Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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The Long Battle

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(Year 3198 -Year 21 of the reign of Tar-Palantir)

 

Amandil took a long, deep breath, as the ivory doors of the Council chamber swung open before his eyes. Slowly, yet purposefully, he strode towards the right side of the circle, where his current seat was aligned next to those occupied by the lords of Forrostar, Hyarnustar and Orrostar, who smiled and waved in recognition. As always, they were the only ones to do so. Everywhere else he would turn, icy looks dissected him, as they would a dirty cockroach scuttling over the sacred stone of an altar. At the other end of the circle, he could hear a contemptuous snort, and in spite of knowing that he should not rise to any challenge, he could not prevent himself from staring right into the eyes of High Priest Zarashtart of the Forbidden Bay.

An old acquaintance of his during his years in the Cave, this impulsive, warlike priest had not been very happy when he was not selected for the Umbar expedition, as Amandil could recall. However, fate had reserved a more glorious role for him: he had acceded to the post of High Priest after his predecessor, Bodashtart, resigned in protest for the King’s decision to have the new Lord of Andúnië change his role in the Council from that of courtier to that of landholder, effectively eliminating the supreme lordship of the Cave over the lands of the Northwest. A man of action, he had taken measures immediately, and, as he stared back at Amandil, his look was brimming with the unspoken promise of destruction.

Amandil’s lips curved into a smile. It was what Pharazôn would have done, he belatedly thought, had he been challenged by someone who believed himself a great warrior but had never seen a battle in his lifetime. He would have laughed in this ridiculous man’s face, and if he could provoke him into doing something rash in the middle of the Palace, that would have just been an added bonus.

Elendil seemed to think along the same lines, because he edged closer to him. Though he was behind him, Amandil could perceive his large presence towering over him protectively.

“Return to your seat, Elendil” he said, in perfectly clear Adûnaic, and a little louder than necessary. “This coward would never dare attack anyone who can defend himself.”

Ugly red blotches appeared in the other man’s already livid face; it took the Governor of Sor, the Governor’s lieutenant, and his own attendant’s combined efforts to hold him in place. It still seemed unclear to Amandil whether they would have succeeded, if the High Priest of Melkor had not chosen that moment to enter the Council chamber, and the rush of people either rising to salute him or sitting down to avoid being confused with those who saluted him defused the tension. The lord of Andúnië felt vaguely disappointed for a second, then ashamed of himself. He was an adult and a great lord of Númenor, not a young Temple novice anymore, and yet it seemed that Yehimelkor was fated to prevent him from making a fool of himself at every turn of his life in the Island.

Amandil sat down, remembering the first times he had done so, here in this Council chamber. How ungrateful he had felt, towards the man who had saved his life and raised him as a child! As he had been introduced into more and more aspects of the political life of the Island, however, he had realized how misplaced these feelings were. Everyone had personal enemies and political enemies, and political enemies were merely people who pretended to be personal enemies in public. At least, he thought somewhat bitterly, until the day when what was used to be political became personal.

“Rise for the King!” the herald spoke in Quenya. As always, everybody rose except the High Priest of Melkor, who remained firmly in his appointed seat.

“I welcome you, friends, to this Council”, Palantir’s ringing voice spoke the usual words, also in the Ancient Tongue. At once, and though countless -and tedious- sessions should have drilled every inflection and meaning of the stilted formulae in their minds by now, many councilmen signalled to their interpreters, and the cacophony of translations began. “We are here to discuss things of grave import for the governance of the Island.”

Tar-Palantir looked serious indeed. His countenance gave subtle but unmistakeable signs of a sleepless night, which lent a slightly feverish air to the usual broad, overstated movements of his arms and his head. He had never looked very regal, according to the standards carefully laid down in the time of Ar Sakalthôr and Ar Gimilzôr, but today he was radiating an almost manic aura.

Amandil stood up.

“My lord King, I ask for permission to speak.”

“It is granted.”

“This man” Amandil stuck to his controversial policy of switching to Adûnaic when he wanted his words to sink in his intended target without unnecessary filters, “this man, who holds one of the highest religious offices in Númenor, keeps breaking the peace in the West of the Island, ignoring every warning issued by the Sceptre. Ever since I occupied this seat, he had been encroaching upon our territory, bearing arms, and harassing the peasants in countless ways, destroying crops and burning houses.”

“That is not true”, the High Priest replied. His composure seemed to be back after the previous incident. “As I have been forced to explain many times in front of this Council, Lord Amandil’s people have been occupying, and taking advantage of lands which are under the jurisdiction of the High Priest of the Forbidden Bay since the time of Ar Adunakhôr, may the gods bless his soul with life eternal. Since the Lord of Andúnië was a subject of the Cave, my predecessor was kind enough to allow them to settle there, but now the circumstances have changed. I am merely claiming them back.”

“Those lands have been empty for two hundred years!”

“And what if they are? They are my lands, and I am entitled to do what I wish with them. According to this written privilege signed by Ar-Adunakhôr…”

Amandil lost the thread for an instant, busy as he was unwrapping the bundle of mouldy manuscripts handed to him by Elendil. He briefly pondered whether he could risk brandishing them in front of everyone as his rival did with his own documents, then decided against it. It would not look good if they disintegrated before their eyes.

“If this is a matter of whose rights are older, these are the terms of the dowry of Princess Silmarien, daughter of Tar Elendil, and I believe your interpreter will find those lands mentioned in here, if you have him take a look.”

“Lands which you later lost in war!”

“This is ridiculous.” Gimilkhâd’s voice carried over the room, though he had not stood or asked for leave to speak. “Aren’t you tired, my lords, of hearing those two tearing at each other’s throats and brandishing old lore for a few acres of land? The Council has serious matters to discuss which involve us all, but our sessions keep being sequestered for personal purposes. It was the King’s decision to bring back the Exiles, he should be the one to deal with the consequences.”

“War in Númenor is a matter of concern for all of us!”, Shemer argued. Gimilkhâd laughed derisively.

“You call this war, when real war is brewing elsewhere!”

“Real war will happen wherever there is no solution for a conflict”, Amandil retorted.

“Is that a threat?” Zarashtart hissed.

“Enough!” The King rose from his seat, looking very angry. “We have heard all these arguments before. High Priest Zarashtart, I am aware that my ancestor gave these lands to the Cave to keep after the lords of Andúnië were sent into exile. However, as you very well know, I restored them to their former seat of power, and the lands went back to them. This has been made clear in the past, and you still choose to ignore it and engage in pointless retaliation. I will not let you bring war back to the Island. You will abstain from further disruption and trespassing in the south of the Andustar. Is that clear?”

Again, nothing. Nothing, and more nothing. Amandil wanted to yell in frustration, but he forced himself to appear contented. The Cave knew very well that neither the King nor the Council supported their incursions, but they did it because they wanted to provoke the Sceptre into military action. This way, he knew, they hoped they could kindle another large-scale civil conflict like the one in Ar Adunakhôr’s time. The King was not going to rise to the bait, and his greatest battles lay elsewhere at the moment, but this only meant that Amandil was left to shoulder the burden of the impossible situation. If he did nothing and stood by, he was failing his people, but if he did, he might well be the one who “brought war back to the Island”.

“Behold how the Shadow is already upon us!” Yehimelkor sighed, standing up. “Our own homeland is falling apart from strife and dissension amongst ourselves. These are the first signs that the gods are abandoning us after we turned our backs to them. There is still time to revert the situation and implore their renewed protection, my lord King, but it will not be for long.”

“Your gods, Your Holiness, are those who wish to cover Númenor in darkness.” Zakarbal, always pugnacious in the religious front, jumped at once to reply. “I, for one, will not miss them if they wish to abandon us.”

“And they will be blind, and ignore the signs wilfully, because the Lord has willed their destruction”, Yehimelkor quoted. From the fifth scroll of the temple of Gadir, Amandil remembered idly. “Your opinion is of no consequence to me, Lord Zakarbal, because the wrath of the Lord of Armenelos is already upon you. I can see his mark upon your forehead.”

“How dare you...!”

“I call upon the King, who is far-sighted and a man of learning!” the High Priest of Melkor continued, ignoring the Northern lord. “My lord, give the King of Armenelos what is his due, and appease the unrest of his faithful people!”

Tar-Palantir did not shrink from his opponent’s fiery glance, or from his words. After many councils, he had become an expert in how to trade blows with whom he perceived as his enemy in the larger scheme of things.

“Your Holiness, you accuse me unfairly. Your temple’s decrease in revenues was caused by the supply crisis which affects us all, and that, in turn, was a consequence of the unrest in our mainland colonies. Perhaps our friends from Middle-Earth would care to illustrate us further about the state of things there.” He turned a penetrating look towards Magon of Gadir, who sat next to his associate from Umbar, with an obviously rehearsed vacant expression.

“Unrest”, Amandil knew it very well, was one more euphemism of those that had become currency in their Council sessions. Faced with the imminence of the King’s Pelargir project, the Merchant Princes had decided to wage their own kind of war, calling upon all their partners and associates in Middle-Earth to disrupt Númenorean trade. It was even suspected that they had paid a significant amount of money to rebel tribes to sabotage their own supply lines, intending to defeat Tar Palantir through famine and discontent in the very heart of the Island. In spite of the King’s attempts to return to the virtuous old ways, it was undeniable that Númenórean civilization could not go back to the self-sufficiency it had enjoyed under its first rulers, and that they relied on the mainland for most of the basic needs of its extended population. Faced with this silent aggression, but as unable to call them on it publicly as he was of surrendering to their blackmail, the King had opted instead for trying to kill two birds with one stone. By establishing new alliances with the Lindon Elves through Amandil’s father, he thought he could circumvent their blockade and make their trade alliances redundant, while, at the same time, he had used the crisis as a pretext to cut on the expenses of the Temple of Armenelos, believing that the people would agree to have their own pressing needs met before those of an invisible god. So far, the first bird had proved an amenable target, at least on the short-term, as Númendil had managed to have relief supplies delivered daily through the harbour of Andúnië, and the rebuilding of Pelargir was a promising joint venture for both kindreds. The second, however, was another matter entirely. The King, though much cleverer than Amandil’s grandfather, the late Lord Valandil, had also underestimated the power of the common man’s superstitious devotion. On the King’s festivity last year, Yehimelkor had had the Temple closed, claiming that there was no money for the sacrifices, so he was forced to substitute them by a week of vigil and prayer for the King of the City to forgive his people. Being as he was a man of peace, who did not suffer Amandil to even lay hands on a practice sword, it was difficult to imagine that he could have done this to provoke a riot, but a riot there had been, whether it had been his objective or not, and though the King had confronted him several times, he had refused to speak a word of public condemnation for those acts.

“We are as concerned as you are about the situation on the mainland. Middle-Earth is our home, my lord King, and we do not feel safe at home anymore. Our revenues have decreased exponentially since this crisis began, and our trade associates from Harad and the area of the Bay are taking many risks. Mordor is growing bolder than ever, delivering military aid and weapons to its allies.”

“We can send you soldiers to deal with this situation.”

Magon did not bat an eye.

“We would be thankful if you could spare any.”

This threat had worked in the past, but now the Merchant Princes obviously knew that the King’s best troops were already in Umbar, fighting the Haradrim, and that their commander was the last person whose name Tar Palantir wished to be spoken in the Council or the Island -especially while his own daughter’s succession was still contested. If the Prince Pharazôn were to gain more troops and influence, he risked creating a rival whose shadow could grow too large to ignore.

Amandil shook his head in disgust, a gesture that his faction interpreted as contempt for the spinelessness of the Merchant Princes, but which in fact held a much broader meaning. Everything and everyone in that room disgusted him at this moment, friend and foe alike, and most of all the King. Deep inside, he knew that this was not Palantir’s fault, not in the strict sense of the word, but he had chosen to play his role and roll in the dirt like the best of them.

All because he wanted to rebuild his precious Pelargir, destroy Gadir, and control the Bay himself. Because he insisted on making his volatile daughter the next Ruling Queen. Because he would not rest until the temples of the gods whom his own people worshipped with fervour were razed to the ground.

In short, Amandil thought in uncommon bitterness, because he wished to turn back time and return to the past, forgetting that in that past there had been a bloody civil war. And they had lost it. They had been in the wrong side of history even then, how could they be in the right side now?

Focus, a voice inside his head commanded. It was strangely reminiscent of the voice of the priest who was sitting several chairs away from him, but it lacked the cruel and unforgiving edge he now used to pontificate against the King and his lords, and in its place, Amandil could almost hear the genuine affection that the man had felt towards him once. You have to focus and remember your own purpose. Remember what you are, and what you are here to do, Amandil of Andúnië.

He was loyal to Tar Palantir. He owed him that, for freeing his family, giving them back their lands, and his lordship. Even more than that, as his own father had put it long ago, he was the King who held the Sceptre in Armenelos.

There was nothing to second-guess here. He had been born to act, not to think.

“We should all unite and do our best to bring peace and prosperity to the Island, instead of creating more burdens for the Sceptre to bear”, he stated, in Quenya. Everybody stared at him in surprise, as they had not expected him to talk again at this point. “My harbour remains open for food and relief for the people, and if the King wishes it, I will personally go to the Bay of Gadir to put my military expertise at the service of our efforts against Mordor. In exchange” he gave a long look in the direction of the High Priest of the Cave, who was looking as shocked as everybody else, “I only ask that the borders of my land remain undisturbed until I return, as a courtesy for someone who is risking his life for our common cause. I hope, my lords, that this is not an unreasonable expectation.”

Tar Palantir briefly closed his eyes, as if he was meditating. He had obviously not been expecting this, any more than the merchants or Gimilkhâd, who looked like someone who had chewed on a lemon.

“We hear you, Lord Amandil, and accept your generous offer. “he finally said, after a while. For a moment, he sounded as tired as he looked. “This Council is dismissed.”

As Amandil abandoned the Chamber, followed by his son, he could hear the murmurations begin.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

“You know that they do not want you there. They were counting on the King not having anyone trustworthy to spare for a mission such as this, and your offer to go is a direct attack on all their plans. What you are going to do is the equivalent of entering a nest of vipers with a blindfold on.”

“Thanks for explaining the situation to me. As I am not a member of the Council, I would never have had access to this knowledge,” Amandil retorted drily, as he rushed across gardens and galleries to the inner chambers of the Andúnië mansion in Armenelos. Elendil’s longer but perfectly even strides followed him, past two or three successive waves of guards, servants and secretaries who stopped in their tracks at the same time as he passed them by, forming temporary groups who stood still and gaped at each other in the corridor, like banks of fish in the Umbarian reefs. He did not pay heed to any of them; all that he needed at this moment was a cup of wine.

“I know that you are aware of the situation, and I am sure you remember how these people tried to kill you twice, much better than I ever could, since the first time I wasn’t even born.” Elendil’s voice droned on, undeterred by his sarcasm. “That is why…”

“Tried to kill me.” As if he could ever forget.

“That is why I do not think that risking the life of the King’s greatest asset is a wise move, either for the Sceptre or for the Faithful.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I am not the King’s greatest asset, and even if I were, no one can remain an asset for long if they ignore their purpose.”

“And what does that mean?” Finally, they had reached his last sanctuary of peace, the garden behind his study. As he had dismissed everyone he had met in his way, however, Amandil remembered that he had to go back inside to find the wine jar. He found it on a table, resting atop a jumble of scattered documents in a way that would have given the current High Priest of Melkor a fit if he had been able to see it. There were no glasses to be seen.

Biting back an expletive he had learned from the soldiers in Umbar, he picked up the jar.

“It means that if I had been raised a diplomat, I would be making deals with the Elves instead of Father. If I had been raised a courtier and a politician, I would be married to the Princess of the West. If I had been raised a Lord of Andúnië, at the very least, I would have found a way to deal with the provocations from the Cave. The mainland and its wars, however, those are things I know about. I have been finding my way there for twenty years, and I am not afraid. Will you bring me the thrice-damn cup or are you just going to stand there?”

Elendil did not sigh, but he could not prevent himself from looking as if he would have wanted to. In silence, he left the room, and Amandil went back to the garden to sit on the veranda. He closed his eyes for a moment. It was the hottest hour of the day, when the birds were at the pinnacle of their hectic activities in the large tree above his head. The cacophony of trills they made as they called to one another filled his ears and slowly brought back his awareness for the present.

His own son believed him too reckless. The idea would almost be funny, if the seriousness of the situation did not preclude him from laughing. He remembered Magon nephew of Magon, the cunning hidden behind his bland look as he sat on the Council listening to his words. No, there was nothing amusing about the Merchant Princes of Gadir.

He knew that better than anyone else alive.

“Here.” Elendil filled a cup, and handed it to him. His brow was knitted with what Amandil guessed was furious thinking activity, trying to find and select arguments and the words to articulate them in a way that would make them convincing. Underneath all of it, he noticed, a deep worry was showing through. That did touch him a little, almost in spite of himself.

“The King looked worried. I think he does not want you to go.”

He swallowed deeply, wishing that the wine could be colder.

“Elendil, the King does not want me to go, but he needs me to. As you very well know, he felt it was necessary to divert trade away from the Merchant Princes and build his own supply routes, which means that now, it is them against the Sceptre, and no compromise to be reached. They are in it for the long run. Money cannot bribe them, orders do not reach them, and threats will not frighten them, either.”

“And you think an army will?”

“I am not there just to threaten them. I am there to uncover evidence which can be used against them.”

The cup Elendil was filling slid away from his clumsy grasp, and fell against the veranda. The wine spilled upon the wooden structure, and several red drops stained Amandil’s tunic. He looked at them in silence, thinking of how Pharazôn would have rushed to claim it was an omen of some kind.

“If that is your purpose, they will not let you fulfil it. They will kill you before it happens.”

“If I do not do this, Tar-Palantir might not be holding the Sceptre for long. It is all fine and good that the Elves are sending emergency supplies, but the Council and the people of Númenor are not ready to accept an official partnership with them, and without that, this is no long-term solution. Pelargir is not built yet, and before they see it finished, the Merchant Princes will tighten the noose even more. “Amandil sighed. “You are good at chess. You know that in order to win, you have to risk your pieces, even sacrifice them. Only the King is to be protected at all costs.”

“You are the Lord of Andúnië, not a piece of chess.”

“We are all pieces of chess. The sooner you realize this, the fewer mistakes you will make. If I should die, it will be your turn to take my place and keep playing.” Amandil cringed inwardly at how callous his words came across. He wondered briefly if his own worries could also be detected underneath, if Elendil had the ability to do so, and while a part of him rejected the idea, another, very small and ridiculous part wished that he would.

“I see that you are not going to listen to me in this matter.” His son’s voice was unusually low, almost drowned by the noise made by the birds on the treetop above them. Amandil remembered those years when Elendil and Amalket had been waiting for news of him every day, probably thinking that he had been killed whenever a long time passed without news.

Back then, it had all been pointless. Now, it wasn’t. Or so he had to believe.

“I am not planning to die. You were just reminding me of how hard to kill I have proved until now, and not only for the Merchant Princes.” He forced himself to smile. “And besides, what would be the point of all those visions where I find myself drowning in the open seas?”

“It is not a good idea to laugh at foresight.” Elendil was not smiling back. “You cannot know how these things may come to pass until it is too late.”

“You are right, of course”, Amandil conceded, placatingly. That is also why it cannot be trusted, and if you do not trust something, you might as well not take it seriously, he could have also said, but it was not among the things that Elendil wanted or needed to hear at the moment. As a matter of fact, he wondered if there was any of those things left to say, or if it was time to drop the conversation altogether.

Then, he remembered something else.

“Elendil, there is a task that will fall to you after I am gone. It does not seem as if our efforts against the Cave in the Council meeting have availed us more than any of the previous instances.”

The younger man nodded solemnly.

“No.”

“This means that our people are still at risk from attacks, and as soon as the Cave hears that I am gone, I am afraid they will be back in strength, and do plenty of harm, in spite of their empty promises.”

“No.”

“That is… what?” Amandil stared, wondering if Elendil had been so distracted thinking of his impending departure for the mainland that he had not even been listening to his words. But his son’s countenance was as serious as it was attentive, and no apologetic look crossed his features.

“I said that no, that they will not be able to do more harm, or so I hope.” Now that he looked closer at him, Amandil noticed that Elendil seemed proud about something, something which had only left the forefront of his mind when forcibly pushed away by the recent circumstances. Still, now that the subject had come up, he could detect that the younger man had been waiting to say this for a long time. “Before I came from Andúnië for this Council meeting, I already suspected, like you did, that it was going to be pointless. Since you were going to be away, as I believed, in Armenelos, I decided that a contingency plan was needed.”

“A contingency plan.” Amandil arched his eyebrow. “Yours, I suppose?”

“Well, not exactly mine.” There might be a trace of sheepishness in his son’s countenance now, but it might as well have been his imagination, because the next moment it was not there anymore. “As a matter of fact, it was Ashad’s idea.”

“Ashad?” Shocked, he leaned forwards, and his hand went into the puddle of wine. He cursed. “Ashad had an idea, and you decided to implement it?”

“It needed a few modifications, but it was good”, Elendil argued. “Rest assured, Father, I am not planning to fail.”

Back at him, then, for his words earlier. Amandil supposed that he deserved it.

“You know how precarious our position is, and how anything you may do can be considered the start of a personal war between the house of Andúnië and the High Priest of the Forbidden Bay.”

“Yes.”

Now, Amandil was the one who was at loss for words.

“If you do not… if anything should…”

“Father, weren’t you saying moments before that I would have to be left in charge of this? Well, I am in charge. If you do not like the idea, all you have to do is…” He stopped sharply, as if realizing he had taken the wrong turn, then carefully schooled his features back to his usual serious expression. “Trust me, and I will trust you.”

Amandil sighed. It was not how he had expected the conversation to unfold.

“Fair enough.” he grumbled. “I suppose I am allowed to know about the main points of this plan, at least? Since I am the lord of Andúnië?”

“About that.” Elendil stood up, carefully avoiding the spilled wine, and stepped down from the veranda to set foot in the garden. Even from there, he towered over Amandil. “It is a key element of the plan that the lord of Andúnië can sincerely claim that he knew nothing about it.”

And before Amandil could even utter another word, he left.

 

*     *     *     *    *

 

“Tar Palantir, Favourite of the Powers, Protector and guardian of Númenor and its colonies!”, the herald’s voice rung loftily from the doorstep. The Princess Melkyelid and Lord Ithobal looked up in unison from the scroll she was showing him, quickly turning away from the table to sink into a deep bow. Their attendants followed their example, and for a moment the rustle of silks and sound of hurried footsteps broke the pleasant quiet of the room.

Gimilkhâd did not bow. As he watched his brother enter, his expression was one of indifference, briefly crossed by a wince of disgust at how boorishly fast he walked the distance between the doorstep and his ivory table.

“Do mine eyes deceive me, or has the King set foot on my chambers? That is unusual. Oh, stop grovelling.” He shook his head critically at his wife and foster brother. “You know how he detests ceremony, it makes him feel uncomfortable since he was a child.”

Tar Palantir was not there to trade barbs or engage in petty retorts. He had dispensed with that early on in his life, almost as early as he had dispensed with feelings of brotherly affection, leaving very little common ground between the Prince of the South and himself. Unfortunately, now and then it was still necessary to hold a conversation.

“I am here to discuss your son.”

“Our son?” Melkyelid was not bowing anymore. “Is there a problem with him, my lord King?”

“Yes, there is. He keeps flaunting my orders and my decrees and doing things which have been expressly forbidden.”

“Please, have a seat”, Gimlkhâd offered. “What has he done now?”

Palantir rejected the offer with a quelling look.

“I decreed that there would be no more triumphal processions in Númenor, no more collection of spoils, or executions of prisoners. If violence should be needed to protect our people, this does not mean it should be glorified, and the destruction of fellow Men is never a true victory. Now, I have previously given him the benefit of the doubt, as he is often deep inland and communications can be difficult, but I cannot turn a blind eye no longer.” Before either of the parents could open their mouths again, he continued. “There is another fleet in Sor, full of enemy prisoners, weapons, exotic animals and trinkets. Again, he pretends not to have read a single word of what I have decreed and sends me his compliments, plus a cage of talking birds as a personal present for the Princess of the West. As he was sound of mind and did not lack any wits the last time I could check, I must conclude that he is wilfully being insolent.”

Gimilkhâd looked as if he wished to laugh, but even he would not dare go that far.

“That is terrible. It must have been a misunderstanding. Do you think it would it be possible to send them back?”

“This is the third time that he does it. And each time he does, the commotion in Sor reaches Armenelos! A fleet with entire ships full of dangerous tribesmen is not a letter that you can send here and there at your convenience, without anybody being the wiser as to its contents.”

“I have an idea. Maybe you could send them to the Andustar, where former rebels and criminals live a happily reformed life tilling the fields.”

This remark caused Lord Ithobal to let go of a gasp, audible in the silence of the room. Tar Palantir’s eyes narrowed, and his voice became very quiet.

“I see you, Gimilkhâd. I see you, and I see your son, and I know what you both want. And neither of you can afford to become my enemy, so you will write to your son now and you will order him to stop.”

Gimlkhâd had never been able to withstand his glance. However, he had grown more adept at pretending that he was looking at something more interesting elsewhere in the room.

“And in what official capacity will I write this?” he asked.

“In the official capacity of father.”

“That doesn’t carry as much weight nowadays as it used to.” Was he trying to provoke him again? For a moment, Palantir was not sure, as his brother had no ground to stand on in that matter. If Míriel had caused trouble with her marriage, Gimilkhâd had had to suffer Pharazôn to befriend the leader of the Faithful. “If you had raised this matter in the Council session…”

“Out of deference for our ties of kinship, I opted for giving you the chance to solve this issue in private.” And I shall never give you the opportunity to pretend that Pharazôn’s is being unfairly prosecuted for his heroic feats in front of the Council of Númenor. “I expect that you will not waste it.”

“We will not, my lord King.” Melkyelid intervened. She looked like the perfect picture of a concerned mother – and she was, as far as Palantir’s eyes could read, except that there was always something else lurking behind this concern, something he could never quite lay his finger upon. “I will also write to him. As his mother, I have often indulged him too much, and I am afraid this is my fault more than it is the fault of his father.”

Her age was beginning to show, he noticed idly. She no longer was the intimidating mainland beauty who had stood on the prow of her ship in the harbour of Romenna so many years ago, and even the radiance of her golden brow seemed to have dimmed. Once, she may have wished for her son to be his successor, but she had to know that she could not possibly live to see it even if it happened. Unless her appearance was deceiving, and she was also conspiring with her kin, the Merchant Princes of Gadir, to bring the shadow of civil war upon Númenor.

“I will have no more blood spilled on this sacred island. “Tar Palantir made a pause, to wait for the double meaning of his statement to sink in, then continued. “I will send those ships back to Umbar, and he can take the spoils back, too. We are not bandits or scavengers. Tell him that.”

“Maybe I should tell the enemy, too, so they would stop fighting us.” Gimilkhâd smiled brightly, but his eyes were hollow. “And send another letter to Pelargir, where your friend Amandil seems to be getting ready to kick over the proverbial beehive. I am sure that they will be happy to know how civilized we are, and receive him with open arms. That would be such a relief for everybody.”

“It may well be that the barbarians are not as stupid as you believe them to be. “Palantir retorted. “I am confident that Lord Amandil will be able to get to the bottom of the reason why the mainland has suddenly become a beehive, as you say, and take the steps needed to bring back peace. Something your son may not have cared enough to try.”

Gimlkhâd opened his mouth as if he intended to make a retort, but his wife surreptitiously laid a hand on his knee, and he closed it again. Such a pity, Palantir thought. He may very well have goaded his brother into admitting various kinds of treason by now if it wasn’t for her.

Would they be able to afford losing her before they made their move?

Could that possibly force their hand?

As his brother’s courtiers bowed to him across the chambers, galleries and corridors of the South Wing, Tar Palantir wondered for the millionth time what was it in the Princess of the South’s smile that eluded him.