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

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Chapter 23 - A Crow in Swan's Plumage

Summary: Tigôn witnesses Annatar’s strange behavior and falls under a spell.  Ar-Pharazôn discovers that he hates accounting but he does enjoy eel pie and a pert backside.

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With the westering sun glaring in his eyes, Tigôn ran through the streets of Umbar, feeling utterly wretched.  He knew he shouldn’t have fled from Sûla just when his friend could have used the comfort of his company, but he had no idea what else to do.  It was that black look of hatred Sûla had given him, which Tigôn did not deserve.  It hit him so hard that he had nearly broken down right there in front of the guards.

So, like a cowardly dog, he ran away.  Pulling up his hood to hide his face, he fled from the weaver’s quarter through the Umbarian market and up the road that wound around the hill towards the palace. All the while his mind churned. Would Sûla be hanged for this murder?  Was there anything he could do to prevent it?  Should he go to the King and admit that Sûla had been with him most of the night?  But even that wouldn’t be proof that his friend had not killed Lord Dulginzin after he left Tigôn’s room. And most likely going to the King would only get Sûla in worse trouble. No, better to keep quiet and watch what happened. Wasn’t that the first lesson he’d learned in Ar-Pharazôn’s court?  By the gods, he didn’t want to serve the King anymore.  He wanted to go home. The stomach-churning feeling came over him again.   
                           
Finally, gasping for breath, his side aching, he was forced to slow to a walk. He reached the imposing iron gates in the wall that encircled the Regent’s palace where he could see the scarlet cloaks of the guards standing sentry.  That reminded him of the satchel of Magân’s magic ingredients. He should make sure Narûkh had given it to the Zigûr.

He identified himself to the guards and passed through the gates, climbing up the long drive until he reached the huge doors to the palace.   Many colorfully garbed people were passing in and out, artisans, merchants, servants, soldiers. Slipping in among them, he walked through the great entranceway.

Tigôn came to a complete stop, looked at his hands and realized that he was shaking. He didn’t want to visit Annatar again.  He should report back to Ar-Pharazôn for his next assignment or risk being in even more trouble than he was already. He leaned up against a mosaic wall of dolphins leaping in the surf and stared at the flickering lamp that hung from the high ceiling. It reminded him of the strange winged shadow he’d seen ahead of them as he’d accompanied the Zigûr back to his room that morning, which now seemed ages ago.  

What sort of creature was the sorcerer anyhow? A Maia? A shape-shifter? What hold did he have on the King – heh, aside from the obvious one. Desire was a hold Tigôn had not fully understood – until last night.  He didn’t know whether to think of the wizard as friend or foe.  He wished his father were there to advise him, although he could never admit what he’d done with Sûla.  Once again, the fear of disappointing his family washed over him.  Curse it! He longed to go to Elendil and confess, but then he had failed to serve him and the Faithful as well.  He had failed everyone.  And without meaning to, he had failed Sûla most of all.

Perhaps Annatar could explain further what he meant when he said his senses told him Sûla was innocent. Maybe the sorcerer could read the future and tell Tigôn what to do.  That’s what he must do then, summon his nerve and visit Annatar again.  Magân had given him some instructions to pass along that he had not divulged to Narûkh.  He couldn’t very well keep that information from Annatar, could he?   Yes, it made sense to go to the sorcerer.
       
Tigôn made his way to Annatar’s rooms on the west wing of the palace, brushing off the servants who stopped him to ask for news.  The palace staff seemed in a dither about what would happen to the Regent, and consequently worried about their own fate. Since the runners were notorious for knowing things first, he was in high demand. “I don’t know,” he kept saying.  “Leave me, I’m on urgent business to the King.”
                       
When he arrived at the imposing double doors leading to the Zigûr’s quarters, Narûkh was one of the guards in attendance.  “So there you are,” he said to Tigôn.  “Finished your errand, did you?”

“Yes,” Tigôn said.  “Did you give that satchel to the Zigûr?”

“I know my duty,” Narûkh replied.  “I got it here well within the hour. Everything was still there and nothing turned to dust.  You should thank me.”

“Thank you.” Tigôn sketched a bow.  “And now, I must see Lord Annatar.”

“That you may not,” Narûkh said.  “He gave orders not to be disturbed under any circumstances.”

“Surely that doesn’t apply to me,” Tigôn said. “I need to give him some instructions from Magân pertaining to, um, those objects.”

Narûkh hesitated, staring hard at Tigôn with suspicious black eyes and then looking at the other guard. 

“Do you want to be responsible for the potion going awry and doing something horrible to the King?” Tigôn asked.

“Eh, why didn’t you say right off why it was important,” Narûkh grumbled.  “Very well.  It’s on your head if he eats you alive.  I promise you, something very strange is at work in there.   We keep hearing odd voices and noises, like animals growling or something.”  He knocked on the door and shouted,  “My Lord Annatar, a visitor.  He says it’s important.”

The wizard’s voice yelled, “Sha! No!”

Tigôn turned the knob and stuck his head in the room.  He was immediately overwhelmed by a variety of pungent smells.  The room was riven with smoke trails and something else. There! Shadows on the walls flared huge, flapping fitfully about.  Tigôn had the feeling that something was screeching just above his ability to hear.  The sorcerer’s darkly robed figure was bent over a table on which were scattered some of the items Tigôn had bought. He seemed blurred, as if Tigôn were looking at him cross-eyed. 

Tigôn’s senses prickled with wrongness. He rubbed his eyes, hesitated, then thought of Sûla.  He must be brave for his friend who was fighting for his life.  The messenger slipped into the room, closing the door behind him with a sharp snick.  

Annatar straightened into a towering figure and turned his head. His eyes seemed lit by twin fires, like the beacons that warned ships from a rocky shore.  “I told you to stay out,” he snarled.

“Your lordship.” With his heart thudding, Tigôn went down on one knee.  “I sent ahead the items I bought from Magân, as you requested, for your potion.  But, if you please, I have some instructions to give you. . . about those things.  And some news.  They have found Sûla and taken him into custody.”

“Have they?” Annatar raised an eyebrow.  “Hold your tongue,” he snapped. Strangely, he spoke in Sindarin. 

Tigôn jumped nearly out of his skin, but Annatar did not seem to be directing the remark to him. The Zigûr’s voice had a strange harmonic quality like two flutes playing the same notes.

“My Lord?” Tigôn hesitated.

“What did Magân tell you?” Annatar snarled. 

“He said the bloodroot is not as fresh as he’d like.  It’s several months old because supplies are low.   And the bat wings are a different variety than you requested, but this kind also roosts in Khazad-dûm so he thinks it will work.  And the morthul must be ground.  He only had the dried leaves.”

“Is that all?”  Annatar said.  Then his voice lowered into a sharp whisper. “Oh, so you laugh, thinking I can’t fold you back into my rhaw. What if the ingredients are not perfect? They are more than adequate for the task,” he said in Sindarin.  He reached for a vial sitting on the table.  The hand jerked back suddenly and he grasped it with his left hand wrestling it to the table.  His right hand made a fist and tried to push back, while Annatar bore down on it with all his weight.  It looked as if he were struggling with himself.  Tigôn wanted to laugh.  Finally Annatar’s fist relaxed and his hand opened. Annatar released himself, then picked up the vial and began tapping powder out of it onto a scale.”

“My Lord?” Tigôn began tentatively. He felt a strong animal urge to flee.  This was not the smoothly controlled Annatar he’d seen before.  This was . . . something else.

“What now?” Annatar said.  He recapped the vial as if nothing had happened.

“I had another message from Magân.  He asked if you would remember his service kindly in future.  He gave the King a bargain in price.”

“Magân knows where his bread is buttered,” Annatar grunted. Waving dismissively at Tigôn, he raised his hand to a flower made of his coppery hair, pinned to his collar, stroking it between thumb and forefinger. “Know your place, curse you,” he said.

“What?” Tigôn asked fearfully.  “I did as you asked, Lord Annatar.”

“Not you,” Annatar said.  “Now leave, if you value your sanity.”

“My Lord, about Sûla . . .”  Once again the frightening eyes focused on him.  “You said your gut told you he was innocent.” Tigôn faltered.  “Is, is there a way to prove that?”

Annatar’s sumptuous mouth quirked into the semblance of a smile.  “Have no fear, messenger. There will be a trial and the truth will out, as they say.  All truths. Ones that perhaps you will not bear so well.  No one is truly innocent.”  He laughed and the sound rippled up Tigôn’s spine like a butcher’s knife opening up a pig’s belly. 

Slowly, Annatar approached, beautiful and deadly as a serpent, until he was standing over him and Tigôn was looking up into those fierce, fiery eyes. “Love is a weakness, King’s messenger.  Better you learn this lesson now before coming to grief over it.  But it matters not. You will deny your love for him soon enough and in so doing, it will be crushed from your soul. You’ll know what I mean when the time comes.” His long fingers brushed Tigôn’s cheek in a strangely sensual gesture.  They had a duality, a heat that burned like ice. 

Tigôn jerked away from that touch. “Are you not a powerful wizard? There must be something you can do.”

“If he can be saved, I shall save him,” Annatar intoned.  “Though neither of you may care for the price. That’s as much as I can promise.  Now, unless you wish to donate your youth to the King’s elixir, begone, and do not trouble me again until the sun rises tomorrow.  Go!”

He suddenly appeared to grow. Shadowed wings enveloped the room, stretching from wall to wall, and his face transformed into that of a great black dragon. The mouth opened, revealing teeth the size of daggers. In terror, Tigôn reached behind himself, fumbling for the knob. He jerked the door open and escaped from the room. The sorcerer’s voice rumbled after him. “Death will come to the next man who opens this door!” 

A blast of hot air hit him as Tigôn slammed the door shut.  He leaned against it, breathing heavily.  “Wrath of Manwë!” he gasped. 

“I warned you,” Narûkh replied, gripping Tigôn’s shoulder.  “Best to stay out of it, Tigôn.  If I were the King, I wouldn’t get near whatever the Zigûr is brewing in there.  But I’m following orders and keeping my mouth shut.  Best you do the same.”

Tigôn gulped and nodded. He realized that he was starving, exhausted, and disgusted with all this drama. He longed to visit the kitchens and get a loaf of bread and a strong bottle of wine and then sequester himself in his room to get drunk and pass out, preferably until his people were ready to sail back to Númenor.  But it was his fear of failing at his duty that conquered him. And so, against all his instincts, he headed towards the royal chambers to report to the King. 

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“Make way for the King’s Steward,” Pharazôn heard the herald announce, the sound echoing in the Great Hall.  The crowd of petitioners parted like waves before the prow of a ship as Lord Azgarad came toward him, his iron heels resounding on the tiles.   He was carrying two large, leather-bound ledgers in his arms.

“That is enough for today,” Pharazôn announced to his guard. “Send the rest of them away.”

There was a barely audible sigh of dismay throughout the room and then the royal guardsmen were on the move, busy herding out all those annoying Umbarians.  Darîkil, the page, was leaning up against a wall looking bored while he waited for an assignment.  Pharazôn wondered where Tigôn was and then remembered that he’d been sent into town to buy the supplies for the Zigûr. 

With a squishy thump, Pharazôn sat back on the Regent’s nicely padded throne.  “By Ossë’s nutsack,” he declared. “You’re a gladsome sight, Azgarad.  I was beginning to wonder if there was a single person in Umbar not quarreling with his neighbor over fishing rights, or accusing the wool merchant of fathering his bastard, or his brother of stealing the family goat. I declare the sooner I’m quit of this place, the better.  Um, don’t write that down,” he said to his scribe, Aglahad, who sat on a stool nearby.  Aglahad was still a handsome man, a former zirâmîki from a number of years ago, and cleverer than most of them. 

“Of course not, my Lord,” the scribe said.

“Have you heard?” Azgarad said. “They’ve found your cupbearer, Sûla, alive and unharmed.  He’s in a holding cell below.”

“Yes, I heard,” Pharazôn said. “Bildûn, one of the guards who found him, came to see me as soon as they incarcerated the boy.  Expecting a reward for efficiency, no doubt.  I sent him off with an extra month’s pay.  Did you write that down?”  he asked the scribe, who nodded.

“Shall we sup in your chambers?” Azgarad asked. “I have a fearsome appetite after the day I’ve had.”  He turned to Darîkil, the messenger.  “Find Aphanuzîr and send him to the King’s chambers. We have much to discuss.” He tilted his chin at the books in his arms. “My Lord, we’ve got the Regent by his short hairs.”  
                       
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“Hmm, interesting,” Pharazôn said as his Steward enthusiastically showed him what he’d found in Rabêlozar’s records.  The King was, in fact, quite bored with it.  He would much rather have a willing boy sitting in his lap.  He was more relaxed now, dressed in a comfortable robe and seated with Lord Azgarad and Aphanuzîr around a table in his chambers.  Several open ledgers and piles of neatly-written accounting sheets lay to hand, along with plates of half-eaten eel pie.  The King took another sip of wine and discovered the cup nearly empty.  Not for the first time he missed his attentive cupbearer, Sûla. 

“I see what you mean.  That’s curious, isn’t it?” Aphanuzîr was saying.  He bent so far over the ledger that the Steward and Counselor’s heads nearly touched. 

Pharazôn’s eyes were glazed from looking at the rows and columns of figures neatly entered in a fine hand.  He’d never been one for numbers.   Thank the gods he had a skilled Steward who was very good at these things. What had Annatar said in his bed last night? Oh yes, he had said that he thought Azgarad was competent and trustworthy.  It occurred to Pharazôn that he should appoint his Steward as Regent of Umbar once this business with Rabêlozar was settled. The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea.  Then he wouldn’t have to worry about disappearing taxes from this backwater.  Of course, it would only be temporary until they found a suitable replacement.  In the meantime, Aphanuzîr was clever at these things too.  He could oversee Azgarad’s minions who kept track of Númenor’s complicated accounts.

“Look here,” Azgarad was saying. “All these donations to build Zizzûn’s temple with no names attached to the gifts.  But if you look at the amounts coming from the wealthiest Umbarian merchants, you’ll see that they have dropped in the past five years and the difference roughly corresponds to the amount of the donations.” Azgarad was practically rubbing his hands in glee.

“Hmm,” Pharazôn said, trying to look knowledgeable.
                           
“It means, my Lord, that Rabêlozar has been diverting revenue to his own projects that, by rights, should have come to Númenor.  And here, look at all these household expenses, entertainment, slaves, and the rest.  Sire, the amount he’s stolen has exceeded even what I’d anticipated.  The accounts the merchants turned over to me indicate that they did much better in the past five years than Rabêlozar reported.  Clearly, he’s been skimming funds from revenues that rightfully should have come to Númenor’s treasury.”

Aphanuzîr shook his head in disgust. “All those sad reports he sent about damage done by storms to the fishing industry. I have been suspicious for some time since my information indicated that the weather was not as severe as he made out.”

“We were overdue to check up on him,” Pharazôn said.  “What a snake.  A snake that has eaten an overlarge hare and now has no place to slither off to.” He took a bite of the eel pie, washed it down with the last swallow of strong red wine and then chuckled.  “I’ll give him this, Rabêlozar does have damn fine taste in cooks.”

“He’s claiming, of course, that his exchequer did all this on his own,” Aphanuzîr said, tapping his lip with a fork.

Azgarad snorted.  “Not bloody likely.  But Rabêlozar has gained support among his subjects, particularly the merchants’ guilds, through a combination of bribery and intimidation. We have to prove it beyond a doubt.”

“Huh,” Aphanuzîr snorted. “He’s managed to dispose of all the principle witnesses. Although, my Lord, I think we have enough here to nail him without their testimony. I assume you’re handling the accusations, Azgarad?”
 
“With your permission, my Lord,” Azgarad said. 

“I believe no one is more qualified,” Pharazôn said.  “However, from what you’re showing me, this is going to be difficult to prove in court.  No one will have the patience to go over little ticks in a ledger, especially since Rabêlozar will have invented explanations for all of it. He’s quite a clever little reptile.”

“I’ll do the best I can to prove it to the Umbarians,” Azgarad said gruffly.  “Anyone can see how suspicious all of this looks.”

“Well, I’ve got the winning roll for you,” Pharazôn said, feeling smug.

Both Azgarad and Aphanuzîr looked at him quizzically.

“Let us just say I have someone with special talents who, if the need arises, can discern the truth in these matters,” Pharazôn said. 

“Who?” Azgarad said.  Then his glance flicked to meet Aphanuzîr’s in a way Pharazôn did not like.  It suggested conspiracy.

“The Zigûr?” Aphanuzîr guessed.

“The Zigûr,” Pharazôn confirmed.  They both opened their mouths but before they could protest, the King said angrily, “I know what you’re going to say and what you both think of the Lord Annatar. ‘A crow in swan’s plumage’ didn’t you say the other night, Aphanuzîr? You have both warned me until I’m sick of it.  I’m well aware of what he is. But think on this.  If it hadn’t been for Annatar alerting us about the Regent, we would never have discovered the deception in the first place. He helped us win the battle against the Haradrim and he’s promised to turn over all his strategic knowledge. As far as I’m concerned, his assets have outweighed any possible evil he might do. He has certain abilities he can bring to bear in this trial.”

“My Lord, I agree with what you’ve said,” Aphanuzîr replied cautiously. “However, we would do well to remember the elves of Ost-in-Edhil. I strongly protest the use of black magic or whatever this sorcerer has up his sleeve.  Do you want to win over the Umbarian people or scare them to death?”

The King brooded for a moment.  He hated it when his counselors contradicted him and even more when they had good points. “Very well,” he said.  “I shall only use his powers if necessary.”

“I suppose Annatar could prove useful in this instance,” Azgarad said as he fingered the patch of beard on his chin.  “Since he’s the one who told us about Rabêlozar, clearly it serves his interest to be rid of him. It’s good that we want that as well.  But what happens when his interests diverge from ours?  Sire, if I may be so blunt, I worry about the influence he’s cultivated with you.  Please, if you value my long years of service and my good counsel, you will stay away from his person.  I should like him to sail to Númenor on Aphanuzîr’s ship.”

“Stay away from his person,” Pharazôn stated flatly.   “I presume you mean I should not bed him!”  He picked a piece of eel out of his teeth and flicked it away.

“Yes, my Lord, I do mean that,” Azgarad snapped.  “And I only say so out of loyalty and devotion.”

“So noted,” Pharazôn said.  “Do not try my patience any more.  He’s my prisoner and I shall do what I like with him.”

“Where is he now?” Aphanuzîr said.

“In his rooms, brewing his elixir to restore youthfulness,” Pharazôn said.  “Another thing he’s doing that may prove of great value to my Kingdom.”

“You are not going to just drink whatever he hands you!”Aphanuzîr exclaimed.

“Just how stupid do you think I am?” Pharazôn roared.  With a clang, he slammed his bronze cup on the table. “Aphanuzîr, you’ve been my friend for many years and I have no reason to doubt your loyalty, but there are times when you treat me like the boy you once knew, rather than a capable leader.  There are plenty of servants to sample the brew before I taste it.  Perhaps, you would like that honor yourself? Hmmm?  Might be good for your aches and pains.  That is, if it works.  If it doesn’t . . .”  Pharazôn shrugged.

His old mentor straightened up with a look of consternation, which Pharazôn relished. 

“If it works,” Azgarad said thoughtfully, “Númenor shall become wealthy beyond anyone’s most avaricious dreams.  What price would anyone who has felt the aches of age pay for renewed youth?”

“Exactly,” Pharazôn said.  “People would sell their souls for it.  Where is the servant to pour the wine?” 

“You sent him out not half an hour ago,” Azgarad said. “For honey cakes.  They take a while to bake.”

There came a knock on the door and one of his guards entered. “My Lord, your messenger is here.”

They all looked up as Tigôn slipped in behind the guard. Pharazôn noted that he looked pale and tense. Still, he was a handsome boy.  That mussed curly hair looked as if he’d just tumbled out of bed.  If the King didn’t know that Tigôn’s lord father would object most strenuously, he might even consider . . . . But no, it would not do to start manhandling his other servants.  By the gods, he was missing Sûla just now.  Why had he let Azgarad talk him out of bringing some of his other zirâmîkin?  ‘War is not the place for pleasure boys,’ Azgarad had said. Feh!   Pharazôn eyed his empty wine cup.            

“My Lord,” Tigôn said, bowing. “I have delivered all the ingredients requested to the Lord Annatar.  Do you have any assignments for me?”

“Why yes, you can mix and pour wine for us,” Pharazôn replied.

Tigôn looked startled.  But then he inclined his head and went over to the sideboard. “How strong?” he asked.

“One part wine to water,” Pharazôn replied.  He heard the boy pouring liquids together and stirring.  Then, Tigôn returned with the jug and Pharazôn raised his cup to be filled.    

“Is Annatar working on the potion?” Pharazôn asked him.

“Yes, my Lord,” Tigôn said. “However, I fear that something is amiss with him.”  He moved over to pour for Aphanuzîr.   

“What doesn’t seem right? Explain,” Azgarad said, as Tigôn filled his cup.

“When I checked on him just now, he was acting very strangely, talking to himself or someone unseen.  It sent a chill up my back,” Tigôn said.  “And then he suddenly turned into a dragon and told me to get out.  It was terrifying.”

“He turned into a dragon?” Aphanuzîr asked in alarm.  “Can he do that?”

“I don’t think it was real.  I think he just made me see him that way.  He has the ability to manipulate . . . .”  Tigôn set down the pitcher abruptly and swayed, putting his hand to his forehead. 

“What is wrong with you?” Pharazôn said.

“Forgive me, my Lord.  It’s been a long day,” Tigôn said. “And I fear that treating with the sorcerer Magân, he’s the one who sold me the supplies for the Zigûr’s conjuring, well, I have to say, my Lord, it was rather draining.”   

“I should like to hear the story sometime, perhaps on the voyage home,” Pharazôn said. “Your service has been good, Tigôn. I shall have to tell your father when next he comes to Armenelos.  But tell me, how did you come to be at the house where my zirâmîki was hiding, just as they had captured him?”

For a moment the boy seemed off his stride.  He opened his mouth, closed it, and then said.  “As I already explained to Bildûn, Magân’s shop was nearby.  I saw the Red Cloaks marching and decided to see where they were going.”

“Indeed,” Pharazôn said.  “So you caught a glimpse of Sûla?” 

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Did he say anything to you?  Do you think he’s guilty?”

“He did not say anything, my Lord, but I am sure he didn’t do it.”

“And why do you say that?” Azgarad asked.  He closed one of the ledgers with a snap.

“Because,” Tigôn said firmly. “He is a slave and he knows full well what would happen to him if he killed a lord.”

“Crimes of passion don’t usually involve much thought,” Azgarad said.  “But I saw the body and it didn’t look like a crime of passion.  It looked calculated.  One quick jerk with a very sharp blade.  The wound was clean. No other blows on the body.  It bled something fierce.  The bed was soaked through, like the straw on the floor of a butcher’s shop.”

“Indeed,” Pharazôn said.  “I agree that sounds like an assassination. And the belligerent young Lord Dulginzin did not lack for enemies. As we now know, Sûla might have been among them. I must say, I find myself very distressed about this whole matter. The boy was a charming and most talented servant, in every way.  I have been considering the possibility of commuting part of the sentence. Have you ever seen someone drawn before being hanged, Tigôn?”

The boy’s lips thinned as he pressed them together. He shook his head.

“Not a pretty sight,” Pharazôn said. “I remember the last one. When they opened him up, his guts spilled out like a pile of squirming eels. The man’s screams echoed in my ears for a week.”  He stabbed a piece of the eel in his pie and held it up, dripping gravy.

Tigôn turned white, swayed, and went down like a stone. It was only Aphanuzîr’s quick lunge, reaching out and grabbing the boy’s arm, that kept him from cracking his head on the tile.

“By Manwë’s eagles,” Pharazôn declared. “What’s the matter with him?”

“He fainted, and no wonder,” Aphanuzîr said, shooting Pharazôn a stern look.  He slid from his chair, eased the boy to the floor, then patted Tigôn’s cheek.  “Tigôn!” he called.  “Are you well?”

Tigôn groaned and his eyes fluttered open.  So blue they were. “Oh, I . . . , forgive me,” the boy stammered.

There was a knock on the door and the guard entered.  “My King, Lord Nimruzîr is asking permission to see you.”

“Let him come,” Pharazôn said.  “What’s one more at this party?”

Aphanuzîr’s son strode breezily through the door, dressed in his long green cape and smelling of salt air.  His eyes widened at Tigôn lying on the floor, head cradled in Aphanuzîr’s lap.  “Sire,” he said, bowing to the King. “What happened to our messenger?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Tigôn said.  Red-faced, he struggled to sit upright.

“The boy passed out. When did you last eat?” Aphanuzîr said to him.

“Last night, at the banquet,” Tigôn murmured. “And I did not get much sleep last night.”

“Oh well, there you are,” Aphanuzîr said, looking up at the King. “It’s a simple matter to fix. Better send him off to get something in his belly, Pharazôn, or he’ll be no good when you need him tomorrow.”

“Very well,” Pharazôn said, frowning.  “Tigôn, in reward for all your service today, you may go for a bite in the servants’ kitchen and then get some rest.  You will report back to me at daybreak tomorrow.  We need runners to help with preparations for the trials.”

“Thank you, my Lord. That would be most welcome,” Tigôn said.  He slowly got to his feet, looking quite wan. 

“Well, I have a solution,” Nimruzîr said heartily. “I have ordered supper sent to my room and was just coming to see if my father had yet eaten. Perhaps Tigôn would care to join us?  With your leave, my Lord, I have a task for him afterwards.”

“Yes, go,” the King said.  “Although the Lords Aphanuzîr and Azgarad are not quite done here.  We haven’t yet discussed preparations for the voyage home.”

“I’ll join you shortly,” Aphanuzîr said. “Take yourselves off.”

Nimruzîr and Tigôn bowed again.

“Oh, before you go to meat, Tigôn,” Pharazôn said.  “Search out young Niduzîn in the kitchens and tell him to get his arse back up here before I have to beat it bloody.” He laughed.  

“Yes, my Lord,” Tigôn said.

Such an attractive boy, Pharazôn thought again as he eyed the rounded contours of Tigôn’s departing back side.  Yes indeed.

-tbc-

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Chapter End Notes

Thanks so much to my wonderful betas Russandol and Malinornë.  Also to Grey Gazania, Kymahalei, and Aearwen of the Lizard Council for finding the nits.