Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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The War of Forostar

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Amandil reined in his horse, his glance closely surveying the cliffside under their feet, then the expanse of bare rock that seemed to stretch for miles with no end in sight. They had reached a considerable height after climbing many turns of the long and winding path, but still not enough as to be able to see the city and harbour of Sorontil, ensconced somewhere East of this impenetrable mass. Once they reached the Tower, he had been told, it would be visible from there, and also the Sea beyond it. Then, he would be able to catch a glimpse of both fleets, hopefully in a stand-off, as the hostilities had not been yet officially declared, but he knew how tiny the spark needed to ignite the devouring fires of war was.

A war which he had hoped never to see in the Island of his birth, he thought bitterly, even to the point of bearing with the worst offenses and insults by the High Priest of the Forbidden Bay in the not so distant past. His years on the mainland had taught him that armed conflicts destroyed resources and lives, affecting the guilty and the innocent, and that they should never be brought to his homeland, no matter the cost. Apparently, however, the lessons that Pharazôn had taken with him to Númenor had been very different. In an Island which had been at peace for four hundred years, he had become a wolf among sheep, and this gave him the right to take what he wanted, even the Queen’s hand and the Sceptre of Armenelos.

Poor Tar Palantir. In the end, all his efforts had come to nothing. His own daughter had betrayed him, and his wife had found herself with her hands tied by the strongest chains to be ever devised under Heaven: those binding a mother to her daughter’s happiness. And, at least, the Queen had this excuse to absolve her, but what could he say for himself? For there he was, too, going against his King’s will, betraying his once allies and ensuring that Melkor would reign over Númenor for the years to come.

But no, he thought, berating himself for the umpteenth time for the dangerous penchant of his musings. As tempting as it was to lose oneself in guilt for his own actions and anger at Pharazôn’s, he had chosen this path freely, and if he did not stand by his own choices he would be nothing but a despicable coward. The Princess of the West had married her cousin in secret but willingly, and the only way to prevent Pharazôn from ruling Númenor was to either kill him and force the Princess to marry someone else, or topple the royal line entirely and put a descendant of another noble house in the throne, both actions which would be more divisive and worthier of censure than those of the so-called usurper had been. Cousin marriage might be a sin, and their union a disrespect of the late King’s will, but such considerations would not bother many people for long, not if they could have a proper King who looked the part, worshipped the proper gods, and brought Númenor back to its former splendour through his dashing victories. And they certainly would never be considered a cause for war in the Island, except in the minds of the greatest religious fanatics. Ever since he saw the Prince and the Princess standing proudly before the Council, holding hands, he had already known in his heart that all was lost, and what was left was merely the chance to bargain. If only Lord Hiram had not been blinded by his grief and rage, he would have seen this too.

Now, because of this presence of mind, he had been given a chance to set things right, at least. This conflict could still be solved peacefully, if he managed to convince Hiram of the necessity of surrender. Hyarnustar had already been brought into the fold in a matter of days, those that took Iqbal to piss his pants when he realized that not only Pharazôn’s Umbarian troops were already less than a day’s march from him, but the High Priest of the Forbidden Bay, unwilling to be signalled as an enemy of the Sceptre after his hated neighbour had struck a deal with him, had allowed the army from Andúnië to cross his territories into the Southwest. The shortest lordship of Hyarnustar’s history had thus ended in unconditional surrender, and the hapless young man was now being held in the Palace, where he had been forced to acknowledge Lalwendë’s birth father as rightful lord. Another blow to the rebellion had been the usually prudent lord of Orrostar’s declaration of loyalty “to the Sceptre” -Amandil, who knew the man, was certain that the omission of the name of the person who held it had been deliberate, and yet this meant that he would never rise in support of anyone who fought whoever was holding it-, which, joined to the Governor of Sor’s known sympathies for the Prince of the South’s party, had effectively secured the East of the island for the cause of the new monarch. Now, the North alone remained outside Pharazôn’s control, but not for long. A coordinated strike from land and sea was just waiting to be launched, held back only by the possibility that Amandil would succeed in his endeavour. Or waiting for him to fail, he thought grimly, unable to forget the mocking look in Pharazôn’s eyes as they planned this.

“He is insane and has already refused to receive my messengers once. Words will not sway him, not even yours.”

“Then, why do you send me? If he is as insane as you claim, he will not descend to trading words with me in neutral territory; he will remain in his stronghold, preparing for war.”

Pharazôn shook his head.

“Oh, but he will be there. The temptation to revile you for your betrayal and try to convince you to return to the fold of righteousness will be too great to resist.”

Amandil had been unable to let this go. He was growing so angry at the perpetual smirk in Pharazôn’s face that sometimes he needed to withstand the urge to punch it away.

“And what if he succeeds? What if my fleet and my men suddenly turn against you and you have to flee for your life?”

Pharazôn did not even bat an eye.

“Try to be back before nightfall, those mountain passes are said to be treacherous in the dark.”

He knew very well why he had been allowed to go: because Pharazôn wanted to prove to him and the others that he was civilized enough to follow all the ancient conventions of warfare. And because he was such an overconfident bastard that he would even take the leader of the Faithful’s support for granted.

But then, who was he trying to deceive? He would never turn against Pharazôn now. He did not know if Lord Hiram was lost enough in the path of rightful hatred as to remember his son and worry for his fate, but for Amandil, it was more than a son what was at stake: his whole family, his people, all the Faithful in the Island would face a hostile future entirely defenceless, if he went back on his word. Pharazôn knew this, and that was why he was confident enough as to see him off to meet his former ally. And that was why Amandil would neither betray him -nor forgive him.

“They are already here”, a voice close by jolted him off from those bitter considerations. Blinking the haze away from his eyes, and cursing at the frozen wind, he looked ahead, to the place where the venerable ruins of the Tower of Meneldur stood tall atop a rocky peak. At its foot, armed men were following their progression with wary stances, as if unsure of whether to welcome them or fire on them. In their midst, growing more distinct as they came closer and closer, the silhouette of Lord of Sorontil himself stood proud and silent, his eyes set on him like burning coals.

As soon as they were within hearing distance, Amandil dismounted, and advanced several steps towards him. His men followed his example but stayed behind, grumbling about the wind which had grown into a raging gale, now that they stood at the summit of the mountain ridge.

“Lord Hiram”, he greeted, with a formal bow. The other man, however, did not seem to be in the mood for even the most basic of courtesies.

“Well met, traitor.”

“You may be right, my lord, insofar as it is impossible to choose sides in this conflict without betraying someone.” Amandil replied calmly, refusing to take the bait. “And yet, of both of us, I would say that you are the greater traitor. For you caused this war, by rebelling against your rightful Queen, and even now you seem determined to doom your house and your people for the sake of this cause.”

“Rebelling against my rightful Queen?” Hiram laughed, such a rare occurrence in the usually serious man that Amandil could not help but be reminded of Pharazôn’s dismissive words about his sanity. “I am protecting her! She has been taken against her will by an incestuous, traitorous usurper, who killed her father and hid his corpse for days while he prepared for his strike!”

There was probably some truth in this, Amandil had to admit. A spy had informed the lord of Sorontil of Tar Palantir’s death before it was officially declared in the Council room, and Amandil was sure that Pharazôn had spent every minute of this delay plotting and gathering allies within the Palace. And yet, he had sworn an oath that he had not killed Tar Palantir, and the Princess had certainly not been taken against her will. That much he believed from the man he used to call his friend.

“The King died of natural causes. He was old, his hour had come, and there is no reason to blame the Prince of the South. As for the Princess, she married him of her own free will.”

“That marriage is no marriage in the eyes of Heaven!”

Just like a bastard was not a son in the eyes of Heaven, until Ar Adunakhôr seized the Sceptre by the strength of arms, you fool, Amandil thought, frustrated. Why were they so short sighted, so unwilling to learn from their own history?

Because this history was nothing to them but a distant memory. Its pages had not been written with their own blood and their tears, he answered himself, almost as soon as he had the thought. Because a deep understanding of the consequences of failure had not been passed as a bitter inheritance, from fathers to sons, through the centuries.

Amandil had known, only too well, what it was to be in the losing side since he was a child. Hiram had not, and the fact that he seemed determined to learn it infuriated him.

“Do not be a fool. I beg it of you as a friend and a kinsman, which is why I have come all the way here to speak to you. The Prince of the South will prevail, and he will be accepted as King by the lords, the Council, and the people. Your rebellion will be in vain, for no matter how hard you fight, or how long you hold out with your men, you are not strong enough to topple him. And, even if somehow you could do it by some miracle from Heaven, what then? Who would hold the Sceptre? You? A grieving Queen whose husband you just killed?”

Hiram listened to him in grave silence, though his eyes were empty of understanding, even worse, of recognition.

“A miracle from Heaven”, he repeated, as if this was the only part of his speech worth remembering. “Perhaps those are not so rare as you believe them to be, with your mind clouded by the lies of the false religion. The King thought that your past as priest of the evil gods had been nothing but a deception to save your life, but it is obvious that there is no way back after you have sacrificed to them even once.”

Then what about Tar Palantir himself? What about your father, Lord Zakarbal? Amandil thought, almost unable to hold his ire. Were any of them threatened with death while they were still children, if they did not sacrifice? They did it of their own free will, and if there was no way back after that, why do you persist in this charade?

But he was here as a diplomat, and as such, he had to measure his words while there was still a glimmer of hope, as faint as it might look at the present moment.

“Please, Lord Hiram, be reasonable. We can still settle this peacefully. If you surrender, you will be allowed to live, like Lord Iqbal was, and your people will be spared the hardships of war and defeat.”

“Never! If I do so, neither the Queen nor my birth brother, Prince Vorondil, or my birth father, the Former Lord of Hyarnustar, will ever forgive me for my cowardice!”

“And what about your son? Will he ever forgive you if you are the cause of his death? And your wife, will she forgive you for it?”

Hiram stared at him, livid, and Amandil felt himself beginning to lose hope. He was unhinged. It was impossible to reason with him, and, once again, Pharazôn was the one who had been aware of the truth all along. Which should mean…

His heart froze, just as he realized what this meant.

“I will never allow myself to be blackmailed by the likes of that usurper. I leave that to cowards like you!”

“You are mad, Lord Hiram”, he hissed, unable to restrain himself any longer. “You are raving mad, bent upon the path of your own destruction, and you will take your family and your men with you!”

The man’s features bolted shut, hiding even the deranged glint in his eye that had given his madness away to Amandil. All of a sudden, it was as if there was nothing in there anymore, neither rage nor hope; nothing but a cold determination.

“This conversation is over, Lord Amandil. Leave now, or I will order my men to shoot their arrows at yours. Go back to your master, if it is your wish to die, or to Andúnië, if you prefer to live and see your loved ones again. Whatever you choose, I care not.”

As he nodded curtly, returned to his own men, and undertook together with them the laborious descent down the mountain, Amandil could not prevent his restless mind from becoming clouded by a dark premonition.

 

*      *      *      *      *

 

The premonition became an increasingly terrible certainty as someone signalled for them to stop at the edge of the cliffside that hung over the rocky valley underneath. There, an army was marching at a quick pace in the direction of the encampment where they had left Pharazôn and his men that very morning. Though each of the soldiers was nothing but a shining dot to their eyes due to the distance, there was no doubt of which army it was.

“Lord Hiram has broken the truce!” one of the men cried, outraged. Amandil nodded, grimly. They must have been on the move since at least a day or two ago, to have made it this far.

“That slippery bastard! I would wager my soul that he has joined them himself through some damn mountain shortcut of those only the natives know” someone else was saying next to him. “We have been fooled!”

We, perhaps, Amandil thought, but not him. He had known all along.

“Let us hurry back to the encampment, then. Perhaps we can still reach them in time.”

They would not, but that did not concern him much. If his suspicions were correct, he would not want to be there for anything in the world. If Eru was truly listening to the prayers of insolent men who bothered Him with their personal troubles, there was only one thing he would ask: that it would be over soon.

 

*      *      *      *      *

 

The Lord of Sorontil’s army had fallen on what he believed to be an unsuspecting enemy encampment, only to find it empty. As his men sought the tents for a sign of life under the howling winds, they had discovered only one thing: Valacar’s corpse, grotesquely lying on the ground next to his severed head. When Lord Hiram’s eyes fell upon this sight, something cracked inside him, and the strength of his resolve abandoned him, leaving only the scattered, purposeless currents of unbound madness in its wake. He was asked for directions, for orders, for a strategy to counter their enemy’s move, but he would answer nothing, his hands holding the cold hands of the corpse as if for dear life.

It was like this that Pharazôn’s army had found him when it fell upon them, riding down the slope of the nearby hill where they had been hiding, while shooting fire arrows at the abandoned tents and provisions. Under those circumstances, and in the state of disorganization in which the army had suddenly been plunged, it was no surprise that the survivors had been few, or that Lord Hiram himself had been one of the first to be killed by a stray arrow.

Amandil had been informed of all this after the fact, for he had arrived too late to have a meaningful role in the battle. But not too late for the celebration, one of the Umbarian captains teased him good-naturedly, pausing for a moment in his inspection of the corpses. Most of those men had never seen a real war, Amandil thought, until they were led to their deaths by a fool.

As he thought this, he reached the place where the bodies of the Lord of Forostar and his son were lying, side by side on a mat. Hiram’s eyes were still wide open, giving his dead countenance a gruesome look that did not seem to bother anyone, but which he found deeply disturbing. Out of a sudden instinct, he knelt by his side and closed them. Next to him, Valacar’s corpse caught his attention, and his gaze trailed upon the bloated limbs, the pale, almost greenish tinge of his skin, and the perfect state of the clothes he wore. When a man was beheaded, there was usually a lot of blood involved, but as much as he looked, he was not able to find a single drop here.

“Do not waste your time feeling sorry for these traitorous fools. They were the ones who brought war to the Island, and caused the death of all the rest”, a familiar voice spoke behind his back. Amandil’s frown increased.

“Since when has Valacar been dead?”

There was a brief silence after this, as if Pharazôn had not expected this question. However, if he had managed to take him by surprise, the ever-present, accursed confidence in his tone did not allow Amandil to tell.

“Since he was poisoned in Armenelos. There was no point in carrying him around from one side of the Island to another, or in keeping so many men away from their duties to stand watch over him. Or in listening to all his insults, if I may say so.”

Amandil took a sharp breath. He was hard pressed to keep a neutral tone, in the middle of a camp full of soldiers who could easily listen to their conversation.

“I am surprised. You spent so much of your youth agonizing about the leaf of the visions, and now it turns out that you were the most foresighted of us all. You could already tell that Valacar would need to die, even before the peace talks had taken place!”

“That is not foresight, it is common sense. Lord Hiram was not going to surrender peacefully, and he would have known that there was no way to defeat me except through treachery. Unless he could have convinced you to switch sides in the last moment, which was of course out of the question, there was no better choice left than to strike while we were still unprepared. Otherwise, he would have been forced to sustain a long siege, with devastating effects for himself and his people.”

 

“And yet you still saw fit to send me there to let them believe that you had swallowed his bait.”

“Amandil, you used to know these things, too. Do not blame me for your own blindness.” At last, the lord of Andúnië felt ready to struggle to his feet and face Pharazôn. He looked no different than all these other times in which he had emerged victorious from a battle in the mainland: excited and flushed, wearing his dirty armour as a courtier would their best audience finery.

“You could have been wrong”, he insisted, somehow irked by what he was seeing as much as he was for the words he was hearing. “Who are you to play with people’s lives on the whim of your instincts?”

“I don’t know.” Pharazôn feigned puzzlement. “A war general?”

“You are the King of Númenor now!” This time, his voice grew loud enough for the people around them to notice that something was amiss. He saw a few shocked glances dart in his direction, then quickly turn back to their own business. “You cannot treat the lords of the Island like the barbarians, and you cannot rule Númenor as if it was a conquered territory!”

“Oh, I see. So that is why you trusted Lord Hiram to respect his agreements. Not because you have turned into a fool, but because you do believe that the lords of the Island are different from the barbarians.” Pharazôn allowed himself a mirthless laugh. “Well, I trust you have realized now the error in your reasoning. The lords of the Island belong to the same kindred of Men as the barbarians and the servants of Sauron, and as such, they are no less treacherous by nature. The only difference is that they have had less chances to learn how to do it properly. Compared to the meanest of the tribe leaders of Harad, who are accounted old men in the eyes of their people when they reach forty, these lords who spend hundreds of years in idle bickering are nothing but overgrown children.” His eyes rested briefly on Valacar, and he shook his head in amazement. “He didn´t even think that he could die.”

Now, they will have to start considering that possibility, Amandil thought, his mind racing with all the implications. Once again, he thought of his ancestors, who had fought against Ar Adunakhôr in the last Númenorean war, back when the Island had known the same bitter strife that soldiers routinely encountered in the mainland. Though they still refused to even speak his name in Andúnië, the self-styled Lord of the West had never gone as far as to destroy their lineage; he had merely sent them into exile.

What would become of Forostar now?

For the first time, he forced himself to swallow all his anger, and school his features into something resembling a formal expression.

“You have what you want now. The Island is yours. The Princess of the West is your wife, and your enemies are defeated. If you stop behaving like a war general now, you will win the hearts of the people, perhaps not of all the people, but of more people than Tar Palantir ever did, I am certain of that.” He would never beg openly, but when he saw Pharazôn flinch, he was aware that the intensity of his expression must have conveyed what his lips would not say. “I will not presume to advise you about war, and perhaps I have been a fool to underestimate what it can do to the best of us. “It was almost too tempting to turn this into an accusation, but he could not succumb to that petty feeling now. “But I know more about Númenor at peace, about its Council, its courtiers, its nobles and its people. I have lived here for the entire lifetime of a lesser man, while you were earning glory in bloody battles. And yes, I have ruled over people, not just over soldiers.”

“So, wise and benevolent ruler of peace, what is your point?”

Was he making him uncomfortable? Apparently, it could still work both ways, he thought with a small spark of vindication.

“Since I was a child, I have often thought of Ar Adunakhôr, and of his treatment of my ancestors and the people of Andúnië. Though I do honour their heroism, a part of me always wondered if they would have stuck so firmly to their beliefs and kept apart from the rest of the Island if they had not been forced out of their homes, and exiled to a hostile territory for centuries. If you consider things from Ar Adunakhôr’s perspective, wouldn’t he have been better served in his policies if he had not isolated them, and remembered that they, too, were his people?”

“They did not want to be his people. He was an aberration from birth, hated by Eru and the Baalim. Even now, they still refuse to speak his name.”

“And why would they not? He did nothing to change their opinion of him. He could have been the greatest king of Númenor, and because he did not take steps to bridge this rift, he ruled over a divided Island for all his life and died a paranoid old man, who saw traitors all around him. He even exiled his own son! Many years after his death, his descendants were still labouring under the shadow of the divide he had created. We still are.”

Now, there was definitely an angry glint in Pharazôn’s eye.

“We are not. Did I, or did I not swear an oath that you would be allowed to worship whomever or whatever you damn wanted in your own homeland? You are welcome to be my people if you want to be, and if you are not, you will never be able to claim that you were not given the chance!”

“Will this apply to the people of Forostar, too? The majority of them did not plot against you or took part in this battle. They merely had the misfortune of living in Sorontil and having a traitor for a lord.”

 “I do hope they will not behave like brainless fools who refuse to surrender despite the loss of their lords and their army. If they do surrender, I will appoint a governor, and we will head back to Armenelos, where there is still a King left to bury, and a Sceptre to claim. If they do not… well, I am rather in a hurry now. I will return once they are starved enough to change their minds.”

“And what then?”

The Prince of the South stared at him.

“Why are you so concerned about the people of Forostar, Amandil? Shouldn’t you be content with your own people’s safety?

Amandil was surprised, himself, at the extent of the passion he was pouring on this argument. Pharazôn was right, it was not his place to fight for the people of Forostar. An ugly voice even whispered in his ear that it was good that the North had become the new enemy of the Sceptre, the new direction towards which the King would gaze with suspicion and hatred. And yet they, too, were part of Númenor, and his instinct told him that if Forostar was not safe, neither was the rest of the Island.

“Please” This time, he did beg, “tell me that, as King, you will see all Númenóreans as your people. Not as allies, not as enemies. Just your people.”

Pharazôn gazed at him for a very long time, in silence. Then, he shrugged apologetically.

“I am sorry, Amandil. I know your history, and I am sorry for what you went through, but I cannot agree with you. The Númenóreans who commit treason against the Sceptre are not my people. They are my enemies. And if they choose to fight me, I could not care less if they were born in the Palace Hill of Armenelos or in the farthest tribe of Harad.”

Amandil did not reply to this. Instead, he hid his dismay by looking again at the corpses at his feet. It was long since the sun had sunk behind the mountains, and the evening breeze had got rid of the flies which had been worrying at their faces. Like this, with his eyes closed in the growing darkness, Hiram would have looked asleep, if not for the blood that stained his clothes. He probably had not slept much of late, at least not since the fateful day that his brother stood in the middle of the Council chamber and asked to be sent to the mainland to fight Sauron.

Now, Amandil thought, he was finally at rest, for the better or the worse, and perhaps he had managed to pass that particular curse on to him. For days, the lord of Andúnië had been sleeping fitfully, and tonight, he doubted that he would sleep at all.

The following day, early in the evening, his knees almost gave way in relief when the fortress and city of Sorontil surrendered to Pharazôn.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Zarhil sat by the window, her eyes wandering over the latticework in an idle attempt to guess the shapes of the trees and the fountains which lay beyond. The room was empty; no one had disturbed her since her daughter had pranced in to tell her about tonight’s reception, and after her departure, she had told the ladies in waiting to leave her alone. They had done so without a word of complaint, probably thinking that she wished to grieve, for Inziladûn’s embalmed body still lay in the adjoining chamber, looking for all the world like a man who was about to wake up from a long and dreamless sleep. And yet this appearance was a lie, so easy to recognize by even the meanest denizen of the Palace that no one bothered to pay their respects to him anymore. Perhaps they believed that grief could turn a widow into a fool, addling her senses and causing her to confuse her wishes with the truth, but she, better than any of them, had known from the very first moment she saw this body that Inziladûn was not there anymore. Still, if it allowed her to be freed from their unwelcome presence, she would bear their pitying looks, their soft manners, and even their handling of her as if she was a porcelain doll about to break.

Míriel -no, she corrected herself, Zimraphel- was the only one who could see past all of these trappings. She could also see inside the darkest recesses of her mind, and find the seed of thoughts that had never even occurred to her yet, imagine them growing strong roots and branches, and follow each one of them until their final, bitter fruit was displayed before her eyes. For all these years, since her daughter was but a child, she had agonized over the irrationality of her hatred, unable to understand how the love she felt for the young Princess of the West could be destined to crash over and over against a solid wall of frozen indifference, like waves shattering against the stone foundations of a Númenórean harbour. Only now, at long last, she had understood the reason behind all this, and the power of the realization had left her numb.

She had done something to her daughter. She had abandoned, deserted her at the most important turn of her life. She had turned her back on her, and disappeared for ever.

Only, she had not done it yet.

Zarhil refused to lose herself in useless speculation about the origins and nature of her daughter’s terrifying powers. For too long, she had simply spoken of them as an unfortunate disease, while others had whispered the word madness. They had all refused to understand, that what they saw as her strangeness was simply the ability to see beyond, so far beyond that her grief, her anger, her hatred and her love were not bound anymore to the speed in which the world unfolded around her. Even now, she did not fully comprehend the implications of this, but she knew this one truth: her daughter had spent her entire life hating her for something that she had not even known she would do. And, the more she thought about it, the more she grew certain of yet another, scarier  truth: that knowing this could never have deterred her from it.

Since she was born, the daughter of the lord of Forostar had never been the most graceful of women. As Queen, she had never possessed a grain of the easy elegance which would have been so sorely needed to compensate for her husband’s own shortcomings. However, as she suddenly leapt from her seat and began tearing away the layers of silk she was wearing, she was aware that anyone watching her at this moment would be shocked. She threw them to the floor carelessly, where they left a strange trail behind her as she sought for the box that hid everything that she needed. Opening it, she proceeded to empty it until, at the bottom, she found the clothes that she had not worn in so many years that she wanted to cry as she held them in her hands. To her surprise, her delighted surprise tinged with the irrational haze of tears, they still fitted her.

Who are you? the girl had asked, her black eyes narrowing in disdain.

Look at me! Do not turn your back on me!

I hate your back.

Zarhil grabbed the lattice with both hands, and pulled it until it gave way. Light inundated the room like the rising tide, unstoppable, forcing her eyes, used to the darkness, to blink repeatedly until they could take it. Where did I put the cursed cloak, she thought, turning around almost dazedly amid the chaos.

As she crossed the garden, then the gallery, and then the outer courtyard, everybody took her for an old servant, and did not gaze twice in her direction. If only she had known it was so easy, she thought, perhaps she could have tried to take her poor nephew’s son with her before they murdered him. But of course, she would have known.

She had to know about this, too, Zarhil realized, and yet it did not seem as if she was going to do anything to prevent it. Perhaps, with her twisted logic, she had decided that Zarhil had earned it. After all, hadn´t she been already paying for it all her life? In a world where punishment came before the crime, it may also follow that the crime itself, when it came, was already forgiven.

Even as she walked across the bustling, crowded streets of Armenelos in the middle of the brightest summer day, however, Zarhil could still feel the weight of those black eyes, staring at her back in hurt betrayal.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

The mood at the feast which Pharazôn and Zimraphel had organized in the Palace after his triumphal return was a strange one, somewhere in the middle between a gloomy, oppressive brand of awkwardness and the forced cheer of those eager to join the new order. Everybody seemed to be trying to find their way as they trudged along the unexplored path of the new protocols, not unlike men who tried to cross a treacherous marsh without being swallowed by its perilous waters.

Neither Pharazôn nor his wife had taken a royal title yet. For now, they remained Prince and Princess, as they were still discussing options for an inauguration ceremony with the same symbolical power that the ritual burial had held in the hearts and minds of the Númenórean people for centuries. To Amandil’s surprise, it turned out that they had been serious about the ceremony involving both of them. This new experiment of theirs had compounded on the chaos already created by their temporary accession without a title, the turmoil of the uprisings, the rumours about the King’s death, and the fear and dismay for the Northern Line’s fate, to the extent that there were courtiers who looked like the very picture of anxiety if Pharazôn or Zimraphel did as much as approach their vicinity, fumbling with their greetings as if afraid of not getting them right. Both of them, however, seemed determined to employ this opportunity to allay everybody’s concerns. Pharazôn had never acted so genial and charming as tonight, and even the Princess of the West had shed her customary aloofness to hold the Lady Kadrani’s arm protectively and lead her around, whispering comforting words in her ear.

“Was this necessary?” Lalwendë spat in disgust. She was one of the few people in the room who dared to express her feelings openly, and Amandil could not find it in him to object. Hiram and Vorondil had been her cousins, after all, and she had been quite close to them and Hiram’s wife. “They killed her husband and her son, and, not content with that, they have to parade her around too? And how can she let them?”

“They say that she hated her husband” Amalket intervened. “That she blames him for everything that happened, because he refused to surrender and got her son killed.”

“That is probably what they want you to believe”, her daughter-in-law muttered darkly. Amalket shrugged.

“In any case, she still has her daughters, the Armenelos mansion and the means to live comfortably for the remainder of her days. She may feel that the foolishness of her husband already cost her too much, and that, because of this, she no longer has the luxury of jeopardising what she has left for the sake of her own pride. And who could blame her? I certainly cannot.”

“Lord Iqbal is over there. I am going to greet him”, Lalwendë said in a cold voice, turning away from her mother-in-law. After some hesitation, both Anárion and Ilmarë followed her.

It did take some guts to approach Iqbal, Amandil thought, for most people in the room was giving him a wide berth. Up to this point, he had been standing in a corner, holding a cup of wine in a trembling hand, but in all the time that the lord of Andúnië had been observing him, he had not drunk a single drop from it. Whenever Pharazôn happened to be near his vicinity, he gave a start, and his face turned paler than the marble wall behind him.

“I wonder what happened to leave him in such a state of panic”, he remarked to his wife, thoughtfully. “One would think that he should count himself lucky. Not only did he come out of this alive and unharmed, but he has even been named heir to Lalwendë’s father! And we all know that lord is not likely to rule for very long.”

Amalket gave him the look that he was most familiar with after so many years: a glare of contempt.

“What? You do not know? I thought you were friends with our King -sorry, our Prince, or our Queen’s husband, or whatever he wants to be today.” When Amandil did not rise to the bait, she shrugged. “He was there when Lord Valacar was poisoned. Apparently, both were drinking more or less at the same time, and when Valacar fell to the floor, he was sure that he had drunk the poison as well. He was scared out of his wits, but your friend just stood there and invited him to have some more.”

Amandil nodded.

“Well, I suppose there is a lord who will never revolt. It is impressive how many different uses a single corpse can be put to.”

“Is this what you did on the mainland?” She did not seem horrified, not even reproachful, and yet it was not mere curiosity what seemed to lurk behind her eyes. Amandil, however, had given up trying to read her moods long ago.

“I never poisoned anyone, but I killed plenty of people, and sometimes for much less”, he answered. “This is how it has always been in the mainland.”

“And now, this is how it is in the Island”, she retorted. He felt a brief pang in his chest, unpleasantly reminded of his conversation with Pharazôn in that mountain pass up North.

“Now, Amalket, that is unfair. This was merely a very unfortunate circumstance. No lord had revolted against the Sceptre since the War of Alissha, and back then people died too, as they do in all wars, whether in the Island or the mainland. Now, however, the war is over and we are at peace again, which is why Lady Kadrani and Lord Iqbal are among us tonight.”

“And the Queen?”

“What?” Distracted by his own musings, it took Amandil a while to register the meaning of his wife’s question. He shrugged. “She is in mourning for the late King. The Princess of the West gave the announcement at the start of the feast.”

“If you say so.” Amalket’s look of contempt was back, and this time, he did feel like rising to the provocation.

“Is there something else that you believe I should be aware of? Some rumour I have missed? Has she been killed together with her husband? Poisoned with Valacar, perhaps?”

“I do not know where she is”, she replied, with aloof dignity. “All I know is that I do not feel safe in this Palace anymore. If you have a friendship to hold on to, do so, because your family has always posed the greatest threat to the Kings of Númenor by the mere reason of their existence. And if you ever become a threat to this King of Númenor, he will not think twice before destroying you. I do not care for my own life, as there is not much of it left, but if you put my son or my grandchildren at risk, I will rise from the grave and haunt you forever.”

And before Amandil could have the chance to answer, she turned away from him and followed their daughter-in-law towards the other end of the room.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

It was the crack of dawn, too early for the harbour of Sor to stir awake from its sleep. As she crossed the docks at a brisk pace, not a single soul crossed her path in the waning darkness. Carefully, she folded the old cloak over her hands, cold from the chill of the morning, and sought beyond the fishing boats and the timber ships until she saw the faint shapes she was seeking. Her pace quickened as she hastened to meet them.

“There you are, my lady. I thought you would never come.”

The man was more visible than the others, for he was leaning on the prow of the ship. When she took in every feature of his face, his weather-beaten skin, and his friendly yet slightly sardonic grin, she could not help but smile.

“You look like your uncle” she told him. “And that is not necessarily a compliment.”

“I would never dare presume this much”, Malko’s nephew answered. “Well, are you coming or not? The crew is waiting for you.”

Zarhil ignored his outstretched hand, and took impulse to jump onboard. Though the vigour and agility of her limbs had been much diminished over the years, she still could manage as much. As she landed, she detected a look of veiled surprise in his eyes, which made her feel warmth inside her chest, in spite of the cold.

“Do you know that my uncle used to tell me stories about you? I never believed them, but now, it turns out I may have to go and apologize to his grave.”

Zarhil leaned against the prow and rested her hands against the railing, marvelling at the rugged, hard feel of the wood under her touch. For a moment, she closed her eyes to take a long, deep breath, enjoying the salty smell of the sea breeze. Far in the distance, she could hear the cries of the first sailors and merchants to start their morning routines.

Suddenly, she bit her lip, trying in vain to keep her tears at bay. It felt as if a dam had broken, and then her body, too, started to shake, and she was aware that as soon as she uttered a word or turned back to face them, they would notice. Horrified at the idea of letting them see her weakness, she just stood there for a while, without moving or talking.

In the end, it was the cry of the seagulls what steadied her, allowing her to find her way back to a tenuous state of composure. Still, until she was not fully sure of herself again, she did not dare utter a word.

“You can apologize to him later. Now, we have a journey to begin.”

“Hey, you heard her!” The ship grew astir with activity, as the crew busied themselves with the sails, the ropes, and all those things that Zarhil, daughter of Zarhâd of Forrostar, had been familiar with before she was covered in a red veil and taken to a dark palace in Armenelos. While she watched them, a thought began to grow within her, first timidly as she recognized the movements, then, gradually, growing into a stronger and stronger certainty.

She was still Zarhil. She had always been. The rest had been a dream, a dream so strange, so hideous, that deep inside, she had always been sure that she would wake up.

“Where are we going?”

For the first time, she moved away from the railing, and though it was tricky, she managed not to lose her balance. Behind her, the proud towers of Sor gleamed under the first rays of the morning sun. Even closer, almost right above them, Ar Adunakhôr’s gigantic statue of the Warrior stood proud and mighty, with the bristling wolf curled against his leg. He looks like the new King, she thought, realizing detachedly that she would never see Númenor again.

“To the South.” she said.