creature sang a spell, different than the one Urzahil used for starting fires. Wisps of smoke rose from beneath the bark. When the flames caught and the wood began to crackle, Urzahil asked, "What's your place among the wraiths?"

"I'm Second Chief of the Nazgûl, and the Lieutenant of Dol Guldur."

Urzahil was taken aback. The Nazgûl held high rank for one who appeared to be timid and reserved. Maybe rank was determined by the order in which they entered Sauron's service.

"Were you the second to join?" Urzahil asked.

"Yes." Urzahil waited for the wraith to say more. Minutes went by, but the only the sounds of insects broke the silence.

They traveled south into Harad, then turned East towards Khand. The trees were replaced by stunted scrub, and even that gave way to stone and sand. Soon the heat became so intense, they decided to travel at night.

The moon was waxing, there was enough light for the horses to see. The road connected a series of oases. They reached them the Eastern horizon was getting pink, and slept in the shade of Palm trees during the day

-o-o-o-o-o-

Four days after entering the desert, they reached the mud brick walls protecting the capital city of Khand. The dun-colored fortifications were embellished with decorative moldings along the battlements, and the planks of the main gate were studded with brass.

It was just after sunset, and though it was not yet full darkness, the gates were already closed.

Behind the low walls, Urzahil could see a number of dwellings. Yellow lamplight shone from narrow windows in the thick walls. In the center of the city was a high domed structure, several stories taller than any other building.

"That's the Palace," said Khamûl.

They found a place to make camp, a shallow cave at the base of a cliff. It got cold in the desert when the light was gone. Urzahil was grateful to sit by the fire, wrapped in a cloak with his hands around a mug of tea. Khamûl, who'd been born here, lectured him on local customs.

"The food here is different from what you're used to. Their everyday fare is cracked wheat or lentils with yogurt, garnished with raisins or dates. They even make a drink from yogurt flavored with lemon or tropical fruit. Oh, and a local specialty is blood pudding. Another is fried grubs. You must accept whatever they put in front of you. I don't care if it's sheep's eyeballs in honey, it would be an insult to refuse."

After the swill he'd been eating in Mordor, Urzahil didn't think that would be a problem.

"But they might not serve you a meal at all. You're just a messenger, here to deliver a letter."

Urzahil fingered the diplomatic letter inside his jacket.

"Um…there's something else I wanted to ask you. When Sauron declared himself to Umbar, the letter was delivered by a Nazgûl. Why aren't you delivering the letter to Khand?"

"The Nazgûl cast fear upon the living. Dogs shy away from us, horses panic. Men feel it too. It's no way to begin a diplomatic negotiation. You may have noticed that Dwar never entered the city gates, and he kept well away from people."

-o-o-o-o-o-

Urzahil stirred. The sun lit the back of the cave, deep orange against the sandstone. This was the first time he'd slept the whole night through, without the usual wakings caused by rain, or tree roots in his back.

He was wrapped in his wool cloak with his pack for pillow, lying in sand hollow that had shaped itself to his body. In the center of the cave, Khamûl was crouching over the fire. A pan of water on the coals was just beginning to boil. Urzahil sat up. Sand had gotten into every seam of his clothing, and his hair as well.

He brushed himself off as best he could. After he finished shaving, he removed the fine silk garments from his pack, took them out of their protective muslin wrappers, and tried to shake out the wrinkles. He was a diplomat, and he had to dress the part.

When he finished dressing, Urzahil joined Khamûl at the mouth of the cave. Khamûl had already brought the horses around. They mounted and rode to a position just above the city, from which they could view the city gates.

The morning sun was orange against the mud brick walls of the fortified city. At this hour, the gates stood open. Through the arched passageway in the thick walls, Urzahil could see narrow streets crowded with displays of fruit, bales of silk, and animals in cages.

"This is where I leave you. I'll see you tomorrow, after you've received their answer," said Khamûl.

"It might not take that long. Suppose they give me their answer right away? Will you be waiting for me at the cave?" asked Urzahil.

"No, I'm visiting family for a few days."

So that's why Khamûl came racing down from Dol Guldur and took the mission away from Dwar. Urzahil had assumed it had something to do with his interest in Khand politics.

"Wait. You have living relatives here? For some reason, I thought you were at least a thousand years old."

"My stepmother is Elvish. I used to think I was, too. It was a shock to learn I didn't have her Elvish immortality."

Khamûl spurred his horse and rode toward the green farmland by the river, where several large estates dotted the landscape. Urzahil watched him until he disappeared, then turned back towards the city gates.

He wished he didn't have to do this alone. At one level, he understood that Khamûl couldn't be the messenger, the living wouldn't tolerate his presence. Even in Umbar, where they practiced the Cult of Melkor and embraced supernatural things, Dwar hadn't been able to enter the city walls.

Urzahil sat on silk cushions on the floor, making polite conversation with the Caliph and several members of his court. Steam rose from tiny cups of mint tea on a low table in front of him. Pastries of honey and nuts sat on a platter nearby. Tall windows looked out on a tiled fountain in the middle of the courtyard. Above the music of the water, he could hear cicadas, an occasional songbird, and the scolding of a jay. Even within these thick walls, out of the sun, it was oppressively hot.

"You say you bring us a letter from the Lord of Mordor himself."

The Caliph was a heavyset man, with copper colored skin and roll upon roll of flesh cascading down his sides. Urzahil produced the leather wallet containing Sauron's message, and placed it in his hand. The Caliph broke the seal and unfolded the square of parchment. The letters were formed with graceful curves and ornamental diacritics, Sauron's handwriting.

"Your master's greetings are not unexpected. Our Ambassador was in Harad when they received their letter." The Caliph indicated a thin, white-bearded man seated at his left.

Urzahil cringed. Ideally, all their allies would have been contacted at the same time.

The Caliph's Ambassador leaned forward. "Is it true that Sauron appeared in Mordor at Midsummer, with no retainers and no army, and that he's been building his army with astonishing speed ever since?"

Urzahil stammered. Of course the Ambassador was fishing for information. Any diplomat in Arda would do the same. Urzahil hadn't been told how much he was allowed to say. Inside his silk brocade garments, sweat trickled down the small of his back.

"They say Sauron offers a position to anyone who shows up on his doorstep."

Urzahil's face burned. That may be how he got his position, but he didn't like to be reminded of it.

"I heard a shepherd let his flock wander too close to Mordor, and when he was captured, Sauron promoted the terrified boy to Minister of Finance," said the Ambassador.

"And the sheep were offered positions in the counting house," said a young emissary, slapping his thigh.

The Caliph hoisted himself to his feet. "If you'll excuse us, we need time to confer. It's approaching the hottest part of the day, and time for afternoon sleep. Someone will show you to your quarters. After you've rested, we'll meet again for the evening meal, and then we will give you our answer.

-o-o-o-o-o-

The Caliph clapped his hands, and a servant appeared to take Urzahil to his room. Urzahil followed the boy through passageways deep within the palace, where he was shown to a low ceilinged room with white plaster walls and a terra-cotta floor. A low bed, as wide as it was long, was covered with a thick cotton coverlet. Other than the bed, a table and chair were the only furnishings. The windows looking onto the courtyard were covered with carved latticework, made from an aromatic wood. Beyond the garden, the heat of the day made the outlines of the buildings shimmer.

Urzahil pulled off his boots and lay down on the bed. The heat, and the drone of the cicadas, made him sleepy. He'd started to nod off when there was a light rap on the door. Urzahil's eyes snapped open and he remembered where he was.

A servant entered the room with a tray. She was plain, and dressed in a tunic crossed left over right, secured by a sash at the waist. She set the tray on a small table and poured tea into a tiny cup. He smelled mint. Urzahil sat up and accepted the cup from her.

He finished and set the cup on the tray, and made a gesture of dismissal. But instead of leaving, she put a towel under his heels, poured oil onto her palms, and rubbed her hands together.

"Just relax, let me do everything."

She looked older than he'd thought at first. She wasn't a girl, she was at least thirty. There were fans of fine lines around her eyes, and she had a self-assurance a girl wouldn't have had.

She removed his stockings and set them aside, then she took off his jacket. She pressed her thumbs into the soles of his feet just below the toes, and worked downward with firm strokes. The oil smelled of sandalwood, subtle, but not overpowering.

He adjusted the pillow behind his head and closed his eyes. Her thumbs moved in a circular pattern, and has the pressure increased, he realized he was getting aroused. He pulled the edge of his jacket over himself. Hopefully she wouldn't notice.

"Is everything all right? Your shoulders are tense. I can fix that." She straddled him, then undid the collar of his shirt and put her hands inside. Expert fingers kneaded the place between his shoulder and the sinews of his neck. The smell of sandalwood was stronger now.

She leaned forward as she worked. In that position, her wrap fell away from her body, and through the neckline, lower than it had been, he could see everything she had. She didn't seem to know she was exposing herself. He looked away, but from the corner of his eye, he could see her breasts hanging free, swinging back and forth as she worked. He wondered how they would feel in a man's cupped hands.

She sat back, resting her weight on his hips. Her sash had come loose, and when she straightened, the two halves of her tunic fell open. She made no move to cover herself, but watched him watching her, a faint smile on her lips. She raised herself a few inches and undid the laces of his leggings, then pulled them down over his thighs.

-o-o-o-o-o-

When Urzahil woke, he was lying with his body curled around hers. Late afternoon sun filtered through the gridded windows and cast patterns on the terra-cotta floor.

He studied her sleeping form. Her skin was the same copper color from her face to her ankles. It was so different from his own tanned hands and arms, with white everywhere else. Even through thick walls and shuttered windows, their skin glistened with moisture in the afternoon heat.

He hadn't intended it to happen. On the other hand, Khamûl had told him to accept whatever gifts were offered. If Urzahil had been a high-ranking ambassador, or if the outcome of the mission had mattered more, they'd have given him an untouched girl, which in practice meant they'd have sent a weeping child to his room. His stomach lurched. He didn't care what Khamûl said, he'd have found a way to refuse. But happily, Urzahil was only a messenger, not anyone important. They had no need to bribe or impress him, so in place of a maiden, they'd sent someone who was obviously a professional.

The kitchen maids at the Temple had no use for a junior priest. The only experience he had was that which had been purchased. He knew the tricks the professionals used. Wear loose clothing that fell open easily, and pretend you don't know you're exposing yourself. Brush your hand between a man's legs and make it seem like an accident. She'd done all of that and more, and he'd just now realized it. He fell back to sleep.

When he woke, she was gone. He sat up and stretched, filled with a sense of well-being. His clothes were scattered across the foot of the bed and on the floor around it. He retrieved his leggings and turned them right side out. He found his undergarments beyond the foot of the bed, and his shirt lost among the bedclothes.

In the evening, there would be an informal dinner, and he had half an hour to prepare for it. His Chief Ambassador had provided him with notes about local customs, geography, tribes, and the genealogies of the ruling families. He'd read through the notes already, but he wanted to make sure he had them committed to memory.

He sat down at the small table and pulled open his pack. He reached for the thick bundle of notes, but hesitated. He took another look. He wasn't fussy about the way he packed, he tended to jam things in any old way. His papers were too neat, and he couldn't blame it on travel. Travel would have made them messier.

Urzahil sat up with a start. What about the notes from tea this morning? He'd sealed them with his personal seal, then put them in a hidden pocket in his bag. He lifted the false panel and pulled out the folded square, then took it to the window where the light was better.

The seal was firm. It wasn't right, though. It was set too high on the parchment. He lifted it with the tip of his dagger. Bits of parchment clung to the underside. A small dot of red wax, similar in color to the wax he used but not identical, attached his seal to the parchment. He wouldn't have noticed if he hadn't been looking for it. It was expertly done.

He knew she was a professional, but he'd been wrong about which profession.

He opened his folded notes and scanned what he'd written. There were a few observations about the Caliph, some of them not very flattering. Most likely they'd already been reported back to him. Oh well, probably the man already knew he was pompous.

-o-o-o-o-o-

On the ride home, he said to Khamûl, "My room was searched while I was sleeping. The seal on my personal notes had been lifted quite expertly, even though the papers were hidden in a secret pocket of my bag."

The wraith clasped a hand to his mouth.

"Oh, I forgot to tell you, they always do that. Not just in Khand, on any diplomatic mission. Next time, leave a decoy. When they find it, they won't search any further. Do you remember anything more?"

Urzahil thought of the spy, her legs wrapped around his waist with her ankles crossed at the small of his back. With his weight on his hands, he studied her face, then his gaze traveled down her chest to her belly, to the part of himself that was mostly within her. Then he fell forward, and she raised her feet in the air like the oars of a boat while his hands cupped her bottom.

"No, nothing more," Urzahil said.

They rode in silence.

"What will Sauron do when he learns of it?" asked Urzahil.

"This isn't a high-stakes mission with terms to negotiate or veiled threats, you were just delivering a letter of greetings. I don't think we need to trouble him about it," said Khamûl.

"But won't he learn anyway? Can't he read your thoughts?"

"Technically yes, but he's not what you'd call a good listener."

The road led them into a narrow gorge. The stream bed at the bottom was dry, as it was most days of the year. The path narrowed to the point where they had to go single file. Khamûl drew rein, and sat very still in the saddle, his head turning left and right is if he were listening. Urzahil looked around him to see what had drawn his attention.

A huge man stepped out from behind an outcropping of rock and blocked the path. A homemade cudgel hung loosely in his hand, its head studded with nails. Urzahil's mouth went dry and his hands shook. Men like these wouldn't stop at horses and gold. From what he'd heard, they were unlikely to leave a witness alive.

Urzahil looked over his shoulder. If he could get the horse turned around in this narrow space, he could outrun them. Something glinted in the sun, the blade of a curved knife. A man crouched in the underbrush above the path. Before he could call out, there was a rumble and a great cloud of dust. When it cleared, boulders blocked the path behind them.

Urzahil looked forward. The man in the road was smacking the shaft of his makeshift weapon against his palm. Three others appeared, and stood behind him.

"Climb down from those fine animals, nice and slow, and drop your purses to the ground."

Urzahil was shaking, and something wet ran down his leg.

"Allow me." Khamûl swung a leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground. His sword came out of the scabbard with a hiss.

The Nazgûl gripped the hilt with both hand and stepped into the blow. The blade flashed, and a spray of crimson splattered the clothes and faces of the three others. A head rolled across the dirt, coming to rest against a thorn bush, its eyes staring back at him, not so much in fear as surprise.

"Too easy." The Nazgûl took a step towards the others.

They took off at a dead run without looking back at the headless corpse or the dark stain soaking the ground beneath it.

The Nazgûl wiped his blade on the hem of his cloak and re-sheathed it, then climbed back into the saddle. He shook the reins and nudged his horse around the body. Already, flies were beginning to gather on the stump of what had been its neck.

Urzahil stared with astonishment. "You killed him."

"It's what I do."

-o-o-o-o-o-

rzahil and Khamûl returned to Minas Morgul as the afternoon shadows were lengthening. They dismounted and dropped to the cobblestones inside the gate.

Khamûl sighed. "I should report in. You might as well come with me." He swept down the marble halls, his boots scarcely making a sound on the polished floor, the muddy hem of his robe swirling about his feet.

The fortress was unusually quiet. The officials and administrators who followed Sauron from Dol Guldur, and the even greater numbers who'd joined his service since then, seemed to be missing. There was nobody in the hallways but Orcs.

Urzahil followed the wraith through the main hall to an alabaster staircase, along a broad hallway, and up a spiral stair built into the thickness of the wall. He stopped in front of a heavy door with decorative ironwork like the tendrils of vines, the door to Sauron's private study. Urzahil recognized it from the day of his private meeting with the Dark Lord, when Sauron had asked Urzahil to join his service.

Khamûl raised his hand and knocked. He waited a moment, and knocked again.

"I don't sense Lord Zigur's presence, in this room or anywhere in the fortress."

Khamûl pushed the door open and stepped inside. The room was empty. The table and chairs were gone, so was the tapestry on the wall. An eyebolt in a ceiling beam was the only thing left of the wrought iron chandelier, with dragons' heads holding candles that he remembered from the last time he was here.

A door stood open on the far side of the room. Urzahil followed Khamûl into a small room that, like the outer room, had been stripped of furniture and ornamentation. A bank of windows looked out on the jagged cliffs of the Ephel Dúath. A wedge like a knife cut sliced between the peaks, the Nameless Pass, the only way into Mordor from here.

-o-o-o-o-o-

In the Great Hall, the din of conversation had reached a dull roar, and the long tables below the salt were packed. Orcs sat had squeezed themselves elbow to elbow on the benches, while others were carrying plates of food and walking up and down between the tables, looking for a place to sit.

At the far end of the room, High Table was empty, and so were the lesser tables that flanked it. The wall behind High Table looked unusually pale. It took a moment to realize why, Sauron's banner was gone.

The Witch King entered from a side door and swept across the platform. He took his place in the throne like chair at the center of High Table as if it belonged to him. Urzahil's stomach clenched. What had happened while they were in Khand? It had the look of a Palace coup.

Khamûl mounted the platform, pulling Urzahil along with him. He rounded the end of High Table and sat at the Witch King's right hand. Urzahil hesitated, then took the free place to Khamûl's right.

His back rigid, Urzahil sat watching and listening to everything around him. What was going on? He grew up on tales of court intrigue, but was too new here to navigate these waters. Servants set plates in front of them in order of rank, and Khamûl began to eat, apparently unconcerned.

"So, where is our Master?" he asked.

"He's still at Lugbúrz.[2] He decided to stay on permanently, and ordered everyone other than the Garrison to join him there."

"But Lugbúrz is a construction site, the Tower is nowhere close to finished. Why not stay here? Minas Morgul is more comfortable than the tent city."

"He wouldn't even consider it. That shattered pile of rocks which used to be the Dark Tower is home to him in a way this alabaster palace will never be."

A servant clear dishes from the table. The Witch King fell silent until she moved out of earshot.

"Oh, I forgot to tell you, Mairon wants you to leave for Lugbúrz as soon as you can pack. You too, emissary."

Chapter End Notes

[1] Lugbúrz is Black Speech for Barad-dûr.

[2] very like the copper-covered doors of professors' offices in Porter Hall, believed to be the work of art students in the middle of the night.

Chapter 11 - Cirith Ungol

Urzahil and Dwar left Minas Morgul at first light and headed east. Urzahil rode a chestnut gelding and Dwar rode Enigma, the same black stallion he'd ridden when he'd escorted the delegation from Umbar two Minas Morgul. He was careful not to let the chestnut get too close to the Nazgûl for fear of panicking it, but the horse seemed to tolerate the creature's presence. "We feed and groom the horses from the time they're born. They're used to us," the wraith explained.

Packhorses carried their belongings. No baggage cart could navigate the route they plan to take. As they approached the Nameless Pass, the road became so steep that Urzahil dropped from the saddle and led his mount by the reins. Dwar did the same.

They reached the Pass and kept going. Urzahil had come here once before so he'd be able to say he'd set foot in Mordor, but this time they went through the pass and kept going. It gave him a creepy feeling.

Once inside Mordor, the path descended into a knife-cut crevasse. Urzahil glanced at the broken rock in its depths, and felt sick.

"Let's lead the horses for now. It levels off after a bit, then we can ride. Don't worry about the drop, the horses are more surefooted than we are." Dwar waved a hand towards the crevice on the right.

They edged down the road with tiny steps, their feet slipping on loose gravel which clattered over the edge into the chasm. After they'd descended thirty or forty feet, the path leveled out and became less treacherous underfoot. Dwar put a foot in the stirrup and swung into the saddle.

Urzahil tried to do the same, but the girth was loose, the stirrup slipped, and he pitched backwards. His grip on the saddle, and the stability of the horse, were all that prevented him from going over the edge. He stood for a moment with his heart pounding, then untangled himself from the stirrup leather and tried again.

Once he was safely back in the saddle, he squeezed the chestnut to a walk. The surefooted animal walked along at a good pace, more comfortable near the edge than Urzahil was.

"Let's go a little faster. I'd like to come down from the mountains before dark." Dwar was already well ahead of him, and gaining. Urzahil kicked the chestnut to a faster pace. He clamped his eyes shut and jammed his fingers under the edge of the saddle, and wished it were over.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Urzahil stared at the ground with a hand on each knee, laboring for breath. This pass was higher, and the road to it steeper, then any they'd gone through so far.

"This is it, Cirith Ungol." Dwar wasn't winded at all. Urzahil hated him.

Urzahil recovered enough to lift his head. A tower at least three stories high controlled the road. It appeared to be unoccupied.

"There'll be a garrison here someday, but for now, you and I are the only ones here," said Dwar.

Urzahil let his head drop, and continued trying to catch his breath. There was still time to descend from the mountains by nightfall. Soon, the temperatures would start to drop. He knew Dwar wanted to keep moving.

They went forward a little further and rounded the crest. Urzahil stopped in his tracks, stunned. The whole plain of Gorgoroth was laid out before them, dominated by the dormant volcano. A wisp of smoke rose from the cinder cone and disintegrated in the wind.

"What do you see?" said Dwar.

Urzahil let out a low whistle. "The volcano looks like it could spring to life again."

"Not the volcano, behind it."

There was a great pile of rock on the promontory. One side reached the cliff, and some of it had spilled onto the plain below.

"I see what looks like a huge mound of gravel. Several mounds, but the one in the center is highest."

"Look harder," said Dwar.

Urzahil squinted and scanned the promontory, hazy in the distance. There was only broken rock, the same dark-colored basalt as the living rock of the promontory itself. He stared at a section, moved his gaze, and stared again.

"There's a group of white dots, a hundred or more. It looks like a flock of birds." He watched for a few moments. None of them moved.

And then he saw it. A vertical line, the same dark color as the basalt of the promontory, almost invisible against the background of broken rock. The top of the structure went on and on, as flat and level as the horizon at sea, and almost as tall as the mounds of gravel behind it.

Urzahil gasped. "It's a wall, as big as the curtain wall encircling the Haven of Umbar. They're rebuilding the curtain wall surrounding Barad-dûr!"

"No, that's the base of the Tower itself. The curtain wall will be built after the Tower is finished," said Dwar.

Urzahil gasped. If that was the size of its base, it was going to be immense.

"Your flock of birds is a tent city for the workers who are rebuilding the Dark Tower. They're building on top of the original foundations, using whatever stones they can recover from the rubble," said Dwar.

Urzahil tried to make out details of the tent city. That must be where Sauron was now.

-o-o-o-o-o-

A day later, they were following Sauron's road, a causeway from the volcano to the base of the promontory. Huge piles of rock formed huge mounds at the foot of the cliff.

The blocks of stone, which looked like bricks from a distance, were about as high as a man's chest and longer than a man is tall. He couldn't even imagine how they were moved, or lifted and stacked, as the structure was built.

A great section of wall sat among the broken stones, it's blocks of stone still mortared together.

"How did it survive the fall?" asked Urzahil.

"That's a pretty small fragment, considering the original size of the Tower. Only a few pieces were left intact. They tore it to pieces, all but the foundations which were beyond their power to harm."

Chapter 12 - Tent City

The road up the side of the promontory consisted of one switchback turn after another. Where the path was steepest, they had to dismount and lead the horses by the reins. Within a few minutes, Urzahil was breathing hard and his calves burned.

They rounded the final bend and crested the lip of the plateau. A sea of tents stretched out before him, arranged in neat rows. Fire pits were scattered here and there, the air carried the scent of smoke. In the distance, a cluster of pavilions towered over the tents around them. Banners on poles flanked the entrances to each. It looked like a military encampment, without the shields and weapons.

A mountain of loose stone dominated the background behind the tent city. The shattered rock was all that remained of the first Barad-dûr. Dark gray in color, the great pile of debris rose at least a hundred feet above the camp.

A channel excavated into it revealed the living rock below, leveled and smoothed when the original tower was built at the end of the Second Age. The channel led to a cleared area within the rubble. In it was a stone structure just tall enough to poke out above the pile of wreckage.

A crane perched on the wall lifted a massive stone block. The click-click of a ratchet reached them as if from a great distance. The wall and the engines of construction must be further away than they appeared, and much larger. The outlines of figures walking the treadmill powering the windlass seemed impossibly small.

"Oh, there you are." Berktay, who had been Sauron's steward at Minas Morgul, came bustling over to them.

"I'll leave you here, then." Dwar tossed Enigma's reins to a servant and disappeared between among the tents, presumably to report to his master.

"Let me show you around and get you settled." Steward Berktay threaded his way further into the camp, and Urzahil followed. Row upon row of tents were arranged on either side of a corridor, all exactly alike, as far as Urzahil could tell. A breeze stirred the still air, carrying with it the smell of stone dust and latrine.

"This is where people of rank are quartered. Remember the symbol over the doorway, that's how you'll know which one is yours. I'm afraid it's austere compared to what you're used to. The canvas gives you shade and privacy, but it's not much protection against real weather."

The Steward lifted the tent flap. Inside, two cots stood side by side on the bare ground. One was newly made up with a blanket and pillow. The other looked slightly rumpled, with a dark green tunic discarded at its foot. A wooden traveling chest rested on the dirt nearby. Gaerna's chest, and Gaerna's green silk tunic with the silver embroidery.

Urzahil sighed with relief. He'd heard nothing of Gaerna since the day his friend decided to stay behind in Mordor rather than return home with the rest of the delegation from Umbar. That had been six weeks ago.

"I'll leave you, then." The Steward started to lift the tent flap. "Oh, before I forget. You need to report to the Chief Ambassador first thing in the morning. Sauron has made offers of friendship to every nation that borders us on the North, South, and East. Their answers should be coming in soon. You're going to be busy."

After the Steward left, Urzahil sat on his cot, listening to the sounds of construction and the wind that never seem to stop. Someone cursed outside. The tent flap stirred, and a pair of Orcs struggled in with Urzahil's travel chest.

"Set it at the end of the bed." Urzahil told them, and they dropped it on the ground with a thunk. They left, and he opened the lid to inspected his belongings for damage. There wasn't anywhere to put his things, so everything went back into the chest. The tent canvas rustled behind him. He looked up, startled.

"Hey, look who's here! I heard you'd joined us." Gaerna stood in the doorway, grinning. "I just got back from Far Harad last week, and before I could do more than wash off the dust of travel and change my shirt, I received the summons to come here.

"With me, it was Khand, and I was ordered here two days ago. So what happens next?"

"Are you hungry? Let me show you the cook tent." Gaerna washed his hands and face from a basin, then combed his hair with his fingers. "All right, let's go."

They stopped in front of a huge expanse of canvas which enclosed an area the size of a Great Hall. Sections of the wall were open, allowing them to wander in and out with ease. Inside, row upon row of rough tables, no more than planks of wood resting on sawhorses, filled up most of the space.

Urzahil breathed in the aromas of fresh bread and roasting meat. An enormous line snaked out of the tent. Orcs, laborers, and slaves held tin plates, waiting their turns.

"Meals are catch as catch can. You go to the cook tent when you're hungry, and they'll serve you what they have," said Gaerna.

"Is there a High Table?" Urzahil asked.

"No, there's just the trestle tables, and they're mostly for the workman. Most of the heroes, those of high rank who report to Sauron directly, take their meals in their own quarters. Their assistants, meaning folks like us, take our plates outside and find a place to sit."

Urzahil's face fell. If there wasn't a High Table, it would be that much harder for him to locate Sauron, or the Chief Ambassador, or anyone he needed to find. He didn't care for the rough-and-tumble of camp life.

Gaerna bypassed the people who were waiting and went directly into the tent. "We're the swells here. You know, the nobility. We don't have to wait in line."

Inside, they went to the serving area and were given tin plates. An Orc gave them a slice of bread, another ladled a stew onto their plates which seemed to have been made primarily from turnips.

"I thought I smelled meat roasting," said Gaerna. The Orc went over to a fire pit and returned with several thick slices of lamb, charred black around the edges are.

Urzahil followed Gaerna outside. They found places to sit on one of the long benches next to the tent. Urzahil soaked up the uninteresting gravy with hunks of bread.

"Tell me everything. What's going on in Mordor?" asked Urzahil.

"Well, we're rebuilding the Dark Tower, that's the main thing. We're also trying to form alliances with all the nations who were our friends in the Second Age. Given enough time, and more than a little bit of luck, Mordor will be a great power again." said Gaerna.

"Can I ask you something? Have you seen Sauron since you got here?"

"I saw him picking his way across the debris pile earlier today. He often does that. They say he can peer through the rock and see what's underneath."

"How did you know it was him?"

"It was obvious, even at a distance. The Nazgûl were hovering around him."

They lingered by the cook tent until the light failed, then Urzahil followed Gaerna back to their tent. He was glad to have a guide. If he'd been alone, he could easily have gotten lost.

After Gaerna blew out the lamp, Urzahil lay in the darkness, unable to sleep. The murmur of men's voices, sometimes punctuated by cursing followed by laughter, kept disturbing him just when he was beginning to drift off. Sounds of construction floated on the night air, the tink tink tink of chisel on stone, the click-click-click of the ratchet, then a shriek and an enormous crash.

He got up and padded over to the tent flap, the packed earth gritty beneath his toes. A few lights shone faintly around the Tower, but they weren't enough to work by. There was no moon, either; the night was overcast and threatening to rain.

"Does work on the Tower ever stop?" he asked Gaerna.

"No, it goes on through the night, every night. It's mostly Men on duty during the day, but the greater part of the workforce is Orcs."

Orcs hated sunlight, but could easily see in the dark. Of course they'd be working at night.

Sometime during the night, rain drummed on the tent like a handful of pebbles flung at the canvas, and after a while, a drip fell on his face. The wind picked up, making the tent flutter loudly. Rivulets of water ran across the dirt floor. Urzahil worried about the books in his wooden chest.

-o-o-o-o-

After breakfast, Urzahil made the short walk from the cook tent to the group of pavilions in the center of camp. Gaerna had told him the one in the middle was the command tent where Sauron met with his highest-ranking servants each morning. If Urzahil were to go over there after breakfast, he should be able to catch Ambassador Kiran as he left the meeting.

He reached the end of a corridor between tents, and three pavilions came into view, even larger than they'd appeared from a distance. Each was identified by a standard hung from a pole beside the door. Sauron's red device on a black background marked his headquarters, and presumably his personal quarters as well.

Urzahil licked his lips, but his mouth was too dry for it to do much good. When Ambassador Kiran left the tent, it seemed likely all the other officials would be there too, including the Nazgûl and Sauron himself. His breath caught in his throat.

Just then, the sentry stepped forward and pulled the tent canvas aside, and Steward Berktay stepped out with another man, taller and stouter than himself.

"Urzahil, what brings you here?" The Steward looked surprised.

"I was hoping to find the Chief Ambasador here. I'm the new emissary, I need to learn what I duties are."

"I'm Ambassador Kiran," said the older man. "Things are quiet at the moment. Be patient for a week or two, and then I'll find you something to do."

-o-o-o-o-

Urzahil had been at Barad-dûr, or Lugbúrz in Black Speech, for three days now. In all that time, still hadn't seen Sauron, not even from a distance. He had no instructions from his new master, and no idea what he was supposed to be doing.

An empty afternoon stretched out before him. He walked towards the great pile of broken stone that covered most of the promontory.

He reached the edge of the rock pile. Weeds, scrub bushes, and gnarled little trees grew between the blocks, and gray-green lichens spread across the surfaces of the blocks themselves. He counted a hundred stones tumbled together, not one of them was free from damage. A great chunk had been knocked off the corner of one, another was cracked almost in half. They were partially buried under gravel and fist-sized rocks.

Not far from where he stood, an enormous stack of stone blocks had been arranged in neat rows, three or four blocks high and as many deep. A small group was clustered in front of it. A man in the leather apron of a stone mason appeared to be giving a lecture to half a dozen scribes, clerks, and other minor officials who made up Sauron's government. Care not and Gillis were among the group. Urzahil went over to join them.

"… and these blocks were salvaged from the rubble. They may not be pretty, but we can still use them." The mason pointed to the stacked basalt behind him.

Urzahil craned his neck to see around the scribe in front of him. Each block was as tall as a man and as long as a trestle table. Most were battered. Some were chipped all over, others had broken into pieces. Not one was unscarred or without damage.

"When we arrived in Lugbúrz, we expected to find the stones had shattered when the Tower was pulled down. But when we cleared the debris from the foundations, we discovered that most of stones were still usable. They might look like a tomcat who lost a fight, but there's nothing wrong with them structurally. We're mortaring them in place as fast as we can dig them out of the wreckage, and the wall is going up at an astonishing rate."

"But why would you want to rebuild from damaged stone? The promontory is made of basalt, wouldn't it be better to quarry new blocks?" asked the scribe.

"Him the stone is the most time-consuming part of construction. It took six hundred years to raise the first Tower. Between building on the original foundations and reusing salvaged materials, we think we can rebuild it in sixty."

The group followed their guide to the next stop on the tour, a circular area cleared from the debris field. Tall mounds of gravel enclosed the small space.

Their guide led them to a rude table made from splintered planks. Small artifacts were arranged on its surface.

"Look what we pulled from the rubble. You can still see the original design." He held up a palm-sized fragment painted red and yellow, showing the jaws and teeth of a mythical animal.

"This is the neck of a glass bottle that somehow survived. And this used to be part of a door latch, a fine example of decorative ironwork. See the pattern engraved in the metal?"

More artifacts lay piled on the ground. Shattered timbers, twisted weapons, bits of paneling carved in a delicate pattern. A few strips of iron, mangled in the collapse, were still recognizable as a wall bracket for a torch. It was sobering. The first Tower had been something proud. This was all that was left of it.

"From here, we'll go on to our last stop." The mason led them into the shadow of the Tower itself. They stood at the base of the wall, which seemed to rise forever. Urzahil looked up the expanse of gray-black basalt to the blue sky overhead, then looked away just as quickly. The movement of clouds against the top made him dizzy.

"When we set out to clear the debris from the original foundations, we masons wanted to start with the highest part of the rock pile, but Sauron believed they were under a shallower area off to the side. We didn't really believe he could see into the earth, but sure enough, they were right where he said they were."

Deep trenches scraped into the bedrock laid the foundation bare in several places. The shear planes looked metallic, with a repeating geometric pattern embossed in their polished surface.

"That writing, if you can call it that, is a manifestation of the spell laid on them, that's why they're so strong. The bedrock itself would collapse under the weight of the Tower."

"Now, what do you notice? Yes, they looked metallic. What else? There's not a scratch on them. The Men of Gondor dug these sapping trenches intending to undermine the foundations and bring down the Tower, but because they're enchanted, they can't be harmed."

"Will the new Tower be just like the old, then?" asked a captain of the guard.

"The first Tower took six hundred years to finish. By rebuilding on the original foundations, and reusing as much of the original stone as we can recover, we think we can rebuild it in a couple of decades. Of course, in the interest of speed, we'll have to cut corners. The Tower won't have any luxuries, at least not at first."

"By going without things like painted floor tiles and carved paneling?" asked a thin-faced purser's agent.

"By going without things like privies and staircases," said their guide.

Chapter 13 - Behind the Veil

Urzahil took to spending his afternoons watching construction on the Tower. The day was warm and his clothes stuck to him uncomfortably. The usual camp smells of cooking, unwashed laundry, and latrines seems stronger than normal, and across the field of black basalt, the straight lines of the Tower shimmered in the heat.

In the few weeks since he'd arrived in Lugbúrz, its ragged upped edges had risen by the height of several men. It now stood ten or twelve stories above its foundations and easily cleared the top of the debris pile behind it.

Cranes perched at regular intervals along the top, each one dangling a massive block by a chain that looked too thin to support the weight. The shouts of workmen reached him even at this distance.

Footsteps crunched in the gravel made him jump.

"Urzahil, I'm glad I found you." Mordor's Chief Ambassador slowed to a walk, breathing hard. "The letter you carried to Khand has borne fruit. A messenger just arrived from Khand with a formal dispatch from their Caliph saying he'd be honored to accept Sauron's offer of friendship. The messenger said their ambassador would arrive in two days' time."

Urzahil pursed his lips. Lugbúrz was a construction site, barely habitable even for those who were used to sleeping rough.

"How can we hope to impress important guests if we make them sleep in tents and picked their way through piles of stone?"

Ambassador Kiran clapped him on the shoulder. "I think we can pull it off. The audience chamber has a roof now. The interior may not be finished, but in the dim light, they won't know the difference. And there's a guardroom inside the main entrance that's close to complete. It can be turned into a suite of rooms for our visitors, but we don't have much time. Follow me."

Ambassador Kiran led the way between the closely spaced tents to the edge of the debris field and found the path leading to the base of the Tower.

Urzahil hadn't ventured into the wreckage since the day of the tour. The path into it was flanked by high walls of broken stone which threatened to slide down and collapse at any moment. The air stirred, carrying with it the smell of stone dust. Urzahil blinked, his eyes watering from the grit.

They reached the shadow of Tower. Urzahil was suddenly cold after the heat rising from the charcoal colored rock a few steps away.

The path led to the base of the Tower and passed through an arched tunnel that pierced the wall. It was several stories high, and wide enough for a dozen soldiers to march abreast, or for a war machine to pass through without losing any parts. No door sealed its entrance, although holes drilled into the rock showed where the hinges would be.

Urzahil had never been inside the Dark Tower before. The size, the heaviness of it made his chest feel tight.

The Ambassador headed for the opening with Urzahil following. The clak-clak-clak from a ratchet caused him look up. High above, a block of basalt dangled from a claw in the air. He jumped aside, unwilling to walk beneath the huge stone. Laughter floated down from the top of the wall.

It was dark in the tunnel. The base of the Tower was at least thirty feet thick, and their voices echoed from the surface of the stones. It smelled of damp, and of small furry animals like mice or bats.

They emerged from the tunnel and found themselves inside the Tower itself. An interior wall stood directly in front of them, a stone structure three or four stories high with scaffolding built against it. At its foot were piles of construction debris.

The walls of the Tower rose around them on all sides. High above, Urzahil saw a patch of blue sky and the towering clouds of late summer framed by dark stone. It was like the view from the bottom of a well.

"It's an empty shell," Urzahil said, disappointed.

"Not quite." The Ambassador took them around the wall with the scaffolding, through a makeshift door, and into a warren of roofless corridors. He stopped in front of a pair of doors twice as tall as himself. Finely-made ironwork covered their surfaces. The Ambassador gripped an iron ring and pulled. The door barely moved at first, but once it began to swing open, it kept going.

Urzahil followed the Ambassador into the room beyond. Rows of pillars flanked an aisle stretching the length of the chamber. His eye climbed from the torch bracket up and up to the dimness of the vaulted ceiling, easily four stories above the stone floor. Dots of sunlight showed between the rafters.

In the back of the space, workman climbed on ladders propped against the wall, hanging Sauron's banner. It appeared to be the same one that used to hang in the dining hall at Minas Morgul, black with the emblem of the Eye. It was as tall as three men, but in this chamber, it looked tiny.

He followed the Ambassador the length of the aisle to a raised platform at the back. It held a cube of black granite, larger than a man is tall. Light from the torches reflected from its polished surface.

The Ambassador beckoned Urzahil onto the platform.

"This is Sauron's throne," he said.

Up close, it wasn't a cube at all, it had multiple planes that formed a seat, back, and arms. It was utterly plain, lacking ornamentation of any kind. Urzahil was secretly disappointed. With all the right angles and sharp edges, the main impression was one of discomfort.

Urzahil laid a hand on the glassy surface, and almost immediately felt the heat drain from his flesh.

"It's icy cold. Is that a supernatural effect?"

"No, anything made of granite or marble does that. I tried to tell him, but he doesn't listen."

-o-o-o-o-o-

They left the audience chamber by a nearly invisible door in the back and cut through a tiny closet with wooden pegs in the walls, very like the robing room where the priests dressed before entering the sanctuary.

They emerged in a hallway open to the sky. The Ambassador narrated as he walked. "The audience chamber is the only part of the Tower with a roof, save for a few storage rooms and offices. The masons and carpenters have less than two days to create the illusion that it's finished."

"Why not just tell the truth, that we've only recently begun to build the Tower?" asked Urzahil.

"Sauron needs to appear strong. Khand is a traditional ally, but people will talk, and word will get out. We don't want Gondor to hear any rumors that we're not ready to defend ourselves."

-o-o-o-o-o-

They headed back toward the main entrance. Off one side of the tunnel, a door opened onto a large chamber with the barrel vaulted ceiling.

"This is where we'll house the ambassador and his delegation."

Urzahil looked around. It was dark and uninviting. Three doors concealed tiny alcoves. One housed a narrow bedstead with a chamber pot underneath, the others had pallet beds on the floor.

"Sleeping quarters for the watch commanders," said Ambassador Kiran. Behind the fourth door was a large room filled with a dozen bunks and the belongings of the twenty or so Orcs who occupied the space. "Barracks for the men at arms."

"It's a guardroom." Urzahil's mouth hung open. It was an insult. No diplomatic-minded nation would do this to their visitors.

"It's the only set of rooms in the Tower with a ceiling," said the Ambassador. "You're going to furnish it as a suite worthy of the Ambassador from Khand and his delegation. We must impress them with both our power and our wealth."

"Technically, we're weak and we're poor."

"Details. Concentrate on making a good impression.

Within an hour, Urzahil was plunged into a whirlwind of preparations. He found a way to make it work. The barracks would become the state bedroom, the watch captains' alcoves would go to the younger emissaries, and a storeroom off the guards' common room would house their servants.

He furnished the rooms with the personal possessions of Mordor's upper nobility. The Exchequer loaned his own canopied bed, and Sauron's Steward and the Chief Ambassador for Mordor gave him enough carpets, tables, and footstools to make the State Bedroom look complete.

Once the visiting ambassador's room was furnished, Urzahil climbed a ladder and laid canvas tarpaulins on the floor above the hallways they would walk thorough so sunlight wouldn't shine between the cracks, revealing there was nothing above the planks.

"What if it rains?" Ambassador Kiran asked.

"Let's hope it doesn't, or they'll learn the Tower is as hollow as a chimney."

Similar quarters were cobbled together and furnished only slightly less elegantly for the other emissaries and their servants.

"If any of them bring an extra scribe or manservant, we're in serious trouble," Urzahil muttered under his breath.

-o-o-o-o-o-

The delegation from Khand arrived during the night before. Urzahil learned of it at first light when his manservant woke him. A few hours later, he followed Ambassador Kiran down the unfinished hallway, the sun beating down on his head. The security of their southern border hinged on how it went today. He was sick to his stomach from nerves.

"Now remember, when you escort our visitors from their rooms to the audience chamber, only take them down the hallways that are finished, even if the route is longer. We can't have them seeing anything like this." The Ambassador looked up, where there should have been a roof.

They crossed an open space to a tall stone wall, the outside of the great hall that held Sauron's throne. Ladders and scaffolding lay against its sides, the roof had been finished barely in time.

The Ambassador stopped before a narrow door. He pulled it open and stepped inside. The small space was filled with people, a dozen or more. Many of them were already dressed in black robes with embroidery on the cuffs and collars or satin piping along the seams.

An Orc so ancient she might have served in the first Barad-dûr was handing out robes. She moved among the dignitaries of Mordor, adjusting a fold here, straightening a collar there.

A row of chests against the wall held stacks of black fabric. The matron dug into one and unearthed a neatly folded bundle which she handed to the Ambassador. He lifted it over his head and let the hem drop to the floor. She went back to the trunk to get a robe for Urzahil.

The Ambassador struggled to fasten the tiny buttons with clumsy fingers.

"Sir, your collar is crooked," said Urzahil.

The Ambassador fumbled with the buttons, then tugged on the collar to pull the two halves apart.

"Stop! What are you trying to do, send buttons flying all over the room?" The matron closed the gap between them in a single stride and smacked his hand away. "Here, let me. I can't trust the likes of you with such an expensive garment, you'll wreck it."

The ancient she-Orc undid the buttons and did them up again properly. "There! And don't touch it. If you need help, call me. That's what I'm here for."

Ambassador Kiran looked stunned. He held perfectly still, keeping his hands well away from the robe.

Urzahil shook out his own robe and held it up. It was finely made, the stitches were small, and the collar and cuffs had been trimmed in black embroidery. He put his arms in the sleeves, the fabric scratchy against his skin. He fastened the buttons as carefully as he could, trying not to draw the matron's eye.

The room brightened when the door to the hallway opened and then slammed shut. A man in workman's clothing leaned against it, breathing hard. Reddish-brown hair framed his unremarkable features. He smelled of smoke, and his hands were covered in soot. He pushed a strand from his eyes, leaving a streak of soot across his forehead. He looked familiar. Urzahil thought he'd passed him on the stairs back in Minas Morgul.

"You're late," said the matron.

"Sorry, I lost track of time."

The delegation from Khand must surely be standing in the antechamber by now. Urzahil hoped they weren't feeling ill-used by being made to wait. He glanced at Ambassador Kiran, expecting to see him reprimand the newcomer, but the Ambassador was silent.

The matron brought a robe for the man and held it as he shrugged into it. Unlike the other robes, his was without ornamentation of any kind. He stood still while she draped a veil over his face, then pulled the hood forward over his eyes.

"I can't see for crap," he said.

"You always say that. Deal with it," said the matron.

A servant opened the door to the audience chamber. The man threaded his way towards it, turning sideways to squeeze between Urzahil and the Chief Ambassador. The heat from his body was like coals on a hearth. The sleeve of his brushed against Urzahil's hand, as soft as the finest cashmere.

The newcomer stepped through the door into the audience chamber and the others followed. The light was dim in the vaulted hall. Rows of torches, mounted on the pillars at shoulder height, ran the length of the chamber, but they were just enough to turn darkness into semi-darkness. The vaulted ceiling far above their heads was lost in shadow.

The Dark Throne, that massive structure of black granite, sat on the dais in the center of the room. Huge and utterly plain, its polished surfaces without decoration of any kind.

The man crossed the room and started to mount the dais but missed his footing. There was a sound of ripping cloth, followed by a muttered curse.

"Do you have any idea how much that fabric costs?" said the matron.

"Sorry."

The newcomer stood before the Dark Throne, and faced the door where the visitors would enter. Two Nazgûl appeared from the shadows. He spoke a word to them and they moved into position, one on either side of him.

The Ambassador mounted the dais and took a place to the side. Urzahil followed and stood beside him.

The newcomer sat on the Throne and laid his arms along its sides, his black-gloved hands hanging over the ends. One finger was missing.

The matron arranged the folds of his robe so the rip didn't show. When she finished, he raised a hand, and the sentries threw open the doors to the audience chamber to admit their guests.