Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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The Forbidden Bay

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It was early Spring by the time they were ready to depart, but the end of the winter did not bring pleasant weather for travelling. The day they set on their journey, a heavy drizzle was falling on the streets of Armenelos, making the pavement slippery under the hooves of the horses. If Gimilzagar had been sitting beside her on the cart, Fíriel would have remarked that even the skies seemed to agree that this journey had been a bad idea from the start. But he was somewhere ahead, and the person sitting by her side was a young woman with straw-coloured hair, who was too busy throwing vaguely uneasy looks at the receding buildings through an opening in the silk curtains. When a group of people suddenly began pointing in her direction with loud exclamations, she closed the opening and recoiled, as if she had been bitten by a spider.

Fíriel raised an eyebrow.

“You don’t seem to enjoy being famous.”

The Pearl of the North did not acknowledge her words –which was only to be expected, considering that she still did not speak a word of Adûnaic. Instead, she picked up a blanket that the servants had thrown over her lap, and shook it before Fíriel’s face.

“Thanks”, the Númenórean said in some surprise, taking it with her own hands. She had been shivering a little despite having a blanket for herself, but she hadn’t expected the barbarian, usually so absorbed by her own concerns, to notice this. The headway they had made was impressive, she had to admit, even if it had not yet extended to having a better understanding of what the other was saying. Such a positive change could be traced back to the day that the Pearl of the North had finally surrendered to her exhaustion and fell asleep, only to wake up hours later to find Fíriel by her side. After that, she seemed to have decided that there was at least one person in the Palace of Armenelos who did not mean her harm, and Fíriel had become her fixture whenever she was upset. Her voice and presence seemed to exert some sort of calming power over her, and though it was a little tiring to have to spend so much time in the barbarian woman’s chambers, at least this had one unexpected silver lining: the Pearl of the North had turned into the perfect captive audience for all the complaints and thoughts that Fíriel rarely had the chance to express aloud.

“It is not that he does not mean well” she confessed to her now, gesturing towards the general direction where she believed Gimilzagar to be. “He always means well, and you will realize that once you get to know him. He is very attentive to my needs, and that would be wonderful, if only he did not pay more attention to what he thinks he has seen in my mind than to what I am actually telling him. I wish you would tell me how you manage to keep him out! He almost had me convinced that he could not help it, that for him it was similar to breathing. Why does that not apply to you? Is it because you hate him so much?” The Pearl of the North yawned. “Because if that is the reason, I guess I will have to put up with it. I just cannot hate him, even though I used to drive myself insane trying. For my people, he is as much of an abomination as he is to yours, did you know that? And maybe they were not conquered and enslaved by the Númenórean Sceptre, but it has not been easy for them, either. They were driven away from their homes, persecuted and suspected without reason just because of their beliefs. I… well, let’s say I have lost family as well; my cousin, and also my father, though that is a secret. And none of it was his fault. He would never harm anyone knowingly, it is just the way he is. That is why his father will not trust him as far as he can throw him. He sees him as unworthy of being his successor, and rumours say that he wants to become immortal just to prevent the Prince from holding the Sceptre.” This momentous revelation was met with a look of solemn gravity in the light-blue eyes of her interlocutor, but the illusion that she could somehow understand her words died as soon as she pointed sharply at some spot behind Fíriel. “What is it, Pearl? This?” The woman nodded when she grabbed the water jar, and extended a pale hand to take it. Not for the first time, Fíriel wondered what her real name was.

“To be honest, I am not particularly upset at this indifference. Gimilzagar is better off without the King trying to make a butcher out of him. But oh, how I wish he would go all the way through with it! If he does not want him as his heir, I wonder why he cares so much for who he takes to his bed. He tries to hide it with indifference, but deep inside he hates me so much that he would have the Prince mate with an Orc rather than with me. And no offense, but finding him all those brides among the short-lived barbarians and putting them above me is just a way to humiliate the house of Andúnië. It has to be. I mean, how could he even think it could work? His son is in love, did he forget about the Queen when he was sent to the mainland and her father married her off to someone else?”

The Pearl of the North passed her the jar back and laid her head on the pillow. She was moving her legs in an odd way, as if she was trying to shake ants off them. After a while, Fíriel reached the conclusion that she was just stretching.

“The worst of all was that princess from Rhûn. The way she acted as if she owned the place! The moment she saw me, she knew she had to get rid of me, and though I tried to be nice and warn her that her manoeuvres could never hope to pass unnoticed to the Queen, she just thought I was trying to scare her because I was afraid to lose to her Imperial Greatness! Apparently, she tried to do it with poison, though I never was even in the vicinity of that drink. A lot of people still believe that the Queen made that up to get rid of her, and that I was also behind it somehow. If you could understand a word of what they say, those people would be warning you to stay away from me, but you must not believe them. That is just a load of bullshit. I did not want her to die, though I admit that I could have been sorrier for her fate. The Palace is not a very pleasant place, but it is less unpleasant without her.” She snorted bitterly. “Lady Khelened, on the other hand, is safe enough. You do not need to be afraid of her, as long as you stay out of her way. She came from a land East from Harad, wagging tongues claim that from a tribe of cannibal savages, but she still managed to learn the language and customs fast enough, and she never eats anything but regular food. Her looks are quite impressive –too impressive, if you ask me. They say that the Prince of the West does not enter her bed because he is afraid of her, and do you know what? It is not merely a rumour.” These words were whispered in the barbarian woman’s ear, though it was more of a stage whisper, since both of them were alone. “But she is perfectly fine with being ignored, and if you respect her boundaries she will not strangle you with her bare hands and eat your roasted head for dinner. Now, the Lady Valeria, that one does not take nearly half as well to being ignored. She is like her Late Imperial Greatness but without the guts. She comes from Arne, do you know Arne? It’s a barbarian kingdom close to Pelargir, who used to have a very proud and inbred royal dynasty, until it went extinct. Now, they just have a very proud and inbred nobility, and the Lady Valeria claims descent from both. She walks around the Palace with so much jewellery on her that she needs to be followed by a huge escort just in case she collapses from the weight. The Court ladies like her the best, for she enjoys grand displays, and spends her days organizing balls, poetry contests, moon-viewing parties and all those things they are so fond of. But she is too cowardly to move against me in the open, so she is trying to kill me with slights. Well, what can I say? I have been through worse.” A sudden thought occurred to her, and she frowned at her interlocutor. “You will not be like her once you manage to understand your position, will you? I am beginning to like you. Sometimes, I think– that we could be friends.”

The Pearl of the North yawned again, apparently satisfied with her current position, and closed her eyes. Fíriel fell silent, studying her countenance with a pensive frown until she was poked in the arm.

“Fine! I will keep talking. Just give me a moment to catch my breath!” Blue eyes slid open to give her an inquiring look, and she shook her head. “Did I tell you how I am also descended from a tribe of barbarian savages from Harad? It is supposed to be a secret, known only to Gimilzagar and the Queen, but I trust you. See, my father’s father was called Ashad, and when he was a boy, his father died leading a band of fierce warriors against the armies of Númenor…”

The Pearl of the North closed her eyes once more, and rolled over to the side.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

As this was an official visit from the heir to the throne of Númenor to the West of the Island, the first stop of their journey had to be the Forbidden Bay, so the Prince could discharge himself of his obligations towards the Goddess. Fíriel had never set foot in the ancient Eldanna before, though she had been born only a few miles North. As she saw it for the first time now, she could not help but feel riveted at the otherwordly beauty of the place. The weather had improved drastically on the day they arrived, and the Spring sun spread its vivifying rays over the golden branches of mallorn trees, which grew scattered among other, larger trees covered in vivid red flowers. The city, with its ancient white towers and stone houses, lay ensconced right in the middle of the Bay, with no harbour, no ships, nothing but a deserted plain of golden sand stretching ahead of it, which mortals were forbidden to tread. A well-paved road led to a nearby cliff, under whose shadow lay the Cave, the holiest sanctuary of the Queen of the Seas in the Island. Beyond, there was a large palatial complex, where the High Priest and Priestess lived with the rest of the clergy. It was in that building that the three of them and their retinue were given quarters to rest from the journey, spacious and boasting of a beautiful view of the Western sea.

While they were shown in, Fíriel’s brief enchantment was beginning to give way to less pleasant feelings. She could not forget that it was the denizens of the Cave, led by the current High Priest’s predecessor, who had once been responsible for her family and friends’ flight from their ancestral homes. That very same people who grovelled before them now, and expressed their wish to make their stay as pleasant as possible, had been much less pleasant in the past to the peasants who lived in her area. She tried to tell herself that the High Priest, at least, might be innocent of the crimes of his predecessor, but somehow that mental operation did not work as well as when she separated Gimilzagar’s personal responsibility from that of his father.

“Do not worry. They will just think you are upset because I have to bed the High Priestess”, Gimilzagar said to her, in one of their rare instants of privacy.

Fíriel could not care less for the High Priestess, beyond feeling vaguely intimidated by legends of her divinely-inspired sexual prowess. After all, it was not as if the King could take her to the Palace and turn her into one more entry of Gimilzagar’s collection of women. But if that gave Fíriel an excuse to sit in her rooms, read some book aloud to the Pearl –who was feeling more nervous than she had been in a long time since she saw her first priest-, and refuse to meet that gaggle of plundering hypocrites who fed on the weak, she would be the most foolish jealous lover in the history of Númenor.

“Mother says that the Lady Eluzîni used to be a great actress. Perhaps you have inherited her abilities.  And if so, why settle for such a minor role? You could give a scene, even punch a few of them when they tried to stop you!”

Fíriel snorted.

“If I were you, I would be worrying about my own plight, instead of giving clever ideas to others. They say that the High Priestess of Ashtarte-Uinen can make a man climax twelve times in an hour. I wonder if you will survive the experience. “Gimilzagar’s eyes widened, but she continued before he could interrupt her. “Now, let me go find the Pearl, or she may be the one going on a rampage and hitting priests. The last time I saw her, she did not look too far away from it.”

The Prince of the West sighed.

“I am sorry. If we find what we came looking for, you will only have to put up with her for a few days longer.”

Fíriel’s reaction to those words surprised her. Instead of shrugging, or rolling her eyes in a long-suffering expression as she might have done just a week ago, she found that she was bothered by them, and she needed a great deal of aplomb to keep the tension away from her countenance.

“It is no trouble at all” she said, in a tone that came off rather cutting. Gimilzagar stared at her, but thankfully he chose not to remark upon whatever it was that he had found in her mind. Instead, he embraced her, and tried to claim her lips in a goodbye kiss.

“Oh, stop. I do not want to kiss you right now” she said, pushing him away. “You will compare my kiss to those of the High Priestess, and find me wanting.”

Gimilzagar laughed.

“That woman is playing the role of a goddess, Fíriel. You are a goddess.”

“And flattery won’t get you anywhere”, she retorted, walking past him to look for the pale barbarian.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

The ritual was scheduled to take place the following day at noon, and it seemed to Fíriel that the whole population of the West of the Island must have gathered at the Bay to watch it. The High Priest, overjoyed by what he perceived as the return of the sanctuary’s favour with the Sceptre, had declared an official holiday in all his territories. Even before dawn had broken, pilgrims were already crowding the road leading to the sanctuary, hoping for a glimpse of the Prince of the West, who had never set foot in this region of Númenor before. All the important people in the area had come or sent representation, and though she would not recognise his face, she was sure that the man who had conquered the Pearl’s people had to be there somewhere, together with the envoy sent by the military governor of Andúnië and Lord Iqbal of Hyarnustar’s son.

As the hour approached, and the crowd thickened, Fíriel was only too glad to let Gimilzagar make excuses for both the Pearl and her. They would stay in the barbarian woman’s chambers for the day, blissfully away from the priests and their ceremonies. As she sat there, pondering her own feelings towards the denizens of the Cave, she found herself wondering how her companion might react once she found herself face to face with the man directly responsible for her current plight. If meeting him was inevitable, at least Fíriel supposed she owed it to Gimilzagar and her to make sure it was not a public meeting, one that could get tongues wagging all across the Island.

“As I said, Pearl, this is looking less and less like a good idea” she sighed, listening to the multitude’s cheers and the priests’ monotonous chanting in the distance. “Do you really want to go to that man’s house and ask a favour from him? If I had to ask a favour from the High Priest of the Forbidden Bay, I can tell you I would rather die. And he is not even the same High Priest who attacked our village.”

The Pearl’s head was sticking from the window, and she was stretching her neck to try and catch a glimpse of what was going on. She looked uneasy, as if she could understand what Fíriel was saying, though probably the ruckus of the religious ceremony was more than enough to set a barbarian, ignorant of Númenórean traditions, on edge.

“Do not worry. Nobody is getting killed today, or thrown into a fire. Someone is going to be fucked, though -many times, if rumours are true. Your husband, if you truly want to know.” Fíriel blinked, listening to her own words, and wondering when exactly had all those things stopped sounding weird to her ears. They said that Elves had strange customs, but Men were much stranger, when left to their own devices. Her people had got that much right. “Do you want me to order something to eat? This is going to be a long day.”

An hour and a meal later, however, the Pearl had still not moved from the window.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

He did not return during the day, and neither did he appear after the shadows had already fallen over the waters of the ancient bay. There should have been some kind of celebration after the ritual, one which the High Priest would no doubt have turned into the most lavish party he was able to afford with the income of the ravaged lands he had been allowed to keep. Fíriel and the Pearl had been apparently excused from that as well, though Fíriel did not know which of the two’s inner demons had been used as pretext.

That night, however, while both lay in bed, she heard a familiar knock on the door, and then a quick, whispered exchange where she could distinguish Gimilzagar’s voice along with that of one of the ladies-in-waiting. Next to her, she could feel the Pearl’s body tense, and she knew that the barbarian was about to wake.

“Stay asleep” she muttered, squeezing her hand comfortingly as she left the bed and sought for a silk robe to wrap over her shoulders. “Do not worry, no one will come in here.”

Gimilzagar was waiting for her in the antechamber, his eyes looking darker than usual under the faint glow of an oil lamp. His cheeks were flushed, she was not sure if from the wine or from the residual glow of the lovemaking, though she immediately regretted thinking this.

“Definitely the wine”, he said. She blushed in embarrassment, but at the same time, some inner demon was pressuring her to ask.

“Was she as … good as they say?”

“She honoured the Goddess as it is her duty. And so did I” he replied, rather formally. So she had been that good. “Do we need to talk about this? I met the man we came to seek.”

“And? Can he help us?” she asked, a little more briskly than what was necessary.

“I would say so. There is a man in his household who does indeed know her language. And we are going to meet him as soon as I am finished with my business here, because he has offered us his hospitality on our way to the Governor’s headquarters in Andúnië.”

“Oh.” Fíriel tried to sound a little more enthusiastic, but she was unable to manage it. “I see. Well, that is good. Though – perhaps you should have told him to send the man to Andúnië instead. This way, we would not waste so much time.”

“Are you worried about the Pearl, or about yourself? I am aware that your feelings about your ancient home can be quite-  contradictory, if no less strong for it.” His breath smelled of wine indeed. She recoiled a little.

“I am capable of keeping my feelings to myself” she hissed. “She, on the other hand…. who knows how she will react if she finds herself in his house?”

“I can sense a slight complication with this man. He is- not happy, Fíriel. He was not given all the reward or recognition that he believes he deserved after his glorious conquests. Now, he thinks that the gods have presented him with a new chance to earn favour, and he will try to milk it for all it is worth. I made the mistake of letting him know how valuable I found this interpreter, and a royal visit is the least he will get out of him.”

“The King would just give him a choice between sending the man to Andúnië, or losing everything else”, Fíriel argued. Gimilzagar stared at her.

“I am not the King.” His tone was slightly upset. “And I do not mean just in temperament. I do not have the authority to threaten victorious generals.”

“You are right” she sighed, wondering what on Earth was making her react like this. “I am sorry. But being here, among those priests –I guess it has set me on edge. And it has made me feel for her, Gimilzagar. If this is upsetting for me, how much more upsetting will it be for her, to find herself face to face with her enemy?”

“I see.” He let go of a deep breath. “Well, what can I say? She is already upset, Fíriel, and by the Queen of the Seas, she is meant to be so! She was dealt an upsetting hand in life. If we have our way, we might look forward to a time, in the future, when she will be less upset. We can snub this man all we want, but that will not bring her loved ones back, or the land of her birth, or her former life. All we can give her back is her voice, and I wish as much as you that this could be enough.”

Fíriel swallowed. She was suddenly feeling sad, and angry at the same time, but she did not know very well why, or on behalf of whom. She felt like a child, and perhaps she was just as selfish, she thought, stealing the Pearl’s imagined grievances and making them look like her own. A voiceless Pearl was a white canvas, a mirror that reflected back every image that she projected on it. And if that was so, only a voice would restore her to her true self –whether it was a self that Fíriel could empathize with or not.

“That is a very wise observation”, he nodded, impressed. She tore her glance away from his, uncomfortably.

“I thought I had told you that flattery would get you nowhere.”

“Oh, I cannot get anywhere else today. I am spent”, he chuckled, accepting her change of subject. Then, almost immediately, he sobered again. “But let me lie next to you, Fíriel. Please.”

“She will not like that.” When she saw the hidden need in his eyes, however, it gave her pause. He had an expression that she knew well, one which reminded her of the way he had looked after each of his wedding nights, when he would seek her and hold her as if he had to make sure that she was still there –that she still existed. “Very well, let us lie together for a while. But I will have to wake up before dawn and go back to her. We are at an unfamiliar place full of priests, and that is something I am pretty sure she does not like any more than I do.”

“Do not worry.” He leaned on the couch, and she curled next to him. “I will wake you up.”

That night, as she closed her eyes, Fíriel dreamed of fields in flames, and of a frightened girl who hid behind a well while mounted priests dragged a straw-coloured woman away.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

“Are you out of your mind?” Anárion was not reacting too differently from what Isildur had expected. Which, at least, means that you finally know him well enough, Malik remarked, but Isildur was not in the mood to see things under a positive light. “This could cost us the loyalty of Agar, and they are the most powerful among our supporters!”

“Could it?” Isildur asked. “Is there anything in the oaths they have sworn which says they are entitled to break the alliance if we do not let them kill their brother?”

“That is because it is generally understood that we are not supposed to meddle in the internal affairs of one another!”

“And we are not meddling in them! We are not opposing Haldad’s chieftainship, we are not making Tal Elmar Master of Agar! We are merely taking him with us, in our ship, to our country. And we are doing this because Hazad uBuldar, the Master of Agar until this very moment, expressed it as his last will on his deathbed!”

Anárion sighed and looked up, as if asking the heavens for patience to argue with such an ignorant halfwit.

“Were there witnesses of that, ready to pit their testimony against that of Haldad and his brothers? Because, otherwise, he might have said that he wanted me to succeed him, for all that his words will be worth. Look, Isildur.” He leaned forward, and held his glance. “Númenóreans have a long history of raising puppet rulers in the Island only to impose them on their people later, and the peoples of Middle Earth have a long history of resenting and warding themselves against this kind of interference.”

“And you think that these savages have heard of Harad. Or Arne. Or Rhûn. Not to mention that Tal Elmar is already more than raised. Raise him again, and by the time we are done he may be the age of Hazad!” Isildur stood from his seat, breaking their eye contact, and began pacing again. “Your arguments are flimsy, Anárion, and I can see behind them. The real reason why you are opposing this is that it does not factor in your sacrosanct plans, and like with the children, you hate not being in control of everything that happens around you. But I have news for you, even the cleverest and wisest of men cannot control everything! It is not so in Númenor, and even less in Middle Earth. In a hostile land, the situation can change so fast that the only thing you can do is think quickly, and try to adapt to it!”

“To think quickly to adapt to the movements of our enemies is one thing. But to have to think quickly to adapt to your actions…”

“I am also under no obligation whatsoever to listen to you. If I have done it so far, it is only because I found your advice worthwhile in the past.”

“It is worthwhile now, too!”

“No, this time it is not! You would have us sacrifice our honour in exchange for your particular notion of safety!”

“Yes, but it is not your safety, or mine! I am considering the safety of the men, the women and the children who dwell here, who came to this settlement to start new lives, free from oppression and the fear of death!” It was not often that Anárion allowed anyone to see him so angry. “If there is the slightest chance that it may be jeopardized, I cannot be expected to care for how many barbarians kill each other in their own feuds! You, on the other hand, are led by the nose by your whims and impulses, without stopping to think of the consequences. You want to help Tal Elmar because of who he is, not because of Hazad’s last will, a sense of justice, or the promises that you claim you made. Because he reminds you of Malik, and the Númenórean settlers do not!”

Are you going to let him speak like this to you? Malik inquired, raising an eyebrow. Isildur ignored the taunt, and concentrated on keeping his composure. The key was to imagine that he was on a battlefield, facing the enemy, for mere arguments behind closed doors could undo him far more easily than standing before an experienced killer who would slit his throat if he made the wrong move.

“You pride yourself of being a good diplomat” he said at last, his voice as calm as if he was sitting on the bathhouse in Rómenna. “Prove it. Speak with Haldad and make him see our point, and if he is not wholly convinced, give him anything he wants and promise him even better things to come. Make him see that we have no intention of forsaking our alliance with his people, but also that we will not cave in to pressure, once that our honour has been engaged.” Anárion seemed about to open his mouth to protest, but Isildur had already heard enough. “Do that, and once that you have ensured the continued safety of our settlement, I will listen to you again, and do as you say. Until then, I will assume we are at war, and claim sole authority over the Númenóreans of the North.”

Well done, Isildur, Malik snorted. The late General Barekbal would be so proud of you.

For the rest of the day, Isildur busied himself evaluating their defences, doubling the vigilance shifts, and putting all his troops in a state of alert. If now and then he felt something like a pang of guilt intruding upon his determination, he covered it with lofty thoughts of Númenórean honour, helping the innocent, and fulfilling last wishes of old men who lay dying. Tal Elmar was still in the middle of his improvised vigil, so he did not disturb him even when he had a moment to spare. Or perhaps this was merely an excuse that he made for himself, while the truth was that he did not wish to risk looking into the young man’s eyes and realizing that Anárion had been right about his motives.

His brother had departed for Agar shortly after their argument, to represent the Númenóreans in the funeral of the old chief. He had chosen to take only a small escort with him, though Isildur did not think he would ever be as petty as to willingly risk his own life just to get back at him. As he had already made very clear in the conversation, of the two of them, the only one who allowed himself to be led by petty whims was Isildur. Whatever Anárion chose to do was always calculated as meticulously as a goldsmith would measure the quantity of gold to be used in each of a lady’s earrings, and he never had anything but high purposes in mind.

Still, when he did not return for the night, Isildur had to admit he had grown a little worried. And, when his brother finally crossed the gates of the settlement late on the next morning, without any visible signs of the hangover that could be clearly detected in the red eyes and pale countenances of the barbarians who rode with his party, the elder son of Elendil needed to work hard to hide his relief.

“Well met, brother. Er… honoured guests.”

Two of Anárion’s companions were immediately recognizable as sons of Hazad. They were speaking to him in their own gibberish, and though Isildur did not understand more than a word or two, the conversation looked fairly peaceful. As he was still trying to determine the extent to which it was so, Anárion dismounted, and gave instructions to the captain of his escort to show their guests to their palace, where they would be meeting them in a short while.

“So?” Isildur asked, once they had left.

“So, we have guests now. You may want to dress better to entertain them.”

“That is not what I meant”, he growled. “Did Haldad listen to you?”

“Considering that I would be a hostage in Agar if he had not, or perhaps worse, you may deduce that he did.”

Looks very much like pettiness to me, Malik remarked. Isildur shook this off as he would a twig in his hair.

“You did not have to throw yourself at his mercy. You could have taken more armed men with you, but you chose not to do it.”

“When trying to convince someone of your good intentions, coming in with an army to a funeral is not likely to help, Isildur”, Anárion snorted. “Fortunately, Haldad uHazad saw my point that Tal Elmar will be much less of a threat if he is taken to a place from which he can never return, and made to look like a blood traitor into the bargain. One of my men may also have let slip to his brothers that back in Númenor, barbarians tend to end up sacrificed - though of course we would never allow that to happen.”

Isildur nodded.

“Anything else?”

“It also turned out that he wants to borrow our military strength for a little campaigning of his own. And he needs a sizeable quantity of Númenórean shiny objects to pay his allies and his supporters inside his own tribe. That is why he has sent our current guests, so they can help themselves.”

“And you agreed to everything.” It was not a question, and Anárion did not take it as such.

“Just as you ordered, Isildur.”

The elder son of Elendil opened his mouth to reply, then closed it when he realized that he did not know what he was going to say. In the end, he shrugged.

“Well, then. I assume you were taking the safety of the settlement in consideration when you bargained with him, since you are a level-headed man who does not let himself be influenced by words spoken in the heat of the moment. That is why I have full trust in you, and why I sent you there.”

Can’t you just say that you are sorry? Malik wondered.

“I might remind you that I was left to bargain under rather restrictive conditions, Isildur. Still, I am honoured by your trust.” His voice was cold now; there was no trace of false politeness there anymore. “As you have surmised, I do not think this will be the end of our settlement, though you may have to go back to Pelargir and hire more soldiers, to make sure we will not be left defenceless. The King is busy with his new shipyards, and rumours say that he no longer reads reports from the mainland with the same attention as before, so as long as we act discreetly, we will probably be safe.”

“I see.” Damn him if he could find anything cleverer to say at the moment. “Well, one thing at a time. Now, we will meet with Haldad’s envoys to hear their requirements, and once they are gone, we will count our resources and decide what is needed, and how much of it would be safe to get.”

Anárion nodded gravely.

“Agreed.”