Emissary by Uvatha the Horseman

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Homecoming

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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.