Elegy for Númenor - Volume 1: Journey to Umbar by elfscribe

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Chapter 22 - The Scrying Soup

Chapter summary: Annatar confronts his internal adversary while Tigôn goes to the Umbarian sorcerer Magân’s shop to buy the ingredients for Annatar’s elixir of youth, and then tries to find Sûla.  

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Tigôn shoved his way through the crowds at the busy Umbarian market. Under his cloak, he carried a satchel held close to his body to disguise the telltale chinking of gold. Even though accompanied by Narûkh, who wore the distinctive red cloak and armor of the King’s personal guard, Tigôn didn’t want to tempt fate and have the money stolen. Both the King and Annatar had made it clear how important this errand was.     

The town was rife with fellow Númenóreans, boisterous with joy at the chance to spend their pay and with the prospect of going home. They mobbed the shops and street vendors looking for souvenirs, filled the taverns with drunken song, and staggered out of brothels with smiling zirâmîthin and the occasional zirâmîkin hanging on their arms. Tigôn shook his head, hoping that it didn’t get out of hand, although the Umbarians seemed quite happy to have the coin.

But Tigôn was not part of the joyous multitude.  He felt muzzy-headed and disturbed, as if he’d been dreaming very strange dreams that he couldn’t quite remember.  By Ossë, there was something, . . . the sorcerer had done something, but cursed if he could remember what. A gap existed in his memory between Annatar making him recite back the instructions and finding himself bowing before him, holding the list in his hand.  The last thing he clearly recalled before the blankness was Annatar saying, I’m your best ally just now.  I have ways to discover the truth.  If Sûla is innocent, and I suspect he is as that is what my senses are telling me, the King shall know it.  That gave Tigôn cause for hope. He was determined to get the ingredients for the elixir as quickly as he could to help the sorcerer’s conjuring.     

Tigôn kept glancing around, half hoping to catch a glimpse of Sûla, although he knew that it would be much too dangerous for the zirâmîki to be walking about. What would he say to Sûla if he did see him?  Run Sûla!  Hide!  Go far away where they can’t hurt you! I’m gutted that I’ll never see you again. I want you, Sûla.  I can’t help myself.  I want you.
                   
By the gods, what would his father have to say if he could see him now?  Tigôn was in danger of ruining his whole life, his position at court, everything.  For what?  For a vain peacock of a zirâmîki, who had advanced himself by, well, by his skill at doing all the things they’d done last night.  He could still feel the satiated languor of taking Sûla and the tenderness at his core of his own initiation.   As good as all that had been, he was a fool for having given into his feelings and allowing himself to get into this situation. And yet, he was in it up to his neck now.

Then there was Annatar.  Had he said anything to the sorcerer that he should not have? As the King’s messenger, Tigôn was privy to a number of secrets. Not to mention his role as Lord Elendil’s informer, which was potentially treasonous, even though he’d not revealed anything significant to Elendil.  Sûla had been too guarded at first and then, well, they hadn’t talked about anything of importance to the realm.

Tigôn was in danger of failing at everything, including his promise to Elendil.  He should have heeded his father’s advice and kept well away from court intrigue!
 
And so he was back to wondering about that strange blank time in the Zigûr’s chambers not an hour earlier.  He knew he’d been unwise to allow the Zigûr to come so close, but really, could he have stopped him?  Tigôn took a deep breath. Well, best to put all that from his thoughts and pay heed to the task at hand.

Narûkh touched his arm. “Look, there’s the crier.  He must be about to make the King’s decree.”            
The crier was a stout red-bearded man wearing a striped robe and a leather eyepatch. A young man helped him up onto a platform situated in the middle of the market.  Carrying a scroll in one hand, the crier raised his arms on high, turning slowly in a circle.  People in the crowd around Tigôn called for silence, with much shushing and yelling until finally some semblance of quiet was achieved. When the crier spoke, Tigôn could see why he had the position.  His voice was stentorian, deep and carrying.

“Attend and gather round, Citizens of Umbar. Hear the words of our Sovereign Lord, the High King of Númenor. He decrees that the slave from Brunî, one Sûla by name, is wanted  on suspicion of murder.  The slave is a youth, known to be surpassing fair of face, with dark hair and tawny eyes.  There is a reward of ten abarîm for his capture – alive and unharmed.  Anyone found harboring him will be subject to the full displeasure of the King. So says Ar-Pharazôn, Lord of Númenor and Great King of Men.”

When the crier finished, there came a buzz of conversation all about. Tigôn became caught up in a great press of people who crowded around a nearby wall where one of the King’s guard tacked the decree.  

“Ten abarîm! Why I’d sell my mother for that!” said a man wearing a leather cap. Laughter followed.

“A slave wanted for murder?  Why do they want him alive?  Why don’t they just send the guards out to kill him?” said a large, dour-faced woman.

“Maybe he knows something.  If we caught him, maybe we could wring the secret from him first?” said one of the vendors, a fishmonger in a white apron.

“Well, I’m off on a slave hunt.  I could use the coin. Did anyone see a pretty youth around here?” Jokingly, the speaker grabbed another fat man by his jowly neck.  “Let’s see if they’ll take you!”

“Certainly not me! My face would make the Great King piss his silk breeches,” said the fat man to more laughter.

“They should look in the brothels, plenty of boy arse there!  I hear the King is partial to it,” said the fishmonger.  

“Sounds like there’s to be a hanging and we’ll get to see his pretty face all black with his tongue popping out!” suggested a lanky youth with enthusiasm.

And there was more of the same. Tigôn felt sick.

“Come, Narûkh, let’s push through this,” he said. “We need to carry on.”

Narûkh went ahead, clearing a path through the idlers.

When they reached the eastern edge of the Great Market, Tigôn saw dozens of Númenórean soldiers standing around a long line of Haradren captives yoked together by ropes and chains attached to collars about their necks.  The captives were sitting on the ground. As Tigôn approached, he heard groaning and lamenting and noticed some of them were bandaged with strips of linen, and here and there the red and black of seared flesh was visible. Behind the prisoners stood a long white tent.  The door flaps were tied back and brown-robed healers were moving back and forth. From within, Tigôn heard the occasional pained howl. Outside the tent, dead bodies were stacked on several wains, like cordwood.

With a start, Tigôn realized this must be the appalling result of Annatar’s catapults.  He remembered how beautiful the missiles had seemed as they arched through the velvet blackness of the sky, looking like stars with long, fiery tails. It sent a chill up his spine to realize that such splendor had wrought this misery.  

He approached one of the soldiers, a man he recognized from Lord Azgarad’s household.  “Hello Huznazîn. Where are you sending them?”

“To work the gold mines in the White Mountains,” Huznazîn said.  “Hard labor. They won’t last long, I’m afraid.”  He prodded one of the prisoners with the end of his wooden baton, forcing him to keep the chain taut between him and the next captive.

Tigôn felt the weight dragging at his shoulder.  He’d never really thought about where the King’s gold came from. The wealth of Númenor.  As he strode past the row of prisoners with Narûkh at his back, Tigôn noticed a large man sitting with his legs folded. When he turned and looked up, Tigôn recognized that face with its elaborate blue tattoo and the gold ring through the nose.

“Korizar!” Tigôn said in surprise. 

“Oh, so you remember me, eh whelp?” Korizar sneered. Slowly, he rose, large and menacing.  “I should have slit your throat when I had the chance.”   

“I was an envoy to Aksan. If you’d harmed me, you’d have been cursed with dishonor,” Tigôn said.

“Dishonor! It’s the Númenórean King who has no honor,” Korizar said.  “Look what he did to us!”  He waved a large arm at his cohorts. Then, more quickly than his bulk suggested, amidst a sharp jangle of chains, he leapt at Tigôn. But just as his hands closed about Tigôn’s throat, they snapped apart as if he’d grabbed a hot coal. 

Startled, Tigôn jerked away, staggering back several steps.  What in Ennor had just happened?

Narûkh yanked the Haradren captive’s chain, so that he fell forward.  Then, Narûkh slammed his booted foot on Korizar’s back, forcing him to the ground.

The Haradren choked and then raised his head to glare at Tigôn.  “Curse you!  Protected by black spells. What are you to the Zigûr? His butt-boy?”

Huh, Tigôn thought, Annatar must have done as he’d said and placed a magic shield around him, just as before when he'd visited the Haradren camp.  It gave Tigôn a sense of power. “I will ignore your slander,” he said, glaring at Korizar. “You should say a prayer to your god Zizzûn for preserving your life and surviving the battle unscathed. I came to your camp in good faith under the messenger’s protection, and you were the one who twice sought to kill me.”  He thought a moment. “Where is Aksan?”
                   
“He escaped.  So, soon you Númenórean pigshite will feel his wrath.” Korizar spat at Tigôn’s feet.

Narûkh pulled his sword, cursing, as Huznazîn and several other guards ran up.  One of them struck Korizar’s head with a baton, making a sharp crack.  Korizar’s chains jingled as he raised his hands against another blow.

“Don’t move or you’ll be taking a quick trip to the Beyond,” Huznazîn snarled.

Korizar leered horribly at Tigôn and grabbed his own crotch.  “Next time our paths cross, messenger boy, I’ll be taking your vakis to wear as a pouch.” 

“Then let’s hope there is no next time,” Tigôn said and walked off as quickly as he could, his sympathy for the plight of the Haradren warriors diminished.

“Haradren filth,” Narûkh said in disgust. “Did he hurt you?”
 
“No,” Tigôn replied.

Narûkh looked at him suspiciously. “What in Angband just happened?  I thought he’d break your neck before I could get to him. Why did he let go of you so quickly?”

“How in Morgoth’s dross should I know?” Tigôn replied angrily, still somewhat shaken. “Are you my guard or not? You should have moved faster.”  He put a hand to his throat and coughed.

********
The door finally shut on the last of the servants summoned to set up the equipment that Mairon needed to brew his potions.  Still favoring his foot, he moved about the room inspecting the two large copper kettles of water suspended from rods in the fireplace, yes good, and laying out the measuring spoons, ceramic bowls, knives, mortar and pestle, scales, long-handled stirring spoons and other equipment just so.  It was crude, very crude.  He wished he were back in his fully stocked workshop in Barad-dûr, but it could not be helped.  He must make do.

Actually, he had to admit he was enjoying the challenge.  This was what he liked, working on technical problems that didn’t involve having his arse reamed out by a randy but inept king. He felt more content than he had since this little adventure had started.  Things were going his way, leading inexorably to control of Númenor and from there to all of Ennor, and finally there would be order and peace.

He began humming to himself and then abruptly stopped.  Strange.  That wasn’t the tune he had been thinking of.  He began singing it – a stirring marching song favored by his beastly uruks, accompanied by a vigorous pumping arm motion.  “We crush our foes, hammer with blows. Blood is so appealing when it’s congealing. Hey, hey, hurrah and do it again!”

Again, he realized that another kind of tune altogether was passing his lips, a painfully bittersweet ode to a dead lover – in Sindarin no less!  Something that only those infernal tragedy-loving elves would compose. “His hair was as bright as mallorn blossoms in spring; now his fae has fled like a bird on the wing.” No!  It must be that cursed son of Celebrimbor making an appearance!

Mairon glanced at his hands and noticed a strange double ghost image. Slowly, it increased, solidified, and then peeled free like a snake shedding its skin. Oh, this was not good!  He tried speaking the transmogrification spell, but his tongue seemed to cleave itself on that dreadful tune. Too late!

The ghost took several steps away, grabbed the back of a chair, and bent over, inhaling deeply. “Ah, I can see you now, Sauron the Betrayer,” the elf said. “How deliciously ironic this is, don’t you think?”

“How did you get out?” Mairon snarled.

“A very good question, O Great Necromancer.  Don’t you know?  You’re the one who stole my flesh in the first place. Surely you are the one in control here, as you are in all things.”  The elf smiled, a bitter flash of white teeth.

A sudden gust of fury overcame Mairon. He was always in control! Always! He tried to pick up a knife and his hand passed through it.  He swiped the table, through the beakers and measuring cups.  Nothing moved, not a thing.  He had no more substance than the air!   The elf had taken his body!   Panic engulfed him.   He flung himself about the room, trying to knock over chairs, or pull down the bed curtains.  Then he blew repeatedly at one of the lamps to make the flame flicker.  Nothing!  

Livid, he turned into a plume of fire, but could burn nothing.  He shot straight up through the chimney and enlarged himself until he blotted out the sun like a great cloud. But he seemed unable to vent his wrath on anything but a flock of crows that took off startled from the palace gates. 

With a shriek, he flew into the ocean, plunging down into it with a great steaming hiss, like thrusting a white-hot brand into a cooling tank.  He swam into the depths, until finally his anger cooled to dense iron and he regained control of himself.  Steady now, he said to himself as he plummeted toward the bottom, If magic is no use against the usurper, you must fight another way.
                                   
He made himself light and rose buoyantly through the swift current past great schools of fishes, emerging like a dragonfly from the endlessly moving surface of grey water. Sighting the palace sprawled on the hilltop at the head of the harbor, he shot up in the air and drifted back until he was looking over the red tiled roofs and many chimneys of the palace.  Spreading out his senses, he allowed himself to feel for that other essence, that other part of him. Ah, got it!  He selected a chimney, and sank down through the grimy, blackened bricks enveloped by the pungent smell of wood smoke, finally flowing out past the burning coals of his fire. 

The elf was still there, waiting for him.  

“Are you quite done with your little tantrum, Sauron,” the elf chuckled. “You should take a calming draught or you’re like to bust something. I daresay, you thought you destroyed my fae when you gave me that potion, but you did not.  I’m still here, watching you out of a corner of your soul.  Just remember that, whenever you have the illusion that you are in charge, playing your little power games, I’m there, inside you – watching everything.” 

“If you’re so desperate to escape, why are you still here?” Mairon asked. 

The elf walked over to the door, grabbed the handle, and attempted to open it.  The door rattled, but appeared locked. He turned, spreading his arms against the bronze panels of the room, meant to contain sorcery.  “Our fae appear to be wedded as long as my body lasts.  I cannot escape you, much as I desire it. And I can’t tell you how abhorrent this is – to be merged rhaw and fae with my greatest enemy.”   His eyes brimmed with tears.  He rocked, back and forth, once, twice, thrice; his eyes appeared to be looking at something far in the distance. 

The elf turned a cold gaze back upon Mairon. “Surprisingly, I discover that occasionally my thoughts are my own and can leak out into yours.  Thus do I have my revenge.” He fingered the flower made of hair that Mairon had pinned to the robe.  “You have no idea why you put this here, do you Sauron?  You don’t know its meaning.”

Mairon’s misty shape reformed into the elf’s likeness.  Slowly, he approached, stalking his prey. “Yes, I had wondered about that. Does it have a meaning, Fingaer?”

“Ha,” the elf said.  “I won’t tell you.”

“I doubt it’s anything of importance,” Mairon said.  “Clearly made from your hair.  Something you manufactured while in my prison.  To remind you of someone?  Your beloved, perhaps?”

The elf’s eyes, grey as mist, widened into madness. His hands curved into claws. “Yes, you have guessed it. It was in honor of my beloved, whom you destroyed, along with everything dear to me, my father and mother, my beautiful city, my life. Everything.  I curse you to the blackest pit beyond the Door of Night where I hope you have naught for company but your odious Master!”

Mairon came closer and the elf shrank from him, sliding along the wall to the great tapestry depicting Glaurung.

“Your beloved,” Mairon said. “Let me see if I can remember him.” He sifted back through memories long forgotten. “Ah yes. As I recall, a relationship Celebrimbor did not condone. I endured many a diatribe about it.  Your father wanted you to take a wife, produce heirs, not consort with some flighty male artist. A Vanya, wasn’t he?  So beautiful. Inspiring great lust among men and women alike. They all wanted him.  I wanted him myself.”

The elf grimaced, showing his teeth. “Be careful,” he hissed. “You may recapture my body with this new concoction you’re planning to brew, but I swear if you do that, I will tear you from the inside out.”

“You shall only succeed in killing yourself, elf,” Mairon said.  “I will merely seek another form.”

“I doubt you’ll enjoy the pain, Annatar,” Fingaer said. “And I have no compunction against destroying my body, when I have long dreamed of death in your black dungeon. Perhaps I’ll bash both our heads in one night and be free of this horrific prison you’ve constructed for me. I have nothing to live for, except revenge.” 

“Is that so?” Mairon said, coming yet closer so that he could see the elf’s chest heaving like a frightened deer.  “My dear Fingaer, you may hate me for many reasons but killing your lover should not be among them.”

“If your thralls did it while you were destroying Ost-in-Edhil, ‘tis one and the same,” Fingaer retorted.

Mairon smiled to himself. “But I did not kill him.  Last I knew, he was alive.”

“Alive?” Fingaer said suspiciously. “Not possible. I saw him lying in a pool of blood!”

“Did you?  I remember riding along the line of captured elves that my orcs rounded up to sell to the Easterlings.  He was among them, wearing a white bandage on his head.  I imagine he fetched a great price.”

It was almost pitiful watching the hope kindle in the elf’s eyes.  And at that moment, when Fingaer was at his weakest, Mairon pounced.  

They struggled this way and that, grappling with each other – smacking into furniture, upending utensils and bowls that landed with ringing clatters and resounding crashes. Mairon spoke the merging incantation and finally it seemed to have some effect.  He began to sink back into the elf’s body, so that soon it was like struggling in a barrel of tar.

In desperation, Fingaer hit him in the throat with his elbow causing a bright flare of pain. They both cried out. Mairon struck the elf in the eye and then the ribs, which hurt, but he was sinking further and further within the elf’s body, until with a sudden snap they were one again. 

“No, you don’t,” he heard the elf say in his inner ear. “I promise you Sauron, I’m not vanquished yet.” 

“You miserable rat!” Mairon declared, as he grabbed his own throat and began choking himself, while at the same time his head was banging against the bronze wall.

“What in Manwë’s thunder are you doing?” a voice cried.

Mairon looked up. The door was open and two guards stood there open-mouthed. They surveyed the room, looked at each other, then back at Mairon.  

Mairon slowly straightened up, for once at a complete loss for words. Slowly, he unwrapped his fingers from his throat. “Um,” he said.  He wiped a wet trickle from his lip and looked at it.  Blood.  Realizing how incredibly bizarre it must have appeared, watching him beat himself to a bloody pulp, he began to giggle. Uncontrollably.

“It was ghosts,” he rasped past his bruised vocal chords. “Manifestations of incorporeal spirits, trapped by the spells in the walls here. I’ve managed to, er, vanquish them, but, heh, heh, as you can see, it was a struggle. You must summon someone to clean up this mess.”

Deep inside himself, he heard laughter. “Shut up,” he snarled.  The guards looked at him again as if he had completely lost his mind.

“No, not you, idiots,” Mairon raged. “Go! Get out!”    

***********
                   
“I think we’ve overshot it somehow,” Tigôn said.  He squinted up at the signboards.  “We’re in the weavers’ quarter.” The sun had risen another handspan from the horizon and a feeling of urgency was coming over him.  He could swear he heard a whisper tickling his inner ear.  ‘Hurry!’

“The afternoon grows warm. More than it’s been the last month,” Narûkh said, wiping his reddened brow with his cape. “Let’s see, that last ‘un said go past the White Cony Pharmacopeia and turn left.”  

“Maybe we should have gone down that alley instead of the next street over,” Tigôn replied.  He turned and ran smack into a woman wearing a black and red striped robe and a black cowl.  The covered basket she was carrying over one arm tilted and some finely woven scarves slithered out, landing on the dusty road. 

She glared at him. “Watch, where you’re going, mîki. These will be ruined.” She bent to scoop up the scarves, slapping off dirt on her thigh before putting them back.

“My pardon, m’lady,” Tigôn said, bending down to help.

“Don’t touch ‘em,” she said. 

Tigôn noticed that although her face was past its prime, with weather-beaten skin and dark circles under the eyes, she must have once been handsome.  Her cheekbones were prominent and her nose and chin well-formed.  She looked vaguely familiar somehow.

She glanced at Narûkh and then back at Tigôn. “What are you doing hereabouts?” she asked sharply.

“We’re lost,” Tigôn said. “Can you direct me to a herbalist shop called The Eastern Road?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Unusual request for a Númenórean.”

“I have a friend who has . . .difficulty sleeping,” Tigôn replied.

“Sleeping, is it?” she snorted. “Well, you are a little out of your way. Back down the road here and take your next right and then another right and you’ll see it. You’ll know when you get there.”  She gave them both a searching look, then walked away, heading up the main road towards the market. 

“Very well, let’s try it,” Narûkh sighed. 
 
**********

When Tigôn saw the black serpent signboard tapping gently in the breeze against the mud wall of the shop, he was instantly filled with misgivings.  He had the distinct sensation that he was being watched.

Apparently Narûkh felt it too. Glancing back over his shoulder, he said, “Are you sure this is the place, Tigôn?  I don’t like the looks of it. I’ve heard tales of the Lorcastra.”

Tigôn swallowed.  “Very sure.  Better stay out here while I buy the goods. The Zigûr said no one else may see them.”

Narûkh humphed.  “I’ll be a dog’s hind end if this sorcerer’s potion makes the King any younger. Likely as not it’s just a trick.”

“Likely as not,” Tigôn said. “But I’m just the errand boy. Wait for me.  I’ll yell if I need you.”

Tigôn tried the knob and it turned.  He opened the door and peered into the darkened interior, then let himself in.  It looked like any herb shop he’d seen, with shelves of ceramic pots and glass jars of various sizes and shapes filled with leaves or colored powders. Bunches of dried herbs hung from the ceiling rafters, permeating the room with a variety of spicy odors.  Another shelf contained racks of little pigeon holes full of rolled sheets of parchment.  There were beakers aplenty and a large wooden counter, stacked with weights, over which balanced a hanging scale. On the top shelves, he noticed glass urns containing what appeared to be pickled organs, a beef tongue, eyes, and then he gasped, seeing one crammed with human fingers.  He felt his heart beating.    

“Hello? Hello?  Anyone here?” he called as he came further into the shop. 

The curtain at the back parted and a girl wearing a red scarf over long black braids, and a metal ring in one nostril, peeked out. “Father,” she called.  “He’s here.  The boy with the golden hair.”

Tigôn barely had time to be surprised that she seemed to expect him, before a great mountain of a man emerged, ducking his head through the curtain.  His iron-grey hair was braided into dozens of plaits tied at the ends with long strips of red cloth.   He wore a closely-cropped beard and a long black robe embroidered with white serpents. His face was seamed like the inside of a leather jacket. He stood looking at Tigôn long enough for the messenger to fidget. 

“I gather you expected me?” Tigôn finally said.

“I saw you in my soup,” the man said.  “Floating with a bit of gristle.”

“Interesting dinner,” Tigôn replied.  He cleared his throat. “I’ve come on an errand from the High King of Númenor.”   

“And why should that impress me?” the man replied. “What has the High King done for me or my family lately, except throw firebolts at my kin?”

“Um, I can’t answer that,” Tigôn said, his discomfort increasing. “Are you the shop-owner, Magân?”

“I am,” the man said.  

“Then, I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.” Tigôn inclined his head. “Your reputation as a most knowledgeable apothecary precedes you.”

“Flattery will avail you not,” Magân growled. “The Sea-King has betrayed us by capturing the Zigûr and making war on us.  It is a deep betrayal. We will not forget it.” He cocked his head. “Are you one of the Zigûr’s servants?”

In answer, Tigôn pulled his eyelid closed with one finger.

Magân’s expression grew hard. He leaned his bulk over the counter and passed a huge hand back and forth in front of Tigôn’s face, which Tigôn felt as a tickle of heat. It was not unlike the sensation of standing near the Zigûr, although far less intense. Magân sniffed noisily. “You reek of black magic,” he said. “Why?”

“I cannot answer that either,” Tigôn replied.

“Poor response, mîki. I’m still deciding . . .”
                                           
There was a pause. “Deciding what?” Tigôn asked.

“Whether or not to kill you,” Magân said and chuckled, as if the idea pleased him. Power gathered about him like a storm and Tigôn had a moment of deep misgiving.  Shield or no, this might not be a healthy place to be.
           
Then, Magân made a loud ‘huuuuh’ sound, which Tigôn experienced as an actual shove on his chest, making him stagger backward. At the same moment, he was startled by a shimmer crackling the air all around him, like tapping a layer of thin ice over a pond.

Magân’s eyes widened. “A shield,” he growled. “Then, you are not as sweet as you might appear.”

Ah, Tigôn thought, with a surge of confidence.  His armor worked even against the likes of a Lorcastran.  Perhaps having the sorcerer at his back was not such a bad thing.  However, Magân still showed no inclination to help him.  Tigôn realized that, just as in the Haradren camp, he was being tested. He stared back into the man’s onyx eyes, and said, “I come under the protection of the Zigûr himself.  I rather think he’d take exception if you killed his runner . . . and it would profit you nothing. However, you stand to do well if you can fill his order.”  Reaching under his cloak, he pulled the satchel off his shoulder and set it chinking on the table.  He unhooked the clasp, plunged his hand down into it, pulled out a handful of the gold abarîm, and let them fall back with a jingle. “Quite well.”

At that, Magân grinned, a positively feral expression, showing teeth with black gums. “Tell me what you want, Númenórean, and I’ll decide,” he said. “No one comes with gold to the Black Serpent for trivial matters. Who must I kill?”

Tigôn withdrew the Zigûr’s list with its strange script, unfolded the pages, and slammed them on the counter.  “Nothing like that. Listen, I am in haste.  Do you wish to help or not?  If not, I will report to the Zigûr that you were uncooperative, and I assure you, he will be most displeased.”

Magân picked up the list and examined it. Abruptly, his demeanor changed and he became deferential.  “Ah, you were not lying.  This is from Himself.  Tell His Honor that I am pleased to do his bidding, and may he remember Magân as a friend in future. Let me see if I have this . . . rather specialized stock.  Azûlizrê,” he called.

The girl was looking at Tigôn with a bemused smile, her hands on her hips.  She straightened up.  “Yes, Father?”

“Get our client a chair and some orzini.  This will take some time.”

“No orzini, if you please,” Tigôn said, relieved. “I drank rather too much of it recently. But I’d be obliged if you could get me a cup of watered wine.”  He smiled at her.  “One part to two.”

Azûlizrê took him in with one sweeping flick of her eyes. “My pleasure, Númenórean.”

“Quit flirting, girl, and get to work,” Magân growled. He eyed the list. “Now then, bloodroot.”  He turned his back, ponderously climbed on a stool, reached to an upper shelf and pulled out a jar. 

Tigôn slowly let out a breath and leaned against the counter. “Fresh, not dried,” he said. 

“Oh, picky, picky,” Magân grunted.  He replaced the ceramic jar and pulled another. 

*************

“That is all of it, then,” Magân said, consulting the Zigûr’s notes one last time, and then delicately probing in a jar with a pair of tweezers to snag a spider’s egg sack, which he set on the counter before Tigôn.  Magân frowned. “This is a very strange combination.  I’d almost guess there were two different potions to be brewed from this.”

“I think it’s just the one,” Tigôn said as he looked over the collection of colorful powders in little vials, along with a pile of gnarled roots and disgusting animal bits. He was wondering if morthul, bats’ wings, powdered drake horn, and a child’s finger, among other things whose origin he didn’t want to know, could possibly make a brew that would renew youth.  More likely, it would merely make someone gag his way to an early grave. But then again the magical shield really did work. He could vouch for that. And the Zigûr was said to be the most powerful sorcerer in all Ennor. So, maybe he could do what he said.  Perpetual youth.  Tigôn had to wonder if this was a good idea.  But at this point, he didn’t care.  Magân had been cooperative but slow and Tigôn found himself increasingly anxious. All he could think about was what might be happening to Sûla. 

“How much?” Tigôn asked.

Magân stroked his chin while eyeing Tigôn’s satchel on the counter.  “I’ll make a special deal for you.  Thirty abarîm.”

“Thirty!”  That was enough to buy a whole ship and crew. “Fifteen,” Tigôn said.

“These items are very difficult and costly to obtain. Twenty.” Magân narrowed his eyes.  “No less.”

“Very well.” Tigôn pulled out a fat handful of gold coins and began counting them on the counter in front of Magân, reflecting that he’d never held so much money before.

Looking up, he noticed the girl watching him from behind the curtain. He was reminded of what she’d said when he first entered. He’s here, the boy with the golden hair. 

“You knew I was coming, didn’t you?” Tigôn asked Magân. “How?”

“I told you,” the Lorcastran grunted as he began wrapping up the loose items in brown paper.

“You saw me in your soup,” Tigôn said flatly.

Magân chuckled.  “Is there something you wish to see in my soup?”

Tigôn straightened. Magân wasn’t joking. “Yes.”  

Magân squinted one eye at him. “Scrying will be extra.”
                                       
Tigôn dug in the satchel.  He still had a handful of abarîm left.  How was the King to know it had not cost an extra piece?  With a click, he set another coin on the counter.  “Show me,” he said.

“Azûlizrê, finish this up,” Magân called.  “You, boy, follow me.”

Tigôn put the satchel over his shoulder and followed Magân into a large kitchen with a vast fireplace, looking just like any other Tigôn had seen, except for a kettle of bubbling black liquid hanging from a spit over hot coals. 

“Sit,” Magân commanded, indicating a table and chairs.  He went to the sideboard and picked up a huge copper bowl, which he set in front of Tigôn.  Then he dipped up some of the liquid from the kettle and poured it into the bowl.  The smell was sharp and one whiff went straight to Tigôn’s head, scouring out his nasal passages. 

“Wait for it to settle,” Magân said.  “Think about the question you wish to ask.  Make it clear and simple.”  He passed his hands over the fluid and chanted something in Umbarian. 

Clear and simple, Tigôn thought. 

“Now then, look,” Magân said.                   

Tigôn bent over the bowl and thought, Where is Sûla?  Show me.

For a long time there was nothing but a single ripple in the black soup.  Tigôn sighed and glanced up at Magân. “Look!” Magân barked.

Tigôn thought he saw something stir, then he gasped as a scene appeared of Umbar’s streets under the hazy winter sky.  The vision kept fading in and out, but it seemed as if he was walking down the street, passing into a yard with chickens scratching about.  Decidedly unhelpful. He saw a shed; then he was looking at a curtain hanging from a low shelf in a junky room lit with splashes of sunlight. Let me see past it, he thought.  The curtain moved aside to reveal a body wrapped in a dark blue cloak and lying across some large wool sacks. Was that Sûla?  Was he . . .? Tigôn had a moment of stomach-clenching anguish before noticing the slow rise and fall of breathing. Alive, then.

The form turned over and there was that exquisite face and sumptuous mouth, half-hidden under a tangled mass of black hair. It was Sûla. There were dirty streaks down his face as if he’d been crying. Tigôn’s heart throbbed.  He wished he could gather him in his arms.  He had to resist touching the liquid.  The zirâmîki seemed to be restlessly dreaming.  He groaned and struggled; his eyes twitched back and forth under his lids. At least he seemed safe. But where was he?  Show me, he commanded again.  For a time there was a swirling in the liquid. Then, he saw a door with a weaver’s sign over it.

“Can you see this?” he said sharply to Magân.  The man bent over the bowl. 

“Yes, I know that place,” Magân said.  “Kathalômi, the weaver.  She lives near here.”

“Can you direct me there?”

“Ask. It will show you,” Magân replied.

Motion in the vision caught Tigôn’s attention and he bent back over the bowl. At first he was confused by shifting streets, a blurred twisting this way and that, as if he were running through them. “I can’t . . .” he began.  Then he saw himself standing undecided at the crossroads where he’d run into the woman in the black and red striped robe. There she was again. Was he seeing the past?  She was walking briskly back in the direction she’d come and now he could see she was leading six armored men wearing the scarlet livery of the King’s guard.  Desperate to see more, he bent closer, his nose nearly touching the liquid, the pungent scent nearly overcoming him. Were they headed toward Magân’s shop?  A terrible feeling came over him as he watched them turn away from the healers’ quarter down the street of the weavers.  Suddenly he knew where they were going.

Abruptly, Tigôn stood and hauled the satchel over one shoulder.  “I’ll be taking my leave now,” he said.  “Thank you for your help.”

“Ah, saw something, did you?” Magân said. “My magic is very powerful. Be sure to tell His Honor . . .”

“Yes, yes,” Tigôn said, sketching a bow. “I’ll give him your fondest regards.” He pushed through the curtain to the outer shop, and hastily filled his bag with all the precious ingredients, while the girl Azûlizrê eyed him. “Forgive my haste, my lady.  Good wine,” he said, draining the last swallow from his cup, plunking it down, and pelting out the door.

When Tigôn fled the shop, Narûkh jumped up from where he’d been seated across the alley. “Well, it’s about fucking time,” the guard declared. “I was just deciding whether or not to try to rescue you.”

Tigôn stopped and looked at him. It would do no good to have another member of the guard coming along who knew the King’s decree and would have to carry it out.  “I’ve an urgent errand to get something Magân didn’t have,” Tigôn said. “Here,” he thrust the satchel into the astonished Narûkh’s arms. “You must take this immediately to the Zigûr, as fast as ever you can.  That Lorcastran has put a curse on it and everything will turn to dust if it’s not there within the hour.  That would mean both our heads.”   He looked meaningfully at Narûkh.

“What? Where are you going?” Narûkh said.

“No time. Go, go!” Tigôn cried, waving wildly at him. “I’ll be along shortly.” And he was off running down the street, realizing that most likely this was the most foolish thing he’d ever done; even worse than spending the night with the King’s zirâmîki.

 ***********
   
Something tickled Sûla’s cheek.  He swiped it away, hoping it wasn’t a spider, and opened his eyes a crack.  It was dark and cold. He felt dirty, itchy, hungry. Underneath him, the wool sacks were lumpy and uncomfortable, nothing like the King’s soft bed. What time was it?  Was it safe to go out?  He shivered and pulled the cloak closer about his shoulders, feeling dreadfully sorry for himself.  It was so unfair.  He sniffed and wiped his nose and the corners of his eyes with the back of his hand. All that was over now, he’d better get used to it.  He, who for a shining moment in time had been the flower of the King’s court, the jewel of his Majesty’s eye, and now all of it had come crashing down. An illusion.  He was worthless, good for nothing, just as they always told him.  At least his aunt hadn’t thrown him out. 

He felt the dragon, his seed corn to possibilities, on his upper arm through the woolen jacket Tigôn had given him, wondering where he might sell it. His thoughts drifted to when he’d taken the jacket from Tigôn’s bag and looked up to see the messenger holding out his bare arms with a warm, sleepy smile, inviting him back into bed. That gesture meant the world to him. He remembered crawling in with him, kissing his curly hair, snuggling against him, feeling his slim body, his strong, accepting arms about him. He remembered feeling at peace. That would never happen again, never, never. He was doomed to spend his life, wretched and alone. Unloved. He turned on his side and curled up into a ball.  The tears he’d held back came now, in great wracking sobs.   

**********

Although panicked, Tigôn was forced to stop, chest heaving.  Had he taken a wrong turn? None of this looked like the streets he’d seen in Magân’s scrying bowl.  He was in the weavers’ quarter, that was for sure.  He saw a shop with a painted sign of a grinning dolphin next to a twill pattern and another made of heavy wool. Neither was like the sign he’d seen in Magân’s scrying bowl.  Tigôn kept envisioning the guards finding Sûla and hacking him up into bits. Could he get there in time to warn him?  And then what would he and Sûla do?  Would they run off together?  He smacked the side of head. This was complete madness.  Well, he was making this up as he went along, surely, he’d think of something. Calm down and think.  He should go back to the crossroads where he met that woman and then follow the images he’d been shown.  He turned and retraced his steps, regretting every lost moment.

***********

Sûla was naked, covered in gold jewelry from head to toe, seated at the King’s feet.  A small living dragon curled around his upper arm, the sensation of slithering scales making his skin crawl. It came around and around, sliding onto his shoulder, its tail encircling his neck, drawing tight, tighter. 

Then he was dancing in Ar-Pharazôn’s Great Banquet Hall and everyone was cheering for him, clapping the rhythm with him.  He saw Tigôn standing near the table, watching. Tigôn smiled his shy, lop-sided grin, and Sûla thought, I’m dancing for you, only for you.

Dulginzin was sitting in the King’s chair.  “Drink the wine, Sûla,” he commanded. 

‘No,’ Sûla cried. 

‘You’ll do it or I’ll tell them you killed me,’ Dulginzin said.  ‘Who will they believe, you or me?’

Sûla fell on his hands to the floor and found that it was wet. He looked down into a bucket filled with brown, soapy water. A large hand pressed on the back of his head, and suddenly shoved his face down into it, again and again.  He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t.  He choked, spluttered, choked.  ‘No, father, please, don’t kill me!  I promise I won’t do it again,’ he shrieked and hated himself for being so weak. 

Where had the King gone?  Ar-Pharazôn had promised he’d protect him.  Sûla struggled, flailing away from the bucket, which tipped over and rolled away with a clang.  Snarling and raging, he scrambled up on padded feet and his nails clicked as he ran along the tile and leapt on his tormenter, ripping and tearing great gobbets of flesh from his neck. The bushy black beard tilted up and the head lolled, dripping blood.

He was a great savage wolf with razor teeth. And they were all nothing, compared to his power.  Rising up on his hind legs, waving his paws, he did the dance of the wolves, howling with anger.  The King sat motionless on the throne.  Sûla landed on all fours and snarled.  A spider was busy covering the King in sticky threads, winding them around and around his face, sealing his eyes shut. “Sûla, come and service me,” the King said and the tattered web blew backwards in a breath of air.  

In the King’s lap lay a beautiful black cat who looked at Sûla knowingly with half-closed, lazy yellow eyes. Sûla sat at the foot of the throne, looking up at it while the King stroked the beast repeatedly from head to tail.  The cat arched his back under that hand and yawned, showing a blood-red tongue.

“Come pet me, Sûla, my beautiful,” the cat said in a finely fluted voice. “The King is a fool. He doesn’t recognize your value, but I do. Take care of me and I’ll take care of you. That’s how it is. You have no one else now, no one to trust but me.”  

The cat dropped from the King’s lap with a thump and strolled over, tail waving. He butted his head against Sûla’s chest, then curled up beside him. As Sûla stroked the beast, a strange numbness came over him.  The cat’s incisors were long and protruded from its lips. 

It was so cold.  Cold.  Tramping boots.  He could hear them coming for him.  And there in the great square of the Palace yard, he saw the platform with the gallows swinging gently in a breeze.  The sky was iron-grey and all about on the rooftops waited hundreds of giant black crows with greedy eyes. 

Sûla yelled and half sat up, heart pounding.  He could still see them sitting quietly, with their sharp beaks and knowing eyes. A dream, he thought, taking a deep breath.  Just a dream. Although it could well come true.  What time was it?  Where was Kathalômi?

He heard the door of the shed creak open and the room brightened with daylight, enough to illuminate the dust motes streaming in the air in the confined space in which he lay.  The blanket covering his hiding place was suddenly wrenched aside.  Sûla gasped in terror as he looked into the pocked face of one of the King’s guard, a man named Bildûn. 

“Got him,” Bildûn called, as he reached in and grabbed Sûla by the arm, painfully yanking him out from under the shelf and onto the debris-laden floor.  Sûla looked up at a bristling row of four swords thrust in his face. “Put your hands on your head,” the guard barked. “You are under arrest by order of the King.  If you fight, it will go ill for you.” 
                                   
“I didn’t do it, Bildûn, I swear by Zizzûn’s dice,” Sûla cried, raising his hands to his head.    

“Well then I guess I should just let you go,” Bildûn said.  He laughed and put his hands under Sûla’s arms, dragging him upright.  “You protest your innocence while dressed in Lord Dulginzin’s cloak.  Brazen, isn’t he, mîkin? Come with me.  And don’t try running or anything, or you’ll be gutted before your time.”

Sûla’s legs were not cooperating, as they felt stiff from lying in hiding. As he rose and tried to walk, they gave out under him and he stumbled.  Bildûn grabbed him again and whispered in his ear.  “Don’t tempt me, mîki. Many’s the night I’ve heard you moaning under the King.  Perhaps you’ll moan just as prettily if I stick you.”

The other guards laughed.  “Not so cocky now, is he?” one of them said. “Umbarian filth.”

Sûla blinked in the bright sunshine of the yard.  There was only one explanation for this. And there she was, his stony-faced aunt, standing by the back door, arms folded. 

“You bitch!” Sûla screamed. “You swore by Zizzûn!”

She came up to him and patted his cheek.  “My favorite nephew.  Even Lord Zizzûn knows I had no choice.”

“You did, oh you did,” Sûla cried, livid with anger. “I came to you for help.  You’re worse than my step-father.  At least he never pretended to love me.” 

Kathâlomi said, “It was too dangerous to hide you.  The King’s soldiers were crawling all over Umbar.  The decree said anyone harboring you would be executed. I couldn’t risk it. I’m sorry, Sûla.”

“So am I,” Sûla said. “And one day, I swear, you’ll regret this. My whole family is worth nothing but shit. I curse you and the whole lot of them. From this day forward I’ll have none of you!” He spat at her feet.

“Enough with the charming family reunion,” Bildûn said.  “Tie him up.  Madam, your service to the crown has been noted.  You may report to the King’s exchequer to collect your reward.”  He gave her a disgusted look. 

“Are you coming to my hanging, Aunt?” Sûla cried.  She turned away, failing to meet his eyes.

One of the guards jerked Sûla’s hands behind his back and tied them ruthlessly.  Bildûn led the way while a guard on each side grasped one of Sûla’s arms and frog marched him through the house.

As Bildûn opened the door and they poured out onto the street, Sûla was astonished to see Tigôn standing there, gasping for breath, a look of horror on his face. What was he doing here? No, it couldn’t be! “Not you too,” Sûla said, in despair.

Tigôn shook his head vigorously. “No, no, Sûla. . . . it’s not . . . .” He glanced at the guards and pressed his lips shut.

Bildûn said, “What are you doing here, messenger?  I thought the King sent you on an errand?”

“He did,” Tigôn said.  “I happened to be nearby, when I saw you, and I, I followed, wondering where you were going.”

“Well the show is over,” Bildûn growled. “You had better run along to the King.”

“Yes,” Tigôn said. He bit his lip.

“Traitor of the blackest hue,” Sûla hissed.   

Tigôn’s face crumpled and he looked like he might cry. His lips moved, saying something. It looked like, ‘I’m sorry, Sûla.’  He backed away and then fled up the street. 

Sûla’s thoughts swirled about in dark confusion. What was Tigôn doing there? It made no sense. Had the messenger been with the guards when his aunt came to betray him?  Had Tigôn confessed what they’d done last night and was trying to redeem himself?  If so, then their lovemaking had meant nothing! If  Tigôn had abandoned him, he was truly alone.

Sorrow and anger burned a silent shriek inside Sûla’s gut.  His vision blurred.  The walk back was anguish. The news fled ahead of them and Umbarians gathered on either side of the street like the black crows in his dream, catcalling and pitching slops. Life had become Sûla’s nightmare. Death might actually be sweet.             

-tbc-

---

Chapter End Notes

Thanks as always to my wonderful betas Russandol and Malinornë for beta reading, cheerleading and plot dissecting. Also to Grey Gazania and Kymahalei of the LC.

abarîm - an elfscribe invented Adûnaic word for gold pieces, like a sovereign.  Abara would be one gold piece.  Also generically used to mean money.  The name is related to canon Adûnaic bâr
 - lord   
Azûlizrê – female name meaning eastern beloved, courtesy of Elleth on LC
Magân – means wright in Adûnaic
rhaw is the Sindarin term for Quenya hröa meaning body.  Fae(r) is Sindarin fëa meaning spirit. It is both singular and plural.
vakis - invented Haradren meaning genitals
zirâmîthin - female courtesans
zirâmîkin - male courtesans