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

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Chapter 26 - The Price

Summary: Sûla wakes up from his ordeal at the whipping post and discovers he has a new master who tells him a secret he does not want to hear and Ar-Pharazôn witnesses a test of Annatar’s elixir.      

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The water in the tub softly steamed. Sûla hesitated, both fearing and desiring to get in. It had been several days since he’d had a bath and he felt filthy. Best to brave it. Carefully, slowly, he eased himself down into the water and then screamed when the heat seared his poor flayed back. 

He heard a soft chuckle from behind the screen and then Annatar’s beguiling voice. “Do you want some more morthul?”

“Yeah,” Sûla gasped.

After the King had sentenced him, the guards had drawn lots to determine who would do the flogging. Hozdûnik pulled the short stick and had executed his duties so vigorously that Ar-Pharazôn had stopped him at twenty lashes with a curt, “That’s enough!”

Sûla had not expected it to hurt so much. The first seven he bore well, he thought, but after that each one seemed to cut like a line of fire until his whole back burned. When the guards freed Sûla’s hands from the manacles attached to the pillar, he was unable to stand and fell on Hazûn. 

“Where to?” Hazûn had asked.  Sûla couldn’t think at all.  Whereto indeed, if the King no longer wanted him?  He said nothing. He felt a strange soaring sensation as if he were flying.

“My chambers,” said a silky voice in his ear. “The King has given him to me.” Annatar came into Sûla’s wavering vision, an apparition tall and frightening in his black armor.

Sûla’s surroundings, including the gallows atop the raised platform, the whipping post at its feet, Hozdûnik holding the bloody flogger, and the spectators gathered on all sides like the crows in his dream — all spun around in a sickening swoop.  He barely remembered being carried to Annatar’s room, or the quiet hands that spread some sweet-smelling salve on his back, before he’d passed out on a couch. When he awakened, the tub had arrived, and he heard Annatar commanding him to bathe.

He sat unmoving in the water, hunched over.  Dead inside.    
   
Annatar appeared, holding a cup. He had doffed his armor and now wore a black sueded silk robe decorated with gold embroidery.  His long red hair was loosely plaited and hanging over his shoulder.

“Drink this,” he said, handing Sûla the cup.

Sûla drank down the liquid, which tasted foul, but it helped.  As his senses dulled, his back began paining him less, for which he was grateful.  There was so much he did not want to think about. 

“There is a sponge and soap on the tray there,” Annatar said.

“Why?” Sûla asked, abruptly looking up and meeting the sorcerer’s golden eyes.

With a soft rustle, Annatar sat down in a chair next to him. “An ambiguous question,” he said. “Because you’re dirty?”

“You know what I mean,” Sûla said. “You think I don’t understand your methods.  But, I’m learning.”  With a wince, he extended his arm to take the sponge and rubbed some soap on it. “So, tell me, why am I here?”

“I thought you heard me at the whipping post. You belong to me now, the King’s reward for good service.”  Annatar’s lip curled.  “Once you heal up, you’ll be quite useful.”

“For what?” Sûla asked. “I have nothing you want. They took everything from me.” He hissed in pain as he attempted to sponge under his arms.

“You bore up well under the lash. Hardly a whimper. I was impressed,” Annatar said.

“I didn’t want to give them the satisfaction,” Sûla replied, gritting his teeth. That hurt his jaw, sore from bearing down so hard on the rolled cloth they’d put in his mouth to keep him from biting off his tongue.  How considerate.

“Apparently, they didn’t take everything,” Annatar said. “You still have your pride. There is a core of steel within you.  As I said, useful.” He knelt on the floor next to the tub and picked up a clay pitcher which he used to scoop up some water.  “Bend forward,” he said, and when Sûla complied, he slowly poured water over his head.  “Lean back now and I’ll wash your hair.”

Gasping a little, Sûla eased himself back, resting his neck on the lip of the tub, while Annatar poured flowery smelling liquid soap into his hands and began rubbing Sûla’s scalp with strong strokes.  It felt so good.  Sûla sighed.    

“Don’t get used to this.  I’ll never do it again,” Annatar said.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Sûla replied. “I’ll be useful for what?”

“I require an assistant.” 

In shock, Sûla opened his eyes and a drip of soapy water made them sting.  He shut them again,  and took in a deep breath.

“You learned the spells I taught you quite easily and you employed your skills to good effect. You might have noticed that I hid your abilities during the trial. It took me some effort to stop the visions that would reveal your attempt to drug Dulginzin and your use of the freezing spell on him and his brother. You ought to be grateful.”

“I am,” Sûla said. “Although, no doubt, you did not do it out of kindness. It protected you as well. A pity you didn’t show as much restraint when you revealed what Tigôn and I did together.”

“What I showed could have been worse and you know it,” Annatar said. “In any event, I’ve done you a favor.”           

“Forgive me if I don’t see it that way.”

“Romantic entanglements will only impede your training. You show great promise.  I'm offering you an opportunity to be more than a servant.  I want you to become my apprentice.”

“Apprentice?  You mean learn your magic?”

“Eventually. For now, you’ll need to fetch and carry. Take messages.  Do whatever needs doing.”

“Are you offering this?  Or telling me? What if I should refuse?”

“I prefer your cooperation to be voluntary.  It works out much better that way. I’m certain when you consider your choices, you won’t refuse.”  

“Heh,” Sûla snorted. “If I say no, will you take my will, like the guards in your tent, so that I follow you around like a starving dog?”

“No. I need an assistant who has his wits about him.”

“Tell me, my Lord, did you make it happen? Dulginzin’s murder? Everything? Just to get me to work for you?”

Annatar laughed.  “Hardly.  Don’t get big ideas about your importance, which isn’t great. Dulginzin’s murder was unforeseen, even to me.”

“I suppose I should thank you then, for rescuing an unimportant slave.”

“Yes, you should,” Annatar said. “Without my truthsaying, they would not have believed you and very likely instead of this pleasant bath you’d be experiencing the abrupt removal of your entrails.  Here, lean forward.”

Involuntarily Sûla shivered.  “Because of who I am,” he said angrily. He hissed in pain as a pitcher full of warm water sluiced over his head and the soap ran into his wounds. Little islands of foam floated on the surface of the water.  Another pitcher of water finished the rinse.

“Because you are a pleasure slave, yes. You have a grasp of the constraints of your station,” Annatar replied.  “What options does a zirâmîki have, once he’s lost his beauty or the King tires of him?”  The sorcerer poured some olive oil into his hands, worked it through Sula’s hair, and squeezed it out.  He reached to the tray and handed Sûla a comb.

“I’m only too well aware of that,” Sûla said. “I had plans, but they are like the wind now. The guards took all the jewelry the King gave me.”  He grimaced as he began combing out the tangles in his hair.

“Did they?” Annatar said in an amused tone. “Perhaps something can be done about that. Move your hair aside.”  He cocked his head, assessing Sûla’s back. “You will be sore for a bit, and then stiff, but I’ll be able to keep it from scarring.  It was a light sentence.  I think Ar-Pharazôn must truly care for you.”

Sûla made a noise of disbelief.  “If he cared, he would never have sent me to attend Lord Dulginzin. I begged him not to.”

“You were his possession, with no will of your own. Why should he accede to your wishes?”

Sûla hung his head.  “I just thought . . .”

“You thought because you slept with him and had his ear, that he would love and protect you.  A quaint notion.  One to leave behind from now on.  Remember what I said; affection is an impediment to your ambitions.”

“I never thought the King loved me,” Sûla said sullenly. “I knew better.”  But he realized that he had overestimated his importance to Ar-Pharazôn.  Not that he cared all that much for the King, but he’d thought there was at least some affection on his Majesty’s part.  It hurt to realize that he was merely a vessel for the King’s pleasure. A pretty plaything. None of it mattered now.  Sûla rose a little to soap up his loins.  He was feeling numb. There was something painful trying to come to the surface of his thoughts. 

“Ar-Pharazôn had one condition when he gave you to me.  He said he still wishes you to perform for him, on occasion. Particularly when he has a banquet.”

“Lucky me,” Sûla said dryly.  He sat back in the water with a slight splash. 

“No, your response should be, ‘Would that serve you, my Lord?’” Annatar said mildly, but Sûla could hear the threat underneath.

“Would that serve you, my Lord.” 

“Yes, it would. Are you clean?”

Sûla scrubbed his face with his soapy hands and rinsed off.  “Yes.”

“Get out. Dry off, then go lie down on the couch over there.” 

Sûla rose with a rush of water, and carefully stepped out of the tub. Annatar tossed him a drying cloth. 

As Sûla dried himself, he wondered at the sorcerer’s demeanor.  There was none of his former seductiveness.  Instead he was clipped, emotionless.   

Sûla spread the towel on the couch and lay down upon it, resting his head on his arms.  The morthul was making him pleasantly drowsy.  Annatar sat down next to him.  Sûla could feel the heat coming from his body like standing next to a flame.  He heard the scrape of a jar being opened and then once again felt the coolness of salve applied to his back with rough strokes. Perhaps being Annatar’s servant would not be so bad.

“I find it interesting that fate has reversed our roles,” Annatar said.  “Not long ago I was the one lying wounded and you were tending my back.”

“You allowed the King to flog you,” Sûla said, wincing as Annatar applied the slippery salve.  “I know full well that if you had wished to stop him, he could not have done it.”

“So you think?” Annatar said.  “Be assured, the King has his own will, which is stronger than my influence.  Some people are easier to manipulate than others.”  He put the cap back on the jar.  “‘Tis done. Sleep on your belly for the next couple of days.” 

“Be assured that I won’t lie on my back any time soon,” Sûla huffed. “Unless there’s some service you wish me to perform that you haven’t yet mentioned.”

“As to that, we’ll see,” Annatar said. “Not until you’re healed.  Sit up so I can bandage your back.”

Sûla grabbed the edge of the couch and pulled himself upright. “You said it wouldn’t scar?” Sûla craned his neck to look over his shoulder.

Annatar began wrapping a length of linen around Sûla’s chest.  It felt so constricting. “Very little.  You might see some white lines if you color from the sun. I’ll give you something later today that will heal it up rather quickly.”

“What is that?” Sûla asked.

“The elixir of youth.  The King asked that it be tried out on someone before he drinks it.”

“And so that someone would be me,” Sûla said. “What if I turn into a toad, or something?”

“If you do, I promise, you’ll be a most alluring toad,” Annatar said, with twitch of his lips.  He tied off the bandage.

Sûla snorted.  “How much younger will I get?  I won’t be much good to you as a babe in arms.”

“It won’t affect you that way.  It will just heal your wounds.  The older the man, the greater the effect.  Have no fear.  Do you think it would help me win the King’s favor if this potion did not function exactly as expected? It will work, both on him and on you. However . . .”

“What?” Sûla raised his head to look at him. 

“Remember I told you it required a certain ingredient.  That must be added last.  The brew is ready for it now.”

“Let me guess,” Sûla said.  “You want me to provide it.”

“I always knew you for a smart lad,” Annatar said.   

“I’m proving very useful already,” Sûla replied.  “How do you want me to do this? Do I just hang over the pot and spend into it?  I’m like to scorch my stones.”

“I’ll give you a cup.”  

“How charming,” Sûla replied. “Should I kiss it first? Get it in the mood?”

“You know, I’m tolerating your insolence because you’re in pain and disoriented,” Annatar said.  “You’ll find that my methods of discipline can be much harsher than Ar-Pharazôn’s.”  He laid his hand on Sûla’s head and suddenly the zirâmîki felt the full weight of the fear and despair he’d experienced in his dream while in prison. A sharp pain sliced through his belly. Ravens were gathering around him, watching, watching.

Sûla squirmed under his hand.  “No, please, my Lord.”

Annatar chuckled. “If you work hard and please me, the rewards can be equally great.”  He twisted his hand and Sûla was plunged into a vivid dream of lying in Tigôn’s arms, kissing him deeply.  It was so profoundly what he desired that when Annatar took his hand away, the pain of loss was even greater than the fear he’d felt before.   He bit his lip to keep from crying.

“Be thankful,” Annatar purred.  “You’re alive and not permanently maimed, still beautiful, and you now have the opportunity for advancement beyond anything you could have imagined before.  You may yet achieve your heart’s desire. Oh, not your messenger friend of course.  The King has forbidden that, hasn’t he?”

“Yes, my Lord,” Sûla replied dully. “Then tell me, what is my heart’s desire?”

“Power,” Annatar said, and he smiled broadly enough that Sûla saw his pointed incisors.  “To be rich, respected, and feared. Remember what you told me when we first met.  You wanted to be a wolf.”

“Ah.”  Sûla had a strange sensation, as if he was starving and suddenly saw a mirage shimmering just outside his reach composed of succulent meats and cheeses, ripe fruits, and a silver pitcher of cool wine, moisture beading on its surface.  He could almost hear Zizzûn rolling the bones.

“I see you find that idea appealing,” Annatar said.

“What’s the price?” Sûla replied.  “In my dream, you told me there would be one.”

“I’ll leave you to figure it out,” Annatar replied. 

“I hate riddles.”

“You must be absolutely devoted to me. Loyal, obedient, and forgoing emotional entanglements, beginning with your messenger friend.”

“I don’t see why that is so important to you.”

“Love is a weakness. It renders you vulnerable,” Annatar said.

“I suppose that’s so.” A lead weight settled in his chest.  He realized that all the things Annatar had offered weren’t nearly as important as holding Tigôn close again. It was the only relationship in his life that he’d chosen for himself and he was loath to give it up.  He almost wished Tigôn had not interfered, then maybe Sûla could have taken the fifty lashes, but still be free to talk to him. But no, if twenty lashes felt like this, he would never have survived fifty.  Tigôn might have saved his life. Perhaps if he did what Annatar said and became a powerful sorcerer, he could determine his own fate.  Maybe he simply needed to go along with what Annatar wanted and bide his time.

“It’s interesting, this bond you’ve formed with the Lord of Eldalondë’s son,” Annatar said. “I was quite . . . surprised when he came to your defense in front of everyone.” He shook his head. “Not what I would have anticipated from someone who desires respectability as much as he does.”

“I guess you don’t know everything,” Sûla said.  He couldn’t help the smile that crept onto his face and he covered his mouth.  When had anyone ever stood up for him as Tigôn had done?  He passed his fingers over his lips remembering that last desperate kiss through the bars of his cage.  Tigôn had been true to him when no one else in the world had.  That was precious to him.

Annatar laughed softly.  “And how was it that two such different people, a Lord’s son and a zirâmîki slave, became such good friends?”

“You know quite well.  We were waiting in the King’s tent one night and started playing a game of bones. After that, we played every night until the battle.”  He warmed to the memory of their late night conversations.  

“Curious,” Annatar said.  “He hadn’t hung around the King’s tent at night before, had he?”

“No, I guess not.  The pages come and go, depending on the King’s needs.”

“Did you ever wonder why he stayed around that first night?”Annatar said.

Sûla looked up at him suddenly with narrowed eyes.  “Why?”

“When he came seeking my help in the trial, I performed the truthsayer’s spell to search his memory. Imagine my astonishment when I learned that he was spying for Lords Aphanuzîr and Nimruzîr.”

“Spying?” Sûla said.  A feeling of anxiety began creeping into his heart.  “Why would he do that?”

“Because Aphanuzîr asked him to.  They are all members of the Faithful, Sûla, a dangerously subversive group.  Why do you think Nimruzîr stood up for Tigôn and asked to take him into his service after the King had dismissed him?  That was rather a daring move on Nimruzîr’s part and openly rebellious.  I’m surprised the King didn’t see it.  Nimruzîr did it because he had to protect his little spy.”

“I, I don’t believe it,” Sûla said.  But he knew suddenly with a certainty that it was true.  All those questions Tigôn had asked at first.
 
“Do you want to see for yourself?” Annatar purred.  His eyes gleamed as he put his hands against Sûla’s temples.

“No, no!” Sûla whimpered, but it was too late.  He was seeing Lord Nimruzîr’s intent face and heard Tigôn’s voice saying, “I don’t have much to report.  But he told me that the King raped and beat the Zigûr and that he tended the wounds.”

Sûla felt his heart turn to glass and then shatter. Tigôn! So, it had all been a lie from the start! The feigned friendship, the late night camaraderie. He had seemed so genuine and innocent.  Not someone who could possibly play him false. Was it all a ruse?  Even the love-making?  He would have sworn by all the gods that Tigôn really felt affection for him. How could he have been so foolish?  So trusting? So, there was no one in the world he could turn to or depend on.  Everyone had betrayed him, without exception. He could feel a shriek building deep within.   
  
“We have enemies all around us, Sûla,” Annatar said.  “We must be vigilant.  I should like you to sharpen your skills, become a spy yourself.  Turn about is fair play, is it not? Continue to see Tigôn on the sly; I’ll protect you from the King.  But you must report to me everything he says about his new masters.”

“No, no, I can’t.  I won’t,” Sûla cried.  And he burst into tears.  Covering his face with his hands, he turned away sobbing.  “Leave me alone.  Just leave me.  I hurt so much.  I don’t think I can bear it anymore.”

“You will bear it and you will come to appreciate your new life, Sûla,” Annatar said in a voice of iron. “You are mine now, to use as I like.  Be grateful for all I’m offering you, because it could go very differently if you fight me.” He paused and his voice took on the purring tone again. “I can see that your affair with the messenger is still too raw.  We’ll talk about it more soon.  Now then, would you like your jewelry returned to you?”

Sûla raised his head from his hands. “How?” 

“Leave that to me.” Annatar reached for a wooden cup and handed it to him.  “The brew is ready, all but the seed, which is needed to start the reaction.”

Sûla took the cup in a loose grasp and stared at it blankly, his eyes wet. 

“Are you modest about this?  I wouldn’t have thought so, given your profession.” Annatar rose.  “You can stay behind the screen while you produce it.  Tell me when you’re done.  Be quick.  Ar-Pharazôn said he would arrive soon. Oh, and I’ll need some seed from him also.  I’m sure you can assist with that when he gets here.” 

Sûla looked down at his hands clasping the shallow wooden cup. He would like his jewelry back.  Each piece represented a step towards an independent life. He bit his lip and began moving his other hand while gazing at the tapestry on the wall featuring a hideous golden dragon belching flames at an army of hapless elves. Annatar had said that saving him from the gallows would bear a price and Sûla was beginning to realize just how high it was.

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Such a distasteful morning, Pharazôn thought, as he approached the Zigûr’s chamber accompanied by Milzagar, one of his guards, and the Regent’s food taster, an elderly man with a pointed beard named Dâurphursâr. 

Pharazôn hoped never again to have to witness the hanging of such a fat individual as Rabêlozar.  The counter weights had not been sufficient and when the Regent dropped, his head was ripped clean off his neck and it hung dangling in the breeze while the body collapsed in a heap below. Fortunately, Pharazôn was standing far enough away from the ensuing eruption of blood. And afterwards, he had to listen to the awful screams as Izindor gutted his servant. Truly, it was enough to put one off dinner. 

He regretted granting Izindor the right of vengeance as he thought perhaps Pâroth had actually performed a service by ridding him of the brutish Dulginzin. After all, Izindor’s son was the one who had started this whole bloody business by demanding Sûla for the night. And now, Pharazôn was deprived of his zirâmîki, whose services he was sorely missing.  To think that Dulginzin had tried to lay hands on his slave.  If he’d only known that before, much could have been averted. Sûla was at fault too for not telling him.  By Ossë, what a mess!

A new idea came to him. Perhaps Annatar’s truthsaying could be used to ferret out this sort of intrigue in the future.  The Maia was proving more useful than he could have imagined when they first captured him.  Pharazôn smiled to himself.  He would show his doubting counselors a thing or two.  He’d made the correct decision to keep the Zigûr alive and bring him back to Númenor. Ah, he would relish seeing their faces when they learned about the elixir.

The trials and the executions had set the fleet’s departure back a day, which displeased the King greatly.  Later that evening he was scheduled to meet with Azgarad and Aphanuzîr to learn what progress had been made.  More unpleasant work. He was weary of this place.  It would be two fortnights’ journey back to the port of Rómenna and he was anxious to put to sea and return to his life at Armenelos. He missed the glorious weather, his comfortable rooms, and the exciting parties with his lovely boys. Although he had to admit that all was not perfect there. His queen, Zimraphel, awaited him too, along with the problem of her failure to produce an heir.  It was not something he wished to contemplate.      

They reached the doors that led to the Zigûr’s rooms and Pharazôn rubbed his hands together. Frankly, he had doubted that the sorcerer could really produce a potion to restore youth until yesterday when he saw the stuff bubbling away on the hearth. If Annatar could deliver on his promise, what a boon that would be, both for himself and for the realm of Númenor!  Perpetual youth up until the day a man died would be precious. And if Pharazôn was the one controlling this secret, well, it was enough to fire avaricious dreams in the most humble of men. He could go down in the histories as Númenor’s greatest king.

In addition to those grand schemes, there was the more pressing and practical reason that he had not been feeling well of late.  He was anxious to see if it worked.

As Milzagar opened the door to Annatar’s room, Pharazôn was accosted by a strange smell: rich and earthy with acrid undertones.  The sorcerer was bending over, stirring a cauldron suspended from an iron rod over a fire of banked coals. The mud-colored mixture burped softly around the long handled spoon.

“Ah, my Lord.” Annatar straightened and bowed slightly.  Liquid dripped off the spoon. “You’ve come.”   Dressed in his robes, the Zigûr looked softer, more approachable. Much better. Pharazôn found him somewhat intimidating in all that armor.

“Is it ready?” Pharazôn asked.

“Nearly.  It requires one additional ingredient.”  

“And that would be?” 

Annatar lifted an eyebrow.  “Remember what I told you? A man’s seed taken fresh.”

“Ah yes,” Pharazôn said.  “Whose?”

“Yours.”

“From me?” Pharazôn protested.  “I, I didn’t anticipate that.”

Annatar chuckled. “I promise it won’t hurt at all.” He turned and called out, “Sûla!”

Pharazôn was somewhat unnerved to see his former zirâmîki emerge from behind a folding screen.  He was wearing a clean pair of thin cotton trousers and nothing else. Compared to when the King had last seen him, he was looking quite attractive. His hair was freshly washed and hanging in long waves about his shoulders and his beautiful light brown eyes had been lined in kohl. But the bandages wound about his torso reminded Pharazôn that he was the one responsible for giving the order to flog him. An order he regretted. Watching the guard viciously lash Sûla’s back, Pharazôn had thought it a shame to mar that beauty. But he could not afford to be lenient towards a slave.

Sûla’s expression was drawn in pain.  When he raised his eyes to the King’s, a fleeting shadow of anger and hurt passed across his features. It bordered on disrespect.

“Hello Sûla,” Pharazôn said, feeling awkward.  He didn’t like that look.  He was completely within his rights to have his errant slave chastised.  His waking dreams the night before had been filled with the images he’d seen of Sûla and Tigôn together and the look of rapture on Tigôn’s face.  None of his zirâmîkin had ever looked at him quite like that.  He couldn’t get over it. Seeing Sûla now brought it all back, all the rat’s nest of conflicting emotions.

“My Lord King,” Sûla inclined his head.  “I’ve been ordered by my master to perform a service.” 

“Yes, well.” Pharazôn looked uncomfortably at Annatar.  This felt rather cold and not erotic—not how he liked to do things.  He waved at the guard and the taster.  “You may wait outside for me.”

Milzagar hesitated.  “Are you certain, Sire?”

“Yes, yes, I’m safe with both of them.  Stay close for my call.”

The door shut behind them. 

“Well?” Pharazôn said.    
 
Sûla approached and knelt before him.  With practiced ease he thumbed open the buttons on Pharazôn’s breeches, and pulled his cock free.  Then abruptly, his warm mouth was on him, sucking.  After a few moments, Pharazôn closed his eyes in bliss. How delicious! Why had he given the boy up?  Maybe he should demand Sûla back and to the Void with his promises.  Hmm, something wasn’t the same though. When he looked down, he noticed Sûla was all brisk technique. Gone were the flirtatious looks, the caressing, the sighs as if he lived for this very thing.  He supposed the flogging might be to blame for this change of heart. Or perhaps Annatar had done something to him?  That could be it.  But then, oh that tongue just there, yes, and that tight suction, and the way he used his hand. It was building, building, oh, that was good. Yes, and suddenly he was right on the brink. With a groan, he put his hands on Sûla’s shoulders and exploded into that warm mouth. Sûla took it all in, holding his mouth still. Marvelous! Yes, just what he’d needed. Although it was not as good as Annatar had been, but then he’d never experienced anything like the sensations of that night with the sorcerer.

Sûla rose with his mouth tightly shut, cheeks puffed. He strode over to the cauldron and spat the milky fluid into it, and then spat again.  He looked up at the King with a curled lip and ran his arm across his mouth. 

That was beyond bounds. “I have to drink that? After he spit in it!” Pharazôn cried.

“I’m sure you’ve tasted the boy’s spit before, assuming you ever kissed him,” Annatar said, as he stirred.  “Thank you, Sûla.  Bring me the wine now.”

Sûla filled a large goblet half full of wine and brought it to Annatar, who dipped up a ladle of the mirky potion and poured it in.  It made a hiss and the smell of the mixture was strange but not unpleasant. Annatar set the goblet down on a table. “It needs to cool somewhat,” he said. 

“I’ll call the food taster,” Pharazôn said.

“No need. Sûla will try it,” said Annatar.

That made the King uneasy.  What if something happened to the boy?

“I want to see how well it cures his back,” Annatar said.  “Wouldn’t you agree that would be desirable?  Bring me a wet cloth, Sûla.” 

Sûla brought the cloth to Annatar, then turned and stood quietly as the Zigûr untied the bandages and slowly unraveled the outer layer.  He soaked the inner layer until the sections began peeling off in his hand. Raw, angry red weals emerged.

Pharazôn swallowed, feeling uncomfortable.  “I’ve seen worse,” he said. Again Sûla shot him a dark look. “I want the taster here to observe the effects,” Pharazôn said. “He is trained in observing physical reactions. Tell them both to come back in.” 

Sûla went to the door and beckoned Milzagar and Dâurphursâr into the room, while the King made himself comfortable in a large cushioned wicker chair near the fire.  “You may proceed,” he said, waving at Sûla.

Sûla lifted the goblet by both handles, eyed the contents balefully, then took a sip.  He made a face.

“How does it taste?” Annatar said.

“Like you’d expect a mixture of stewed bat wings, blood-root, and seed to taste,” Sûla replied.

“No ill effects?” Dâurphursâr asked professionally.  “No cramps, gripping stomach?”

Sûla paused.  He took another swallow.  “None that I can tell.  Oh!” His eyes grew big. “My back is beginning to itch.”

“That’s a good sign. Finish it,” Annatar commanded.

Sûla drank the rest of the brew.  “A little too hot,” he complained.  “Makths my tongue feel thticky. Ah dizzy now.”  He sat down on a couch near the screen.  “Feel odd.  Kind of thick.”  He held his stomach.  This made Pharazôn anxious.  Was there something wrong with it? 

“How soon will the potion work?” the King asked.

“It’s working now,” Annatar replied.  “It will take an hour for the full effects to manifest.”

“What do you think?” Pharazôn asked Dâurphursâr. 

“I’d give it some time yet,” the little man said.    

“Well, perhaps we can wait more comfortably.” The King licked his lips, eyeing the wine jug and cups.  “Sûla, bring me some of the wine.”

Sûla rose with a lurch, dutifully went to a side table and filled two cups for the King and Annatar.

“I feel lucky to have been able to acquire your servant,” Annatar said.  “He’s well trained.”

“I’m beginning to regret the gift,” Pharazôn said. 

“You might notice that he looks different now,” said the sorcerer.

“Oh, indeed. He looks a bit pale. How does your back feel, Sûla?”

“It’s very itchy now,” Sûla said. 

“I was referring to his jewelry,” Annatar said. 

“What jewelry?”

“Precisely,” Annatar replied.     “I recall in particular a lovely golden dragon with ruby eyes.”

“Ah, yes,” Pharazôn peered at the boy.  “What happened to it, Sûla?”

“The guards took it when they put me in prison, my Lord.  I presume they have it in safe-keeping,” Sûla said. His sullen face told a different story.

“Well, you shall have it back of course,” Pharazôn said jovially.  “Milzagar, do you know anything about it?”

The guard’s face was unreadable.  “I’ll find out,” he said. 

“Go now and have it fetched.  The dragon and his rings and some bracelets, wasn’t it?”

Sûla nodded. “And some long, golden earrings.” He glanced at the Zigûr, who nodded.
 
“There now, are things better between us?” Pharazôn said to Sûla. 

“As ever they were, my Lord.” 

“Come here, my boy, and give me a kiss.  I want you to know I did not enjoy seeing you punished.  I would like you to serve me again when I call for it.”

“Master?” Sûla looked at Annatar.

“Whatever the King desires,” Annatar said. 

Sûla came and gave Pharazôn a light kiss on the lips.  Such a sweet mouth.  “That is better,” Pharazôn said.  “Now then, Annatar, do you think we could produce this elixir on a large scale if you trained other workers to make it?”  

Annatar ceased stirring. “You could,” he said, “but whatever they made would prove useless without my spells to activate the ingredients. Of course, you’d be welcome to try the experiment to see for yourself.”  He smiled with a flash of pointy white teeth that caused a ripple of desire to run through Pharazôn.  The sorcerer shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid you must keep me around.”

“Just remember,” Pharazôn growled. “Your position, your freedom, and your life are dependent on continued good behavior.  Don’t forget who holds the power here.”

Annatar bowed.  “I have no illusions on that score.”  He went over to Sûla and put a hand on his shoulder.  “Turn around, let’s see that back now.”  He bent his head to look, then chortled, “Look at that, Ar-Pharazôn.”  

It was indeed remarkable.  The bloody weals were only visible as raised pink trails. No weeping sores or scabs. It appeared as if a week of healing had occurred in a quarter hour.

“Does it feel better, Sûla?” Pharazôn asked.

“Yes, my Lord.  Although it itches mightily,”  Sûla said, reaching for his back. 

Annatar slapped his hand away. “That proves it’s healing.  Don’t scratch or you’ll make it worse again.”  He took Sûla’s wrist and counted under his breath, then with thumb and forefinger he examined Sûla’s eyes by stretching his eyelids open, first one, then the other.  “How do you feel?”

“Better, quite good!” Sûla exclaimed.  “It’s remarkable!”  Indeed his voice was much stronger than when Pharazôn first heard him speak.  His eyes seemed brighter, his color good, and he stood straighter.    

Annatar waved a hand at the bandages on the table.  “No need for these now.  We’ll allow your back to continue healing in the air. Well, Ar-Pharazôn, are you convinced about the efficacy of this cure?”

“I should like to try it,” Pharazôn said.  It seemed as if he could feel every ache in his joints.  If this worked . . .

“My Lord,” said Dâurphursâr, “if I may, I should like to test it for you first.  We can’t be too careful,” the little man added.  

Annatar nodded at Sûla, who prepared another dose of the elixir and carried it over.  

“I wonder if it would be good for this pain I get in my knees?” the taster said eagerly as he reached for the cup with both hands.

-tbc-

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Chapter End Notes

Dâurphursâr - invented name from the canon Adûnaic words, phursâ - to gush and dâur - gloom.

Many thanks to betas Russandol and Malinornë, who consistently go above and beyond what most betas would, and also to the Lizard Council’s Grey Gazania for finding the nits.