Emissary by Uvatha the Horseman

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Regrets

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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.