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

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Chapter 25 - Trials

Chapter summary: Sûla is tried for murder and Annatar’s ability as a truthsayer is brought into play. Tigôn has a final ploy to use if all is lost, but will Annatar trump them all?

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“Shut up, shut up!” Mairon hissed, holding his hands over his ears, which was a futile gesture since the cries came from deep inside his head. What a night! He had contemplated bashing his brains in just to be rid of the voice torturing him endlessly with mournful elvish songs. But then he reasoned, why destroy such a magnificent creation just because of a hitch in plans? He must be patient. Patient. There was a lovely Sindarin lass, she lived just o’er the hill . . . Aiiii! Not again! He found some distraction through watching the slow simmering of the liquid in the cauldrons set over the fire, noticing how the bubbles appeared and disappeared, and comparing them to ones he had observed issuing from within molten rock in the bowels of the earth. The brew seemed to be taking forever. He should invent some new aphorisms. ‘A watched pot never boils,’ would be a good one, even better would be: ‘a sorcerer should never test a spell on himself.’

In the dark hour just before dawn, he dipped up a ladle-full of the frothy liquid and held it to a lamp to examine the color. It was ready. He poured in into a large, two-handled cup and mixed in some wine.

“This will shut you up, Fingaer, you piece of Golodhren filth!” Mairon declared, and then nearly dropped the cup as a loud “No!” resounded in his head. He tried to raise the cup to his lips, but his arm seemed stuck in place, vibrating furiously. “Let go, curse you! Curse you to the Void!” he roared. Bending his head, he managed to bring the cup to his mouth and took a large swallow. The liquid stung his tongue and seemed to hiss all the way down his throat. Suddenly his arm was his own and he was able to rapidly chug down the rest of the brew. An internal shriek caused him to drop the cup with a crash, and cower down, hugging his cramping belly.

Slowly the pain subsided. He waited, listening for a voice, a whisper, a moan. Nothing.

Ah finally! Blissful quiet with only his own thoughts for company. Mairon felt as if he’d been ill for a long time and had awakened suddenly to renewed health and vigor. He danced a little jig around the room. And then he realized that his foot was quite sound again too. Ha! He snapped his fingers. So much for the weakling elf!

Feeling smug, and not a little relieved, he carefully packed up all the left-over powders and conjuring bits into the satchel so that he’d have enough ingredients in case he needed another dose on the voyage to Númenor and then he went back to his chair by the fire. There would be no more distractions. Now he could bend his will fully to the other events he’d set in motion. He could feel them out there, simmering like the liquid in his kettle. When he extended his senses, he could tell that the young messenger lad, Tigôn, would pay him a visit soon to ask for help. The more help all these fools needed, the better his position became. Soon it would be time to unveil some of his power.  Not too much. A little fear would be good for them.

He rose to stir the other potion, the elixir of youth. This was to be his masterpiece. The key to his return to power. He poured himself another cup of wine and sat back in his chair, basking in a warm glow of cleverness.

One of the guards knocked briskly on his door and announced the King.

“Come,” Mairon called.

Ar-Pharazôn entered, looking weary with dark circles accenting his eyes. Mairon cupped a hand over his mouth to hide a smirk. He coughed, then inclined his head. “Good morning, my Lord. You seem a bit, um, not yourself this morning.”

The King scowled at him. “In truth, I feel awful,” he declared. “Everything aches. It must be the damp chill here. I took a walk through the courtyard earlier and the wind cut right through my garments. I long to return to Armenelos.” He came over to the cauldron simmering on the fire, bent down, and took a whiff. “Is that the um . . . the elixir?”

“It is,” Mairon said.

“It smells terrible. When will it be ready?”

“Don’t be so impatient, my Lord. These things take time to brew up properly. You wouldn’t want to drink it still green and end up with only the upper half of your body restored while the rest shriveled up like an old man.”

Ar-Pharazôn’s eyes narrowed. “No,” he said. “And you won’t like what will happen to you if that were to happen to me.”

“It will be ready tomorrow morning.”

“Well good. Good.” The King rubbed his hands and looked around the room. “I came to talk to you about the trials this afternoon.”

Mairon smiled and lowered his lashes. “Of course. How may I be of service, my Lord?”

******************
The Regent’s trial had become a spectacle, the event that everyone wanted to see. The Great Hall that served as Rabêlozar’s audience chamber was lit with many hanging lamps and filled with the sound of music and voices. Umbar’s wealthy merchants, priests, and other elite had turned out, bedecked in their finest clothing and jewels, and the hall roared with their conversations. At the back of the hall, white-robed musicians banged a slow, steady beat on drums held by straps over their shoulders, while others played a solemn dirge on reedy-sounding flutes and brassy horns. The King’s scarlet-cloaked guards ringed the edges of the room.

Feeling as twitchy as a cricket in a fireplace, Tigôn watched the colorful Umbarians and all of the King’s retinue file in through the main doorway.  Nibanuzîr, the King’s head of household, had placed him near one of the side doors at the front of the room, for which he was grateful, as he had a close but unobtrusive view of the proceedings.  He had dressed in his good uniform, grey hose and a fitted tunic of fine wool dyed a deep blue and embroidered on the breast with silver wings proclaiming his status as a messenger. He’d tied his unruly hair back with a cord, noting that it was getting long.  He was so worried about Sûla’s upcoming trial that he could barely stand still. If he were taking odds on the trial’s outcome, he would bet they wouldn’t favor either him or his friend.  His lover, he thought. Yes, his lover, and hopefully no one other than Lord Elendil would ever know that.

The King’s three other pages, Kuphîr, Zanar, and Darîkil, hovered by the raised platform that held the Regent’s chair at the end of the Hall, waiting to be of service. Darîkil’s laughter at some jest had brought out the dimple in his cheek.  He caught Tigôn’s eye and made a face, pointing behind his hand at a monstrous hat that some Umbarian wool merchant was wearing. Tigôn ignored him. He heartily wished this whole affair were well over.  Last night after he left Sûla’s prison cell, he’d had an idea of something he could do if things went badly at the trial, a final throw of the bone dice.  He hoped it would not come to that. 

Aznat, the King’s herald, thumped his staff vigorously on the floor and waited for the noise to settle.  He nodded at Tigôn, who opened the side door.  To the blast of horns and the ominous beat of the great drums, the King’s Counselors entered the room, parading past Tigôn. Among them were the Lords Aphanuzîr, Nimruzîr, Rothîbal, Izindor, and Ikar-lak, head of the Bawîba Manô priesthood, startling as always in his eagle beak headdress. Nimruzîr, who Tigôn always thought of as Lord Elendil, gave him a reassuring nod as he went by. The Counselors climbed the six steps of the dais and arranged themselves behind tables draped in scarlet linen on either side of the Regent’s great chair. Aglahad the scribe, handsome in green velvet, stood by a small table at the foot of the dais, a scroll of linen and quills and ink ready to hand. The King’s Steward, Lord Azgarad entered, sharp-eyed, gaunt, and imposing, dressed in his blue and silver robes.  He too climbed the steps and stood by a chair to the right of the throne.

Tigôn recognized members of the Counselors’ households standing at the front of the crowd.  Among them, he noticed Izindor’s son, Mirandor, who looked like a toad with those strange eyes that flicked nervously back and forth in opposite directions. Tigôn frowned as he remembered what Sûla had said about him. Pervert! Could Mirandor have killed his own brother?  It didn’t seem likely.  From what he’d seen of Lord Izindor’s second son, he didn’t have enough independent thought to have killed so much as a louse. But someone had done it.  He sincerely hoped Sûla was telling him the truth. Tigôn’s gut knotted again.

An audible gasp rippled through the crowd, like wind in a wheat field, and Tigôn turned his head to look as the Lord Annatar arrived through the main entrance and came striding towards the dais.  And it was no wonder people gasped for he was breathtaking in his elvish beauty and grace. The glowing red eyes Tigôn had seen the day before were gone.  Instead, Annatar’s glance had returned to the serene self-confidence of a panther watching his domain. He was dressed much as he had been when he was first captured. His fiery red hair fell like a silken cloak about his shoulders and was pulled back from his face by many small braids, revealing ears tapering to delicate points.  He was garbed in black armor: a sable breast plate over a short chain mail kilt, bracers on his arms, tall boots, and fingerless black leather gloves.  A circlet of rubies rested on his brow. Beautiful and deadly. He appeared like an elvish warrior of old, perhaps even Maedhros himself, readied for one of the endless battles of the First Age that Tigôn remembered reading about as a child. 

Looking at the admiring stares, Tigôn bethought himself and shut his open mouth. He sincerely hoped Annatar would prove to be the ally he had promised to be. Maybe Tigôn had sold his soul when he visited the sorcerer that morning and begged for his help. But to save Sûla, it was worth it.

Annatar ascended the steps of the dais to take a place at the Counselor’s table.  He noticed Azgarad, Amandil, and Elendil exchanging looks.  Already, he’s become one of them, Tigôn thought.  How had he managed that?

Last to enter was the King, splendid in his winged crown, bedecked in gold and robed in crimson, his spotted lion skin about his shoulders.  As magnificent as he was, Tigôn thought that Ar-Pharazôn the Golden was no match for Annatar the Dark Sorcerer.

“All bow to the Great King of Númenor, Lord of Umbar, and Surrounding Provinces!” cried Aznat, the herald. 
  
There was a sweeping motion as everyone bowed low.  Ar-Pharazôn inclined his head towards the spectators and his Counselors, then turned and seated himself on the Regent’s throne, arranging the lion skin artfully about his shoulders.  This was as much a show for the Umbarians about who their rightful ruler was, as a trial of their Regent. Tigôn realized that, to most of the people there, the trial of a zirâmîki for the murder of one of their Númenórean overlords was a secondary matter. No doubt, the exception to this was the grim-faced Lord Izindor, father of the murdered man.  

There was rustling, thumping, and sighing as the Counselors, members of the court, and wealthy merchants and land-owners of Umbar took their seats. The rest of the crowd remained standing in the back.

Through the side door where Tigôn stood, several guards appeared with Lord Rabêlozar and marched him out before the King. The Regent bowed low with a jingle of chains. His jowly face looked grey and drawn, the skin loose as if he’d lost weight overnight.  

The King’s herald announced, “Hear all ye Peoples of Umbar.  We are gathered to hear evidence so that the Great Ar-Pharazôn can render judgement in the case of Rabêlozar, Regent of Umbar, accused of misappropriating taxes rightfully belonging to Númenor and using them to build a temple to the god Zizzûn, as well as to enrich himself.  He is also accused of ordering the hanging of a chief witness of these crimes, his exchequer, Ephalak, and further ordering the execution of the two prison guards who carried out the deed.”
          
“What say you to these charges, Rabêlozar?” Lord Azgarad asked in a strident voice.

Rabêlozar mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. “My Lord King.  I am innocent.  There is no proof . . .” 

There was whispering among the Umbarians. Ar-Pharazôn raised his hand for silence.

“I gather you’ve studied my exchequer’s books,” Rabêlozar continued. “So you’ve seen for yourself that the money for the temple came from gifts and booty seized from the Haradrim. I deemed it important to build a temple to Zizzûn because the people believe in his power.”

“It is blasphemy!” Ikar-lak raged, “to build a temple to any god but Eru and a shrine to any but the Valar.” His face, or what one could see of it from within the recesses of his mask, appeared bright red.

Rabêlozar seemed to shrink into himself.  “I was under pressure from the local priests,” he replied softly.  “You don’t know what it’s like trying to keep peace with all the factions here.”

“You should have consulted with me before undertaking such a project,” Ar-Pharazôn said.

“My Lord King.  You were far away across the sea,” Rabêlozar replied, with a hint of pique. “How am I to know your every wish?”

Ar-Pharazôn gave him a withering look.  “Surely you knew that diverting revenue meant for the crown would not be viewed favorably.  My couriers come twice a year.  You had ample opportunity to send a missive along with Umbar’s tribute. Lord Azgarad, what did your study of the records reveal?”

Lord Azgarad walked to a pile of ledgers sitting on the table in front of Aglahad the scribe.   He picked up one of them, filled with slender pieces of parchment marking places, and opened it.

Engrossed in the spectacle, Tigôn hardly noticed that Nibanuzîr had approached until he felt a tap on his shoulder. The head of household said in a low voice, “I suspect this won’t take long. Go have the guards bring up the zirâmîki, Sûla.”

*************
Tigôn found Sûla coming along the hallway from the prisons in the tow of five Red Cloak guards. His hands were shackled in front of him, and on each side, a guard had locked an arm about his elbow. Two guards followed behind and the captain of the King’s guard, Hazûn, led the procession.

Sûla marched submissively along, eyes downcast, looking pale and frightened.  He was dressed as Tigôn had last seen him, in Tigôn’s green cape and cream-colored jacket over his loose black dancing trousers, and the heavy boots that looked too big for him. Even though Sûla’s expression was grim, his dark locks unkempt, and his jewels and face paint gone, he was still the loveliest man Tigôn had ever seen. His exotic eyes with their long, dark lashes flicked up to meet his, and for a moment, Tigôn saw a spark within them, a yearning vulnerability, before they were shuttered again.

“You are ordered to take the prisoner to the side door of the Great Hall,” Tigôn said to Hazûn.

“I know,” Hazûn said, waving dismissively at him.

Tigôn fell in step with them.  “How is the prisoner faring?” he asked.

“Well enough, considering,” Hazûn said.

“You can talk to me directly,” Sûla said, “I haven’t lost my tongue – yet.”

“If I were you, I’d shut that pretty mouth and keep it shut,” said a guard who Tigôn knew as Hozdûnik.  He’d been one of the most zealous in undressing and searching him when he’d visited Sûla the night before.

“He has done you no harm,” Tigôn said.  “So, pray keep a civil tongue or I might let a report slip to the King.”

Hozdûnik grumbled something.

“Did you know, Sûla,” Tigôn said conversationally, “I took a message to Lord Annatar this morning.  He said the King has commanded him to serve as a Truthsayer at your trial.”

Sûla nodded slightly.  “Good, I’m not afraid of the truth,” he said.

“Better watch he doesn’t ream out your innards with his sorcery,” Hozdûnik said.

“Must you always be so unpleasant, Hozdûnik?” Hazûn snarled. “Shut up, all of you.”

While they walked back to the Great Hall, Tigôn watched Sûla out of the corner of his eye. It was torture to be so near him and have to pretend there was nothing between them. He longed to take him in his arms, to hold and kiss him, to assure him that all would be well.  But then saying that would not make it so.  He bit his lip.

“Stay here and I’ll see what is happening,” Tigôn said.  He opened one of the doors quietly and slipped inside.  The room was silent. All the faces in the crowd were staring towards the front of the room, expectant.  Rabêlozar was on his knees before the King, looking like a fat melted candle, his face white as wax.  

Ar-Pharazôn raised a hand holding the sceptre of his office.  “I have heard the evidence and here then is my judgement. Lord Rabêlozar, you are hereby condemned for crimes against the Realm of Númenor and its subject lands of Umbar. In punishment, you shall hang by the neck until dead.  The sentence shall take place at sunrise tomorrow.  Make peace with Eru or Zizzûn or whatever gods you worship. Perhaps Zizzûn will be pleased enough by his new temple to offer you solace.”                      

“No! It’s not what it appears,” Rabêlozar howled. “It’s a trick!  The Zigûr is showing you lies!” The hysterical sound of his voice cut into Tigôn. Although he could muster little sympathy for the odious man, the death sentence made his heart race.  Doubt wormed into him.  Could Annatar manipulate the truth?  Were he and Sûla fools to trust him?

“The King has spoken. Take him back to his cell,” Lord Azgarad said.

The herald thumped his staff.  The crowd stirred and began to buzz as the guards half-dragged the struggling Regent past Tigôn and out of the door.

Sûla was next.

*********

Sûla’s wrists hurt from the shackles and he felt dirty and disheveled, not the way he wanted to appear before anyone, least of all the King and all his court. He hated how closely the guards held him, so that he could barely move. Sikhulzin smelled like garlic and Hozdûnik seemed to find every opportunity to put his hands on him.  By Zizzûn, Sûla longed to be alone with him so he could use his magic to exact revenge.  An angry squirrel in the trousers would be very good for Hozdûnik.

Tigôn opened the door and stuck in his head. “Sûla, you are up now,” he called softly.  His face was tense, his brows knit with concern.  Sûla wondered if this would be the last time he’d see him.

Clenching his jaw, Sûla straightened up, just before the guards jerked him forward, making him stumble. “Stop! I can walk on my own,” he declared. “Give me that much dignity.” 

Hazûn turned to eye him, then nodded.  The guards relaxed their grip.

As Sûla passed, Tigon whispered, “Courage, Sûla. You know you are innocent. May Mandos, the Doomsman, be merciful.”

“I have said my prayers to Zizzûn, god of fate,” Sûla said. “He is throwing the dice now.”

“Sûla, my friend . . . ,” Tigôn said.  That was all Sûla heard before the guards had marched him through the door and out in front of the seething, noisy crowd.  He heard scattered cries of,  “There he is! The murderer! Hang him!”

They know nothing of the truth, Sûla thought, and yet they howl for my blood like a pack of hounds. 

The guards led him to a spot in front of the King, who sat stern-faced on the great gilded chair several feet above him, ready to pronounce his doom.  How could this be the man Sûla had slept with just two nights ago and knew so very intimately? On either side of him sat his Counselors behind a table covered with a cloth red as blood.  He met Lord Nimruzîr’s eyes and found in them a solemn mercy, while his father, Aphanuzîr, looked troubled.  Balancing that, on the other side, his enemy Lord Izindor stared at him with a rage bordering on lust. Lord Annatar stood at the foot of the dais, not too far away, impressive and fearsome in his black armor, watching him with those calculating eyes. Almost imperceptibly, he winked.

Encouraged, Sûla realized he must play to the King.  He crumpled to the floor in a swift and graceful obeisance. Looking up through his eyelashes, he caught the King’s eye, and bit his lip gently in a way he knew Ar-Pharazôn could not resist.  The King rubbed a hand uncomfortably along his face.  So, perhaps he hasn’t yet made up his mind, Sûla thought.

Lord Azgarad signaled the herald to thump his staff for silence.  “Read the charges,” the steward said in a gruff voice.

Aznat cleared his throat, then addressed the King and Council, holding his arms wide and partially turning so the audience could hear him. “My Lord the Most Worthy Ar-Pharazôn, his Steward Azgarad, Counselors, Men of Númenor and Umbar – the King’s cupbearer Sûla of Brûni is charged with the murder of Lord Dulginzin of Arandor.  He is further charged with fleeing from his master’s bond, and stealing Lord Dulginzin’s property, to wit, a cloak, boots, and a knife.  The penalty for a slave committing such crimes is evisceration prior to hanging.”

A tremor wracked Sûla’s whole body. He set his knuckles against his mouth to stop his teeth from chattering, and then felt a strange whispering along the floor.  Turning his head, he noticed a series of symbols within a circle chalked on the tile a few steps away. Had that been the Regent’s downfall?

“Thank you, Aznat,” Ar-Pharazôn growled. Then, more gently, he said, “How do you plead, Sûla?”

Sûla pushed himself upright and brought his legs underneath him.  “My Lord King,” he cried, “I am innocent of this crime. Have I not always served you well and faithfully and done your every bidding? Does it make sense that I would kill a lord you sent me to entertain?”
                      
“Then why did you run?” The King said. “Why didn’t you come to me?”

“A slave discovers a lord newly killed,” Sûla said, softly. “A lord he was ordered to spend the night with. I feared I was already condemned.  Am I, my Lord?”  Sûla glanced sidelong at Annatar, whose mouth rose slightly at the corners.  

“We will hear the facts and render impartial judgement,” Ar-Pharazôn said.   He nodded at Lord Azgarad. “Proceed.”
                          
“I call upon Izindor, Lord of Arandor,” Azgarad intoned.

Izindor took the steps down from the dais and stood before the King, giving him his usual wriggling, eel-like bow.  He looked haggard, his cheeks unshaven, eyes hard. His thinning blond hair hung lank over his forehead.  “My Lord King, many of us here witnessed you order your zirâmîki to entertain my son after the banquet two nights hence. My other son, Mirandor, and Dulginzin’s servant, Pâroth, are both here to attest that this one," he turned and pointd at Sûla, "appeared in my son’s chambers that evening and that he accompanied my son into his room to spend the night.  In the morning when Pâroth returned to attend to his lord, Dulginzin was lying abed with his throat cut ear to ear. The zirâmîki had fled, taking my son’s property, which was found on him when he was captured yesterday in Umbar.  There is no other conclusion that can be drawn but that Sûla is the murderer.  We should waste no further time with this.  He must hang.”

Sûla threw himself back down to the floor.  

“I witnessed the scene myself yesterday morning,” Lord Azgarad said. “I also questioned Mirandor and the manservant Pâroth and they both confirmed events as Lord Izindor has stated them.  I concur with his assessment.”   

Annatar stirred. “As I’m sure you know my dear Azgarad, things are not always what they seem,” he said in a silky voice. “Ar-Pharazôn, I recommend that all witnesses should tell us what they saw, in their own words, before judgement is rendered.”

Sûla heard someone choke behind him. He looked over his shoulder and saw Dulginzin’s odious younger brother, Mirandor, sitting among members of Izindor’s household. He was muttering something and rocking his body back and forth, but stopped when his father glared at him.  At that moment, Sûla would have wagered his golden dragon, if he still had it, that Mirandor was the culprit.

“By your leave?” Annatar addressed the King, who nodded.  The Zigûr strode from where he was standing by the King’s scribe to the front of the room. Izindor’s face twisted, but he quickly stepped back from him. “The accused must stand within the Truthsayer’s circle,” Annatar said, pointing dramatically at the chalked outline on the floor.

Sûla felt a tiny pricking of gooseflesh all over his body. Sorcery.  He could feel it calling like a chill wind to the back of the neck, as surely as when he’d cast the freezing spell.  Slowly, he rose to his feet, took three steps, and stood on the circle.  Instantly the feeling of black magic slithered up his body, holding him in its thrall.  Sûla repeated to himself: Tigôn said he visited the Zigûr this morning and he promised he would help.  The whispered words of the dream came back to him.  Whatever the price, Annatar, I’ll pay it, he thought.

The King leaned down and said quietly, “Sûla, you must tell your side of the story, now.  The Truthsayer will be able to show us if you are lying.  Believe me, I would like nothing more than to know that you are innocent.”

That brought Sûla a glimmer of hope.  Maybe he won’t condemn me after all, he thought. Maybe Tigôn is right.  He glanced over at his friend and for a moment, their eyes met. Would the visions show what they had done that night? Sûla thought he might be sick.

Annatar pressed his hands against Sûla’s temples and held them there as he chanted a series of words.  Several people in the audience cried out as if in pain.  Sûla could feel a strange roiling in his belly that traveled upward and manifested like lightning in his head.  A terrible bright flame engulfed his vision. 

Sûla cried out. “It burns, my Lord!”

“Hold still and empty your thoughts,” Annatar said.  “Think about what happened as you answer Lord Azgarad’s questions.”  Sûla nodded.  Annatar kept a hand on Sûla’s head as he turned to the King. “He will tell the truth,” he said.

“Tell us what happened that night?” Lord Azgarad said.

“What happened that night,” Sûla repeated. He paused for a moment and then the images gathered in his thoughts. “As my Lord King commanded, I went to Lord Dulginzin’s rooms.” He looked at Izindor. “He and his brother were there waiting for me.”

There was a shimmering, like a giant curtain of light that Sûla had heard sometimes appears in the northern skies.  It spread across the space between the dais and where Sûla stood next to Annatar.

An image appeared of Dulginzin sitting slumped in his chair, with his pelt of dark hair on his bare chest.  Mirandor lay on the floor playing a clay flute and Pâroth held a wine cup.  The images were translucent, so that Sûla could vaguely see the King and the Counselors through them.

“He nearly choked me to death forcing me to drink wine,” Sûla said.  The images rose up raw and ugly of Dulginzin holding him while Pâroth poured wine down his throat. A sound of retching, gasping, and then his terrible racking cough. A puddle of wine on the tile floor.  He was lapping it up, his tongue rasping on the tiles.  Sûla could barely look.

“Then, he made me dance naked.”  The room whirled about and the musicians could be seen beating on their drums. The look of lust on Dulginzin’s face was palpable.  “And after he bade me go with him into his bedroom, where he used me as it pleased him.”  He could feel Annatar’s hand heavy on his head and a whispering in his ears.  It seemed as if the sorcerer were examining Sûla’s thoughts and selecting the ones he wished to show.  A new one flickered up showing Dulginzin at Sûla’s side, grasping him behind the neck, and shoving him so that he stumbled towards the open door of the bed chamber, holding his clothes in his arms.
 
Annatar removed his hand from Sûla’s head and the image disappeared as swiftly as blowing out a lamp.

“I think, Ar-Pharazôn,” Annatar said, with a hint of amusement in his voice, “we could dispense with viewing the inevitable outcome of that command.” 

The King’s nodded. “Agreed.”

Izindor turned to Sûla. “When did you kill my son?”          

“I told you, my Lord, I did not kill him,” Sûla replied.

“Well, then who did?” Izindor cried angrily.  “Some demon of the air?”

“For all I know it might have been,” Sûla retorted.  He stared hard at Lord Izindor. You know, you bastard, what your son tried to do to me in the encampment and how you bought my silence.

“If you didn’t do it, you must know who did,” Azgarad asked. “Weren’t you with him all night?”

Here it comes, Sûla thought.  He glanced at Lord Annatar who was watching him impassively. “My Lord,” Sûla looked at the chalked symbols between his boots. “No, I was not.” 

There was a sudden flurry of whispers behind him that hissed in his ears.
 
“Where were you?” Azgarad asked sharply.

Sûla hesitated.  “I left.  After Lord Dulginzin fell asleep, I . . . , my Lords.”  He hung his head. “I could not bear it any longer, after what he had done to me.  I went out over his balcony. . . for a walk.”

“For a walk, in the cold?” Izindor cried.

“Not exactly,” Annatar said with a creamy smile. “Here is where you must tell the truth, Sûla, for truth is the only thing my magic can show.”

An image appeared of Sûla’s hands wearing many rings climbing up over a balcony railing. He knocked on a door, and then crouched down, rubbing his arms, his breath blowing like faint smoke in the moonlight.

“I went to see a friend,” Sûla said.

“A friend?” Ar-Pharazôn demanded incredulously. “Who?”

“Does it matter?” Sûla replied.  “I was gone from Lord Dulginzin’s bedchamber. ‘Tis the truth. You have seen it.”

“It matters,” Ar-Pharazôn growled.  “We have to verify your story. Who did you go to see, Sûla?”

“Force it out of him,” Lord Izindor hissed.

Sûla hesitated, biting his lip.  He looked at the floor, then at the row of Counselors sitting before him, and last at the King.  “It was nothing,” he said. “But I don’t want to get him into trouble.”

“You’ll answer,” Ar-Pharazôn said grimly, “or I’ll have Lord Annatar take it out of you.  You didn’t see what happened when he did it to Rabêlozar.  I assure you, it’s better not to resist.”

**********

From his spot near the door, Tigôn could feel the knot of fear in his stomach opening up into a flood of terror so profound that he thought he might puke, and yet he knew, he knew what he must do.  He took a step forward and called out, “I beg pardon, my Lords!”

He saw the heads turning towards him, the astonished eyes, heard the soft buzz of whispers. Tigôn felt blood rush into his face.  “He came to see me.” 

Annatar’s chin lifted. He looked startled and displeased, as if this was an unexpected development. The King’s lips thinned into a line.  Amandil and Elendil looked at each other and Elendil shook his head, ever so slightly. But Sûla’s expression softened as he glanced up at Tigôn and then back at the floor.

“You, Tigôn?” Ar-Pharazôn growled. “He came to see you? Why?”

“We’re friends, my Lord,” Tigôn said, his voice high and tremulous. “We’ve sometimes played at bones in your vestibule at night while awaiting an assignment.  I know you saw us at it. This time he came to be consoled after. . .” his voice became angry, “after Lord Dulginzin hurt him.”

“How long was he with you?” Lord Azgarad said.

“I, I’m not sure,” Tigôn said.  “Half the night.  He came near midnight and left at dawn.”

“You were playing at bones all through the night?” Ar-Pharazôn asked in a menacing tone.

Tigôn felt his cheeks becoming even hotter. His tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of his mouth.

“We were talking, my Lord,” Sûla said.

Annatar glanced at the King.

“Show me, Annatar,” Ar-Pharazôn commanded.

“My Lord,” Elendil spoke up from his seat on the dais. “Is it not sufficient that they’ve admitted they were together?”

“No,” Ar-Pharazôn replied.  “Show me!”

Annatar raised an eyebrow at Tigôn as much as if to say, I told you what would happen.  Sûla gave him a pleading look.  Annatar ignored him and once again, set his hand on Sûla’s head.

Tigôn saw an image of himself crouching by his fireplace, pouring heated wine into a cup and then offering it to Sûla.  He thought he looked young and infatuated.  They sat down together, lips moving.  Then he heard Sûla say, “I’m drawn to you, King’s messenger, despite my better judgement,” and he put a hand on Tigôn’s bare knee.

“I too,” Tigôn whispered. “And I know that it is a bad thing, very likely to get us both in trouble. Mandos! Your hands are freezing!”  He took Sûla’s hands between his own, rubbing them vigorously.

“Yes, you are trouble for me too,” Sûla said. “You must not tell the King I came here tonight.”

The images shifted again.  They were in bed. Sûla was tugging off Tigôn’s shirt, while Tigôn wriggled and laughed. Once Sûla peeled it off, he scanned down Tigôn’s nude body, past the puckered nipples and the small mole near his belly.  The gaze lingered on his obvious arousal, then rose to see Tigôn looking coyly back at him. His eyelids lowered, his lips parted, and his chest rose and fell quickly, in a way that left no doubt as to how he was feeling.

It was so strange to see himself as Sûla must have seen him. He could see his face, soft with love and longing. For the first time, Tigôn could see for himself the magic that throbbed between them.  “No! No more!” he whispered.

Then there was a rapid succession of images: Tigôn lowering his mouth to Sûla’s belly, his blond head moving up and down;  Sûla’s hand with its many rings caressing Tigôn’s hair;  Sûla’s moans of pleasure; Tigôn sliding out of bed, his nude body padding across the room, bending and pulling a flask from his pack, returning and setting it by the bed, climbing back under the furs;  Sûla pouring oil into his hands; Tigôn rocking back and forth, chest muscles flexing. He threw his head back, eyes closed, face alive with ecstasy.   

Tigôn looked around at people in the crowd witnessing his most precious and intimate moments, with varied reactions: shock, revulsion, amusement, and lust. There was Darîkil, mouth open in astonishment. Then he glanced at Tigôn with a look of disgust. Why was Annatar showing all this?  Curse him, he’d promised to help them! Tigôn’s cheeks burned with mortification. He wanted to disappear right through the floor or go up in a puff of smoke. At least the images were blurred and moving rapidly. Annatar wasn’t lingering on any particular one.

“I think that’s sufficient for us to get the idea,” Amandil’s gruff captain’s voice rang out loudly. “This is a trial not a pleasure garden.”

“I definitely agree,” Ikar-lak said. “Stop it, Lord Annatar.”

“Have you seen enough, Ar-Pharazôn?” Annatar asked.

The King was staring intently at the images shimmering in the air before him. He passed a hand over his mouth, shifted in his chair, and then turned red. “Yes, quite enough,” he said, angrily. The images dissolved.  “So,” he said, “you two are lovers.  How dare members of my court behave in such a lewd manner! Come here and stand before me, Tigôn.”

Tigôn didn’t know how he made his legs move.  He crossed the space between the crowd and the base of the dais and then sank to his knees next to Sûla, who was still standing in the circle. “Forgive me, my Lord,” he said looking pleadingly at the King.  “It was only that one night.  He came for solace from a friend. Neither of us meant for it to happen.”

Izindor snorted.  “So, he spent the night carousing and then went back and killed my son.  This shows what kind of despicable beast he is.  He should be castrated and then hanged.”

Tigôn stared at him, too shocked to respond.

“What did you do after you left Tigôn’s room, Sûla?” Elendil asked.

“You know what really happened, Lord Annatar.  Show them the rest of it,” Sûla said bitterly.

The images appeared again. Sûla entered the bedroom from the door off the balcony and approached the bed where a long, still form lay under the blankets, one bare shoulder exposed.  Sûla’s slender bejeweled hand pulled on the shoulder and the head lolled, revealing his deadly wound, and the sheets dark with blood. Sûla gasped in surprise, then sank to the floor, rocking back and forth. Rising, he went to the bedroom door which was half-open, and looked into the outer room. A quick scan revealed chairs, wine cups on a table, a dying fire. No one was there. He returned, hastily pulled on a pair of boots, opened the wardrobe, removed the cloak and threw it over his shoulders, then he buckled a knife belt about his waist, before vaulting over the balcony.  The image faded.

The Great Hall came alive with murmuring voices. 

“When I got there, he had been freshly killed, my Lord King,” Sûla said above the noise,  “as you saw for yourself. I thought, being a slave, no one would believe that I hadn’t done it.  So, I ran.  It was foolish, but I was afraid. And that is the truth of the matter.  I have made terrible errors, I know, but I killed no one.  If ever my service has pleased you, my King, have mercy on me.” He threw himself to the floor again.

“Well, if it wasn’t you, who was it?” Azgarad said in surprise. “He didn’t cut his own damned throat!”

Annatar cocked his head. “May I suggest that we question those who found him.  Lord Izindor, you said it was your other son, Mirandor, and the servant?”

Izindor nodded. “Mirandor,” he bellowed.  “Get up here.”

The strange young man stood, weaving back and forth.  “Yes, F-father.”

“Move out of the way, Sûla,” Annatar said.  “And stand over there.”  Then, with a predatory swiftness, Annatar strode to Mirandor and seized him by the neck. 

“N-n-o, the Z-z-Zigûr, he’ll h-hurt me,” Mirandor wailed, raising his hands as if expecting a blow. “I d-did not k-kill . . .”

“Spit it out, boy,” Izindor growled.

“That zirâmîki, that b-boy,” Mirandor said, “he’s a w-witch.  He d-did something to m-me.”

“Come with me,” Annatar said in a commanding voice.  He steered Mirandor over to stand in the circle, where he stood facing the King, panting and rolling his eyes in terror.

“Mirandor,” Lord Azgarad said, “You already told me you found him dead that morning.  Is there more to your story?”

Spluttering incomprehensibly, Mirandor turned and searched the crowd, as if looking for someone.  Then he crouched low and began rocking, hugging himself.

Lord Azgarad rolled his eyes, exasperated. “Annatar, can you show us what he saw?”

Annatar bent over and grasped Mirandor’s head between his hands, none too gently.  The man screamed, a high pitched maddening sound.  Tigôn covered his ears.

The images came shimmering forth.

The door of a wardrobe cracked open, revealing a long, narrow sliver of the room.  Lord Dulginzin lay on the bed, chest rising and falling under blankets. He was snoring loudly.  Across the room, the bed chamber door opened and lamplight filtering in from the other room brightened the scene.  The shadowy form of the servant Pâroth passed by Mirandor’s hiding place, carrying a tray with a steaming bowl, towels, and a gleaming straight razor. Pâroth set the tray down on a table.  “My Lord,” he called softly, shaking Dulginzin’s shoulder. “My Lord. Time for your shave.”  The note of snoring changed as Dulginzin turned over.  “Still drunk, you bastard?” Pâroth growled.  He looked furtively around the room. “Where is the zirâmîki?  Gone?”  He chuckled, went out of sight for a moment, then returned.  He reached for the razor on the tray, bent back over Dulginzin, and made a sudden movement with his arm.  The snoring ceased and there was an ugly gurgling noise.

Mirandor choked. Pâroth raised his head and looked right at him.  He strode over to the wardrobe and pulled the door open with a pop. “Mirandor! What are you doing here?”

“N-nothing.  I’ve done nothing.”

" Where is the zirâmîki?”

“H-he’s not here?”

“No,” Pâroth replied. “He must have run off when his Lordship fell asleep.  He is dead drunk, again. We had better leave him be until morning.”

“What d-did you do to him?”

“Nothing.  Let’s go.”  The servant grabbed Mirandor by the arm, jerking him out of the wardrobe. 

“D-don’t you d-dare touch me!” Mirandor cried.  He pulled away, then ran over to the bed and bent over his brother.  Blood pumped from a deep gash across his throat. “You!” Mirandor said, turning. Then he began laughing in a hysterical high-pitched tone.  “Dulgi, Dulgi, look’ee, he can’t t-touch me,” he mocked dancing about the bed and then poking at the body.

“Silence, you idiot!” Pâroth said. He waved the razor still in his hand. “If you ever breathe a word, I’ll slice your nuts off. I swear this!”

Tigôn tore his eyes away from the images and looked over his shoulder at the staring eyes of the audience.  There was a flurry of motion and a small, muscular man charged past him and crashed into Lord Izindor.  Wrapping an arm about Izindor’s chest, the man pressed a long knife to his throat. Izindor waved his arms about like an octopus. It was the servant, Pâroth.  
      
Several people in the audience screamed.
 
“What presumption! Let him go,” Ar-Pharazôn roared.  “Guards!”

“Stay back, or I’ll kill him,” Pâroth said.

“Do as he says,” Izindor grunted.

“Hear me, O great King, ye fine Lords of Númenor, and people of Umbar,” Pâroth cried. “Indeed, you have seen the truth.  I killed ‘im, who was my lord and master, but I done it for good cause. He were a vicious brute, undeserving of the title ‘Lord.’ He raped my sister and tortured me whene’er he liked, with Lord Izindor’s full knowledge. Two nights ago, he made me choke this beautiful young dancer with wine, and made him lick it from the floor like a dog, while my lord laughed and beat him.  Is this the great and wise Númenor founded by Tar-Minyatur, that allows their lords to treat bondsmen in such manner? He deserved a death one thousand times worse than what I gave him!”

“Let him go, Pâroth,” Azgarad said, slowly advancing, with his hands held out.  “It will only be  worse for you if you kill him.”

“I’m a dead man, anyhow,” Pâroth hissed.  He took a step towards the side door where Tigôn was standing, then another, dragging the hapless Izindor with him.  “I’ll be takin’ my leave now,” Pâroth said, “with his Lordship as my safe-passage. If you think that I’ll be slow to kill him, you’re bloody well mistaken.”

There was a deafening high-pitched scream of some fell beast and a huge black dragon materialized in front of Pâroth. Giant ribbed wings unfurled and spread out across the room.

All around Tigôn heard cries of terror and many in the crowd surged for the doors. Tigôn stood up in alarm, and pressed up against a trembling Sûla, grabbing his elbow.

Pâroth dropped the knife with a clatter and fell to the floor, clutching his throat and gasping for air with a strange sucking sound, while Izindor rapidly crawled away.  The dragon dissolved and Annatar, grown to tremendous size, stood over the shaking servant. “Yield,” he cried in a dreadful voice that caused Tigôn to clap his hands over his ears.

Wailing, Pâroth folded up on himself as if he were a wounded spider. Four red-cloaked guards rushed in.  Two of them grabbed the man, pulled him upright, and wrenched his arms behind his back.  He writhed and kicked as they hauled him from the Great Hall.

There was a dead silence as four hundred sets of lungs sucked in a gulp of air. Tigôn quickly moved away from Sûla and looked around at shocked faces. Then he heard a voice say, “It was a vision.  No need to fear. The dragon wasn’t real.  Just an image, like all the others.” And soon those words were being echoed around the room.  Sûla’s expression was dazed, as if coming out of a dream. Izindor scrambled to his feet and fell into a chair, breathing hard.

Annatar was the only one who seemed serene and calm. He shrank back to his normal size and bowed before the King. “And now, my Lord King, you have the truth of this matter,” he said.

For a long moment, no one moved.  Then Ar-Pharazôn rose from his chair and began to clap.  With a pattering sound like the beginning of a rainstorm, others joined in, one, three, ten, until everyone was clapping and cheering. There were cries of “The Zigûr!” and “Truthsayer!”

Annatar bowed again, with a faint quirk of his sumptuous mouth.

Ar-Pharazôn raised his hands for quiet. “Thank you for your service, Lord Annatar, in discovering the truth of these strange events. We are most grateful.  And now I am ready to pronounce judgement. Lord Izindor, your servant, Pâroth, has admitted to killing your son, and will be hanged by the neck until dead alongside the Regent tomorrow morning. Will that satisfy you?”

Izindor said, “I claim the right of vengeance before he’s hanged.”

Ar-Pharazôn frowned, but then he nodded.  He turned to Sûla, who immediately threw himself back upon the floor.  “Sûla, you have been found innocent of the crime of murder.”  He paused and Sûla looked up warily.  “However,” the King continued, “you are guilty of consorting with my messenger Tigôn, stealing from Lord Dulginzin, and attempting to flee your bond of service. And for those transgressions, slave, you are sentenced to fifty lashes.”

Sûla’s face blanched.  He bowed his head and said nothing.

“As for you, messenger,” the King said, “you are dismissed from my service.”

The earth seemed to be sliding under Tigôn’s feet.  He thought he might faint.  It could have been worse, he told himself, much worse, but losing his position and fifty lashes for Sûla!  What a price for loving someone!  He didn’t know where he found the courage for what he did next.  He approached the King again and went down on his knees, next to where Sûla lay on the floor. “My Lord King, may I speak?”

“You may,” Ar-Pharazôn said.  He shifted back in the chair, cradling his chin in his hand.

“Sire, for the service of taking the message to the Umbarian camp, you granted me a boon and I should like to ask for it now.  If you please, I wish to ask that Sûla be spared the whipping.”

Ar-Pharazôn frowned. He glanced at his Counselors.

“Unacceptable. You must maintain discipline, my Lord,” Lord Izindor thundered.

Lord Amandil rose and bowed. “It reflects well upon you, my King, to show mercy to your servants who, aside from this lapse of misplaced affection, have been loyal, hard-working, and dutiful. I counsel that you should honor your bargain and grant the lad’s request.”

“Let it not be said that I do not appreciate your past service, Tigôn,” the King said. “Nor that your plea has not moved me.”  Tigôn looked up at him and was unnerved at the hungry expression he saw on the King’s face. “But there must be consequences for disobedience. Therefore,  I shall halve his punishment and give his other half to you.  Both of you shall receive twenty-five lashes.  Be grateful, for it is a light sentence.”

Lord Elendil stood.  “If it please your Majesty.”

“What now?” Ar-Pharazôn said.

“You also granted me a boon,” Elendil said, “for holding the line against the Haradrim at Arzog’s Pass, and that boon I now claim. Tigôn, the son of my friend Lord Azrazirân of Eldalondë, has served you faithfully and well.  He stood up for the truth, even though it has cost him dear. In my opinion, these facts should mitigate his transgression. Therefore, I ask that his service be transferred to my household, and the flogging be commuted for both of these young men.”

Ar-Pharazôn eyed him unhappily. He glanced at Annatar, then down at Sûla and Tigôn.  “Sûla is my slave,” he growled.  “He knows the penalty for disobedience.  A slave cannot be allowed liberties.”  He paused, pulling on his chin. “Very well.”  He stood and directed his voice to the crowd. “As you all can see, Ar-Pharazôn of Númenor keeps his promises. Obedience shall be rewarded and disobedience swiftly punished. So that my former page understands the gravity of defying my orders, he shall watch my cupbearer receive his punishment of twenty-five lashes and they must never speak to one another again. Sentence to take place immediately in the courtyard. I have ruled. We are done.”

“The court is adjoined,” Aznat cried. “All rise and pay homage to the great and wise Ar-Pharazôn.” The drums started up again and then the brazen sound of horns.  Tigôn heard the rustle and murmurings of the crowd as they all stood.

Ar-Pharazôn came down the steps of the dais.  He gestured at Hazûn.  “Bring them, and let’s get this over with,” he said.  Impatiently throwing a leg of his spotted fur cloak over his shoulder, he turned and left the room, followed by the Counselors.

People were threading by, either not looking at Tigôn or sending him scornful looks.  A few men and one woman met his glance and licked their lips or widened their eyes enticingly.  He could see that the repercussions of this would be with him for some time to come.  He glanced at Sûla and found the zirâmîki watching him with a sad expression in his lovely eyes.  Sikhulzin and Hozdûnik approached, each taking one of Sûla’s elbows and escorting him from the room.  Sûla turned his head and looked over his shoulder, eyes huge with regret, as they took him away.

Annatar also looked at him and his lips quirked into a sardonic smile.  Then he followed Sûla.

Tigôn glanced up and discovered Lord Elendil towering over him. “You’ll report to me tomorrow,” he said.  “I have need of a runner.  Take courage, my friend, now comes the hard part of all this.” 

“Thank you, so much, híren,” Tigôn said softly. “I shall not fail you.”  He was desperately on the verge of tears.

“Come along, messenger,” Hazûn said.  “You are lucky to have escaped the King’s wrath after your little performance with his zirâmîki.  Still,” he paused, “it would be hard to resist that.”  He nodded in Sûla’s direction.

Tigôn’s legs suddenly felt weak. This was going to be hard on him, but even harder on Sûla. He kept reminding himself that it could have been Sûla’s horrible death he had to witness, not a mere flogging. But he still felt hollow.  How could he never speak to him again!

With Hazûn on one side and Elendil on the other, Tigôn followed the crowd through the hallways and out the doors and into the lower courtyard to witness the King’s justice.

 

---

Chapter End Notes

Aglahad - a canon Adûnaic name.

Aznat - an invented Adûnaic name.

Azrazirân - Tigon's father. Approximate Adûnaic translation for Eärdur meaning 'servant of the sea' to Adunaic 'beloved of the sea.'

Golodhren - Sindarin for Noldorin

Hazûn - the Captain of the King’s guard and the one who ‘captured’ Annatar.  Invented Adûnaic.

híren - my lord in Sindarin.

Kuphîr, Zanar, and Darîkil - the King’s pages.  Invented Adûnaic.

Pâroth - an invented Adûnaic name combining the canon words hand (pâ) and cut (roth).

 

Thank you so much to my wonderful betas, Russandol and Malinornë.  A particular smooch to Russandol on this one for wonderful beta advice and encouragement.  And Mal, thanks for all the language consultation and catching the nits.