Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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Ancient Ceremonies II

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The first week passed by in a flurry of activities, both private audiences and public ceremonies. Amandil’s agenda was not as full as that of his royal companions, but even he was beset by a large number of requirements from both the high and the low. Some came looking for guidance in matters of worship, as they were trying to organize some semblance of a civic cult around the Valar. Though it was not the first time that he was invited to intervene in religious matters, it still bothered him that anyone could believe he had answers for questions which had been eluding him since he was a child. He settled for his usual standard platitudes, claiming that everything was good if it was done in good faith, and prayed silently that Prince Vorondil would be too busy to interfere in such minor questions.

The logistics involved in installing the new settlers, on the other hand, were complicated and tedious, but he already had plenty of experience in that department, having been at least partly in charge of the Andustar back when the Exiles were struggling to build new lives in the West of the Island. He was also generous with his advice in defensive matters, for he was well aware that, in spite of the King’s efforts to have his project evolve into something new and different from the previous Númenórean strongholds in the mainland, the city was still a colony. He did not know whether the old lore Tar Palantir relied so much upon mentioned the reason why the Pelargir of old had been abandoned in favour of an island in the middle of the Bay, but he was certain that the threat of war had played a role in it. Right now, the new citizens knew nothing but peace and prosperity -bought at a great cost, by civil strife and the slaughter of many Númenórean soldiers on foreign lands- but, if the rumours held at least a part of truth, this state of things could end as abruptly as it had started.

Queen Eärnissë, on her part, seemed to have taken to heart their suggestion that she befriend Valentia, to the point of finding time to meet her in private every day for the last week. Still, Amandil was not sure that she was the right person to wheedle information out of others. Since the first time he had seen her, in that quiet garden of the Palace in Armenelos, she had struck him as a deeply honest person, someone whose emotions were written clearly over her face. If she was happy, she laughed; if she was concerned, she frowned, and if she was angry, she did not hide the cause of her displeasure, or shied away from confronting the guilty party. She hid nothing, not even the haunting look of unhappiness which had been in her eyes during their journey here, he thought, remembering how she had leaned on the railing to gaze at the horizon at nightfall, and the words she had confided to him, on those unguarded moments before their arrival.

His presumptuous attempts at comfort.

Ashamed at the memories, he forced himself to discard them, and focused on the scene right above him. On the terrace, right behind the intricate panels of painted latticework, he could distinguish the tall shape of the Queen and the shorter one of her guest. They seemed to be deep in conversation, but not even Eärnissë’s louder tones could reach him from that distance. Now and then, the murmur of their words was punctuated by a crystalline titter, which he recognized as Valentia’s laughter, as delicately false as any in the court of Armenelos.

As he stood there, he saw the shapes retreat from his sight, and shortly afterwards one of them -the Queen- came back alone. The sounds of conversation did not reach his ears anymore, so he assumed that Valentia must have departed. Then, Eärnissë disappeared as well, and the terrace was empty once more.

For a moment, he pondered his next move. He had a meeting with the wall builders at midday, and he had been heading for his rooms to change his clothes, but strictly speaking that was not an essential requirement. Whatever Prince Vorondil might believe, these people were not likely to censure him for coming before them in the same clothes with which he had been down at the harbour previously.

Instead of that, he could use his spare time to visit, and ask her if any progress had been made.

His decision already made, Amandil entered the building. A throng of aides, courtiers and secretaries had already gathered in the inner courtyard, but he walked past them, reassuring them that he would be on time. As he climbed the stairs in the direction of the Queen’s chambers, he found no one at first - Valentia must have already taken her sizeable escort with her-, but when he passed the first room, he saw one of the Númenórean ladies standing before a closed door.

“Greetings, Lord Amandil. Is there anything that you require?” she asked.

“I am here to see the Queen”, he replied. She shook her head.

“She cannot see you now”, she said, politely but firmly. “I am sorry, but you will have to wait.”

Amandil pondered briefly whether it would be any use to tell her that he was in a hurry. Deciding against it, he took a seat, considering the closed door with a curious frown. After a while, as the lady left him alone and her footsteps died somewhere in the adjacent piece, he thought he could hear the silence broken by the sound of a voice. He tried to decipher it, but the wooden door was too well wrought. All he could gather from his efforts was that it belonged to the Queen, and that she spoke in a terse manner, sometimes evolving into anger, but he did not know which words were spoken, or to whom. Perhaps Vorondil was here, though he was supposed to be overseeing the preparations for tonight’s grand ceremony -the lighting of the city hearth with fire brought from Númenor, which would in turn be used to light the hearths of all the particular homes-, but Amandil could not distinguish his voice.

Finally, just as he was thinking of leaving for his appointment, the door opened. Amandil expected to be blinded by the light, for the sun shone through the windows of that airy chamber at that time of day, but to his surprise there was only darkness inside, and the Queen had to blink to grow used to the incoming radiance. When she saw him standing there, she seemed to not recognize him at first, and stood staring at him in what seemed like an eternity of time.

“It is me, my Queen”, he broke the silence before it could become uncomfortable. She nodded, and as she did so, her strange mood seemed to vanish.

“I see. And why are you here, Lord Amandil? I hope it is not as a bringer of bad news.”

“There is no such thing as bad news in Pelargir.” Amandil smiled, as the lady passed them by in silence and entered the Queen’s chambers. From the noises that she made, Amandil gathered that she was opening the windows. “There is only community, prosperity, and peace.”

“Yes, Valentia was just telling me that” Earnissë grinned wryly. “That this city is like a dream city. That the Arnians were in awe of it, and believed it to be a paradise built by the gods.”

“I suppose they mean the Elves. Even the Arnians should be aware that we are as far from godhood ourselves as anyone could be.”

“No, we merely descend from the gods.” Eärnissë gestured him to follow her. “In the seventh generation, to be precise. I have no idea where those calculations came from.”

“They also believe that a queen of Arne slept with a prince of Númenor long ago, and that the royal family was descended from him. I assume it was a Merchant Prince.”

“Or perhaps the elder son of Ar Adunakhôr. There were rumours about him which would fit in this story, but I do not believe he ever came this far North. Not to mention that most of those rumours were probably never true, except in his father’s imagination.”

“If anyone from the line of Elros had been among the ancestors of this people, they would live much longer lives, and their descent would be obvious to all.” Amandil sat in a chair before the Queen; as he did so, his eyes fell upon a bundle that lay upon the ivory table, gathered in the folds of a heavy purple cloth. Distracted from the conversation, he could not prevent himself from staring at it.

Eärnissë had obviously noticed, but she chose not to comment.

“Indeed, you are right, but they are a proud people, with proud beliefs. But tell me, Lord Amandil, why are you here then, if not to bring me news?”

He had to struggle to take his eyes away from that spot and recover the thread of his thoughts. For the interval that it took for him to do all this, she merely gazed at him in silence.

“I could not help but notice, as I passed by, that the Lady Valentia was here with you. And I have to confess, my Queen, that my curiosity finally had the better of me.”

“I see”. Eärnissë did not smile. “You wish to know if I have any new information concerning those… rumours.”

“Yes.”

“In that case, you must be glad to know that they are proving to be quite baseless. She is here merely as the surrogate mother of the King, who rules from his seat of Arne even as we speak. He is happily married to his cousin, who has recently borne him a daughter.”

Once again, Amandil had some difficulty repressing his memories of Noxaris.

“Is there any proof of this, beyond her own words and those of her servants?”

Her voice suddenly grew so cold that Amandil could almost believe that the temperature in the room had dropped with it.

“Is there any proof to the contrary, beyond the words of the Prince of the South, his son, and their friends?”

He had not expected to provoke such a strong reaction, in a lady who had never shown him any sign of hostility in the past, so he had to weigh his words very carefully before he spoke next.

“I did not mean to offend, my Queen. I am aware that rumours are not a firm basis for judgement, but I am also acquainted with the Arnian people, and I know that their capabilities for deceit are great. Both her brothers were infamous traitors….”

“… and they died for it. Would you imagine someone as cautious as the Lady Valentia wishing to follow their example in any way, when she enjoys power, honour, safety and riches in her current position?”

Perhaps she was right. Perhaps he was being unfair because of his past experiences -or even unduly trusting of the source of such rumours. Pharazôn was his friend, yes, but Pharazôn was also ambitious, and the most cherished of his ambitions was to attack Mordor, something which he believed he should have been allowed to attempt in the past. Taking over Arne, the kingdom that lay at the very gates of the dark lands, would serve his purpose admirably, while the continued existence of its royal bloodline was nothing but an obstacle and an unnecessary risk. He could almost imagine Pharazôn laying this before him in such a reasonable manner that Amandil would be forced to agree with it. But then, what would happen if Pharazôn actually conquered Arne and attacked Mordor? If he lost, it could be a catastrophe of the greatest proportions for Númenor… while, if he won…

Suddenly, he became aware that his curiosity had been misplaced since the beginning. He should not have been eager for information on the Queen’s conversations with Valentia, but rather of the Queen’s conversations in the dark room, behind closed doors. And this was, of course, out of the question.

He would have to keep his thoughts to himself.

“Forgive me, my Queen. I have intruded unduly upon matters which do not fall under my responsibility”, he apologized, automatically searching in his mind for words which Elendil would have uttered in a similar situation. His son was a much better model than Pharazôn right now, given the circumstances.  “And I did not mean to doubt your abilities as a judge of character. Common wisdom dictates that our past mistakes should humble us, while mine appear to have made me prouder.”

Eärnissë was gracious.

“Say no more, Lord Amandil. We all make mistakes, and most of us do not even admit them. If someone other than you had been in charge of that expedition, they would have refused to see any blame in their own actions, and many would agree with them. I have always found this an admirable trait of yours, and the King does, too.”

“It is admirable, as long as it does not get out of hand.” At long last, he could see a smile break in her features, and he sighed in relief. Standing on his feet, he eyed the way back to the waiting chamber with a small show of apprehension. “And I am grieved to confess that I cannot find any further excuses to avoid my duties.”

“Then go, and perform them to the best of your abilities. We will meet at dusk for the ceremony.”

Amandil bowed, and took his leave.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

The ceremony was as haunting and impressive as Inziladûn had imagined, back when he had consulted his old scrolls in the Palace of Armenelos and tried to picture it in his mind. Keeping the fire going for such a long journey had not proved an easy task, but the results had compensated for the hardships. Zarhil was sure that he would be very satisfied with her account, perhaps also a little regretful that he was not able to see with his own eyes how a thousand torches marched across the city, each of them holding a tiny spark of the Island to be kindled into a thousand hearths full of hope for the future. See, it was worth it, he would say. The wars, the deaths, the troubles in the Council and in our own family. It was all worth it, and more.

Zarhil watched in stony silence as men and women drank, danced and celebrated in the large square below. The noise, she knew, would not allow her to sleep tonight. In her youth, she had not been very fond of those pursuits, but she still would have joined them, and probably drunk herself to a stupor to get rid of her embarrassment. A Queen of Númenor, however, could not even do this much, so she had withdrawn as soon as the ceremony was over.

Yes, perhaps it had been worth it, she thought. With all those troubles assailing the Island at every turn since Inziladûn inherited the Sceptre, it was more necessary than ever to have a victory, not in war, but a moral victory, which could prove that the King’s efforts were not doomed to failure, and that he was following the right path. If that victory had to be far away, in the mainland, or if it had to be achieved at a great cost, so be it; they could not afford to be deterred by such minor considerations. And if this cost had not yet been paid in full…

Zarhil bristled, her warm hands twisting around the cold lattice. She had not been born for this. He had, and for all that he claimed to be beset by inner turmoil, he had no difficulty whatsoever in silencing it whenever it was time to make a decision he believed to be necessary for his plans. Because he was certain that he was right, and the rest of the mortals could do nothing but trust in his infallible judgement. His visions, which came to him in his dreams, showed him the path they all had to tread in his wake. Their daughter could be overwhelmed by her gift of foresight, she could be unable to lead a normal life, but not him, never him: he was a master of prophecy, and not the other way around; he alone knew how to prevent things and how to have them come to pass. Back when he had been younger, and true uncertainty still had the power to devour him, she remembered feeling sympathy, and trying to help him in any way that she could. But that Inziladûn had left long ago, his place taken by Palantir; and Palantir no longer had any use for such petty emotions.

No use for uncertainty, no use for sympathy… no use for love even, for had he ever truly loved? He might have loved his mother once, before she died when he was still in his early years, or that young woman who had been ripped from him by their marriage, but Zarhil wondered if he was even able to remember their faces anymore. All the others were just tools for his purposes, be they family or friends, and his own daughter he saw as an enemy. Sometimes, it was frightening to realize how utterly alone he stood, even though he was surrounded by people all day long.

That was the worst of all, she thought. Even after everything, even now, she still felt sympathy for him. And she was still helping him.

“My lady”, a voice spoke behind her back. “You wished to see me.”

“Yes”. Slowly, she turned away from the sight under the balcony. Valentia stood a mere step away from the threshold, far enough to be seen but not close enough to seem intrusive. The light of the full moon fell upon her features, freed from the curious transparent veil which she was always careful to wear in public. Somehow, it made her appear younger than she had under other kinds of light. “Have a seat, please.”

The sound of heavy robes dragged through the floor silenced the sound of her footsteps, causing an eerie impression which Zarhil had not yet managed to grow used to. She approached the small table, carrying a second chair to sit in front of the barbarian woman.

“It sounds like they are having fun down there”, Valentia remarked, with a ghost of a smile. “Carrying fire seems to have kindled their spirits.”

“I think it was mostly the drink”, she replied, her shoulders contorting in an almost imperceptible shrug.

“Back in Arne, we would be having a separate party inside the Palace.”

“Oh, but we are a little too old to party, don’t you think?” Zarhil said, perhaps rather indelicately. As she was planning to be far more indelicate that night, however, she did not think much of it. “There are things which should be left to the younger generations, such as revelling drunkenly, or scheming to hold on to power at any cost.”

To her credit, Valentia merely blinked at this.

“I see that the Queen of Númenor has been listening to rumours.”

There were people who enjoyed this game, but Zarhil was already bored before it had started. She had no more time to waste with this affair.

“Once, we were not vigilant, and we paid a heavy price for it. Did you think that the Númenórean Sceptre would commit the same mistake twice? No, Queen Valentia. Not even you would have been so careless. You would also have sent spies and gathered information about the most secret moves of your allies.” Now, she had her undivided attention. “King Phaleris is a prisoner in his own palace, is he not? You rule through your daughter, as rumour has it, and as soon as the children you are forcing them to have are grown enough, you will try to rule through them, too.”

For a moment, she thought that Valentia was going to deny everything. Apparently, however, she had underestimated her mettle once more. Amandil was right; it was easy to underestimate these people, and perhaps that was their greatest asset.

“With all my respects, Queen Eärnissë, my husband was a traitor. He died for it, quite rightfully, as did my other brother and his grown children. However, once that the price had been paid for all our sins, there was still a realm, a shaken, impoverished, half-destroyed realm to be ruled.” She laid both her palms on the table before her, as if she was inspecting her fingernails for possible imperfections while she spoke. “And there was no ruler. First, we had two Númenórean governors who knew little about us and cared less still. And then, we had a Númenórean king whose ignorance and disregard for our ways was enough to make his predecessors seem enlightened.”

“He is an Arnian. The rightful Arnian king, my lady.”

“Not anymore!” The normally even voice was slightly raised, evidencing a passion that was not feigned for once. “He was raised in the ways of Númenor, and felt nothing but contempt for his own people. Something had to be done, and I did it.”

“Something like committing treason against the Sceptre for the second time, you mean?”

“He is the king of Arne! He lives in the Palace and is married to my daughter. He hasn’t been harmed.”

“Yet”, Zarhil retorted. Valentia opened her mouth again, but she was faster. “And what about the lord of Mordor? Did he pledge to protect you, like he did to your husband?”

Valentia’s reaction to this was as heated as it was immediate.

“I swear by all the Baalim and Eru their father that I have not been in contact with Mordor!” Her gaze sought hers vividly, in a way that was almost desperate. “You have to believe me.”

Their capabilities for deceit are great.

But he was greater than them, wasn’t he?

“The King believes you.” For a moment, she saw a brief spell of relief cross the barbarian woman’s eyes, but it was short-lived, as they immediately grew alert again in anticipation of her next words. “For you must remember the disastrous consequences of the last time you were in communication with him. The Prince Pharazôn defeated both his army and yours. He killed your husband and most of your family, and though you have grown old in the meantime, he has not aged a day. If you give him the opportunity, he will be only too glad to finish what he started, destroy the rest of you and claim Arne for himself as a stepstone to conquer Mordor.”

Valentia swallowed deeply. Under the moonlight, her face looked ashen, but composed.

“I remember”, she whispered. Zarhil frowned at her.

“That is why you must not give him that opportunity.”

It was almost unbearable to see how her opponent’s countenance changed, from defensiveness to disbelief, and then hope. Silently, she cursed herself, Pharazôn, and above all, Inziladûn.

“The King does not want the Prince Pharazôn in Arne” she said, barely managing to keep the self-disgust at bay. “He needs Arne to stand by itself, loyal but strong. If King Phaleris causes it to fall apart with his misrule, or if some evil befalls him and words of your treason spread, the outcome would be the same in both cases. The Prince Pharazôn would be the one to benefit from the situation.”

“And the King does not want him to… benefit from the situation” Valentia finished for her. Her voice now flowed much more easily than it did before, and it almost seemed to Zarhil that she could detect a gleam of triumph in her eyes.

“Obviously not.” How appalled would Lord Amandil be, if he was listening to this conversation? What ruckus would Prince Vorondil be raising at this outrageous decision? And her nephew, Hiram, who had raised the boy himself… but no, she could not afford to be sidetracked by any of those thoughts. “You must keep Arne together, Queen Valentia. And above all, you cannot draw Númenor’s attention to what is happening there. This means, no scandals, no untoward alliances, and above all, no deaths. The King is not the only one to have spies in Arne. If something, anything happens to your nephew, Pharazôn will know as well as us. And then the King will claim that he knew nothing of this, and there will be war, and you will not survive it this time. Do you understand?”

What a stupid question, the thought came to her mind. It was something between a threat and a plea; in short, anything but what it pretended to be. The speech used in both Court and Council was full of such subterfuges and double meanings, but she had never belonged there.

She belonged in the Sea.

“I understand, Queen Eärnissë, my lady. And I thank you for your sincerity.”

If she had her sincerity, Zarhil thought, and had it truly, instead of this travesty of a frank conversation, she would not appreciate it so much.

“You may go now. I wish to have some rest.”

Before, Valentia would have lingered, looking for some parting remark which Zarhil could find both witty and enjoyable. But back then, she had been trying to win her favour, while now she was basking in the knowledge that she had acquired something much better. Favour was given or taken on a whim, but an admission of mutual need was not so easily reclaimed.

That night, for the third time in that week, Zarhil dreamed of a great storm. At first, she was scared of it, for she could feel the hull of her ship stir, as if about to break under her feet, but a fierce exhilaration won in the end, and she unfurled the sails to ride it towards freedom.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Usually, Tar Palantir crossed the threshold of the Council chamber before the announcements had been finished, a sign of impatience which his enemies derided as undignified and unbecoming a King of Númenor. Today, however, he was even faster than usual, almost as if he was some kind of beast on a rampage, charging blindly against all that stood in its way. As he reached his seat, he barely paused for a moment, before continuing on his path until he was standing before the High Priest of Melkor. Murmurations broke around them, like a distant, threatening noise heralding the arrival of a great storm.

Yehimelkor looked up from his seat, fixing his grey eyes on his. As usual, there was no fear to be found in them, though many others would have been quivering by this point. Such behaviour, once that it was displayed by the King, could not be taken back: it had to claim a victim, or else the majesty of the Sceptre would dissolve like a morning fog. From his vantage point in the back, Elendil blinked, hoping that Tar Palantir had calculated well what was bound to happen from that moment onwards.

“Lord Yehimelkor, you have disobeyed a direct order from the Sceptre, how dare you walk into the Council of Númenor and sit among us? The only reason why you have not been arrested at the gates of the Palace is that I wished to hear what you had to say for yourself.”

As usual, Yehimelkor did not need an interpreter to translate for him; not even as a subterfuge to gain time.

“You are quite right, my lord King. I should not be here. And yet, I have come, because it is necessary for a Council member to resign in person before the King and his peers -a praiseworthy attempt, no doubt, of your royal ancestors to ensure that all such resignations were the outcome of free will, not coercion.”

Elendil had certainly not expected that answer, and neither had the King, though he was the only one in the whole room who managed to hide his surprise with some degree of success. The whispers rose to a higher intensity, to the point that the speaker had to call them to order.

“Are you resigning from this Council?”

Since the time of Ar Adunakhôr, no High Priest of Melkor had ever left the Council, whether of his free will or not. It was completely unprecedented in history, at least as unprecedented as it was to see High Priest Yehimelkor retreat willingly from any battlefield where he had ever stood.

Surely, he had to know that the only tenuous link between the Temple and political power was this Council seat, didn´t he? Elendil wondered. He had already lost his favour and his wealth, could he afford to surrender this, too? Had he finally cracked, and decided that nothing, not even the interests of the god which he had so fiercely defended, was worth his life after all?

He was not the only one who was pondering these questions. As Yehimelkor stood up and spoke, everybody fell silent at once, as if afraid to miss even a single one of his words.

“In the time of your forefather, the Lord of the West, the High Priest of Melkor became part of this council in order to advise the King with the wisdom imparted on him by his communion with the King of Armenelos. For generations, my predecessors and I have fulfilled our duty to the best of our ability. Now, for the first time, it has become impossible to do so. For the King of Armenelos is your enemy, and you will not pay heed to any of those who worship him.” His voice was loud and clear, and Elendil could not help but notice that some of the Council members, those who remained loyal to their old ways, were growing uncomfortable at his words. “There are two choices left to me: one, to renounce my duty but remain here, measure my words to avoid offence, and use my seat to support my own advancement and earthly ambitions. The other is to walk away, and use whatever wisdom I still possess to help my people, instead of having my words continue to fall on deaf ears.”

Now, that bastard did not only have courage, he was also a consummate player. Elendil had to hand it to him, and as he stole a passing glance at the King’s face, he thought that Tar Palantir would have to do so as well. According to the priest’s teachings, a man had to be ready to let go of everything to do the God’s will; only then he would triumph in his endeavours. So far, they had been focusing on whether he would be able to let go of his own life, but sacrificing himself in that way would have been too crude and, in a sense, cowardly. Surrendering his political power, however, would cast him in a similar light, as an innocent victim of tyranny, while at the same time it left him alive and free to act away from the King’s grasp. The risk of crumbling into irrelevancy, once that he let go of his foothold on the Court, would have scared lesser men, but not him: deep inside, he must know that it was not necessary.

Meanwhile, Tar Palantir’s frown was the only evidence of his furious thinking. If he had been in his position, Elendil would have considered denying the request, as this would negate his enemy’s move, but it was not that simple. Back when this confrontation had started, it had become clear that one of them would have to surrender in the end, and Palantir was aware of that. If he refused to accept Yehimelkor’s resignation, he could hardly arrest him or call for the appointment of a new High Priest in the same breath. And if at the end of this session no one had budged an inch from their position, it would be the Sceptre’s defeat. Yehimelkor had proposed a solution to this conflict: his strategy consisted on making sure that it was the only solution.

Perhaps the King would find a way to turn this to his advantage, he thought. If he could sell this as a surrender… Since the first time he had stepped inside this chamber, Elendil had learned many things, and one of the most important had been that anything that happened behind closed doors could be twisted into an infinity of possibilities. Whoever managed to spread his version faster would be the winner of the confrontation, no matter what had actually happened. Tar Palantir still had a very good chance of turning this resignation into a mark of his success in intimidating his enemy, and if he did so, Yehimelkor’s uncompromising stance would be -well, compromised.

And Eluzîni would roll her eyes at his eloquence.

“Very well”. Whether Palantir had been thinking along these same lines, or he had chosen to use this interval to think of more elaborate and profitable plans, Elendil would not know, at least until he was called to another meeting. “Your resignation is accepted, Lord Yehimelkor. You may depart now, but bear in mind that no one from the Temple will fill this chair that you have now left vacant, and that you have forfeited the right to claim it in the name of your god and all his servants.”

“I will bear it in mind, my lord King.” After the silent tension of the previous minutes, the murmurations were beginning to rise in intensity again.

“And bear in mind this, too: if you ever speak treasonous words against the Sceptre again, this will be the least of the evils that will befall you and your people.”

Perhaps he had been thinking along the same lines as him, after all.

Now, if only his deduction skills would go as far as to allow him to guess what the outcome of all this could be, he would count them as a true advantage. But as the High Priest of Melkor crossed the threshold of the Council Chamber for the last time, followed by a mixed trail of shock, admiration, and hatred, Elendil realised that, unless he chanced to discover the gift of foresight late in his life, there was no human way of telling what would happen next.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Palantir had never been able to prevent himself from pacing around a room whenever he was worried or excited. It was a terrible habit which had shocked courtiers and enraged his father, who believed that the most important quality a King could ever have was looking the part. Since his youth, however, he had learned to keep his more controversial habits hidden from the eyes of outsiders, in the privacy of his quarters.

It had been hard to restrain himself until the Council session had finally dragged towards its end. He had been tempted to end it himself many times, but he had soldiered on, aware that all the eyes were on him, scrutinizing his demeanour with an even greater intensity than usual. Today, his greatest enemy had left the Council chamber, never to return. He had offered his resignation, and Palantir had taken it, and with it, the last remaining ties between the Palace and the Temple of Melkor. At long last, he had freed himself from the shadow of the god, from the shadow of his father, and from the shadows that had followed him since he emerged from under the roots of the Meneltarma.

Yehimelkor had done this for a reason, he knew, a reason which was ironically similar to his own: to free himself from the shadow of the Palace, and be able to stand his ground as High Priest. But no matter what bitter fights awaited him, what ordeals and intrigues, his dominant mood now was one of exultant relief.

Today, he thought, not only Pelargir, but the whole of Númenor has been reborn. And one day, not too far away, all the shadows which had covered Island and mainland for so long would finally dissipate into nothingness.

It will be worth it, Eärnissë, he mused, remembering the bitterness of their last conversation, where the intensity of her anger had exuded like a scorching heat from the black surface of the Seeing Stone. And you will be there to see it.

“She will still be angry at you” a voice spoke behind him. Palantir had given instructions not to be disturbed, and she of all people had never felt the need to come looking for him, so he could not help but freeze in his tracks, gazing at her in open shock.

“What are you doing here, Míriel?” he asked. All of a sudden, his hopeful mood seemed to have vanished, chased away by her dark gaze.

She shrugged.

“She will still be angry at you” she repeated. From their limited interaction, and mostly from what he heard from Eärnissë and Vorondil, he had been led to believe that she had stopped using her powers openly to frighten people, choosing instead to hide them and mingle with her peers. But it appeared that this courtesy did not extend to him.

“That is none of your concern”, he replied, in turn doing nothing to hide his irritation at her presence. Once upon a time, she would have been angry enough to disconnect from the conversation, and hopefully leave.

“I should have been the one to go. I am the Princess of the West. But that appointment is a joke to you, isn’t it?”

“No, Míriel. It is a joke to you” he hissed, with more vehemence than he had intended. Apparently, the bitterness had festered with the years. “You married a puppet husband whom you could manipulate, you have not given him any heirs, and you haven’t even had the grace to appear interested in learning how to rule yourself. All you have ever done is thwart my efforts to build something durable, as if you derived an evil joy from it. You cannot blame me for not trusting you.”

For a moment, it seemed as if she would finally explode, as her forehead began to curve in an ominous frown. After he finished speaking, however, the mood dissipated, and she broke into a strange fit of laughter.

“Oh, I do not mind. I know that, in time, you will have to trust me. For whether you want it or not, one day you will die, and then you will leave the Sceptre and the future of the Island in my hands. And if you have not found your trust in me by then, Father, it will be a very sad death.”

And then, with the fell echo of those words still reverberating in the emptiness of the room, she bowed to him and left.