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

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Chapter 27 - The Dragon with the Ruby Eyes

Chapter summary: Tigôn discovers unforeseen consequences of having revealed his affair with Sûla, finds a sympathetic ear, and makes a decision, while Annatar removes a rival and tightens his grip on Sûla.

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The wine merchant, tall with stooped shoulders and a closely cropped beard, stood behind the counter, eyeing Tigôn speculatively.  “Yes, messenger,” the man said, “ as Lord Nimruzîr ordered, six thousand barrels of the red shall be ready to distribute to his ships by tomorrow.”

Tigôn nodded.  “Good. My lord is not happy with the delays. I shall tell him.”

The merchant cocked his head.  “You look tired after your ordeal at the trial yesterday.”  He reached out, snaked a hand through Tigôn’s curls, and then trailed his fingers down the messenger’s cheek.  “I was just opening a cask of dry Lebennin.  I pray you, come and have a taste with me.  That way you can assure your master of its quality.”  He smiled invitingly.

Tigôn bowed his head right out from under the man’s hand. “Thank you for your kind offer of hospitality, but I have many messages to carry,” he said curtly.  He turned and strode out of the shop.  When he was out of the merchant’s sight, he struck a wall with the flat of his hand. That was the third such offer today, one of which had come from a member of the King’s guard, and he was completely vexed as well as sorely embarrassed. Did all of Umbar now entertain thoughts of bedding him?  No one had paid him any such attention before. He’d been an anonymous messenger who came and went quietly, which he much preferred.  Of all the possible results of yesterday’s revelations, people thinking him an easy mark was not one he’d anticipated.

Fortunately, he was done for the day. Avoiding eye contact, he left the bustling docks and headed back toward the palace.  Clouds were coming in and he wondered if the fine weather would turn bad, which would make for a miserable time loading up the ships.  He hoped for no delays, as he wanted to be soon quit of Umbar. In the background of his thoughts throbbed a sense of loss, which he could give a name if he paused to think about it.  Sûla.  Tigôn had not seen him since the flogging yesterday. He still felt sick to his stomach when he remembered his lover, jaws clenched around a rag, twisting and flinching under the lash that cut bloody stripes across his back.  

The King had been standing next to Tigôn and when he tried to look away, sternly bade him watch what happened to disobedient servants. But from Ar-Pharazôn’s glassy expression, Tigôn believed that the King was not enjoying it either. When Sûla sagged bonelessly in the manacles, Tigôn choked and his eyes pricked with tears.  He was profoundly grateful when the King yelled at the guard to halt, five strokes short of the full sentence. Seemingly, Ar-Pharazôn did care for Sûla after all.  But then the King bumped against him, casually put a hand on Tigôn’s waist as if steadying himself, then let it slip downwards to squeeze his rear.  Uh, no!

Tigôn feigned slapping at a fly in order to step away from the King’s embrace, murmured something, he didn’t remember what, and managed to catch Lord Elendil’s eye, who promptly ordered him off with a message.  That night as Tigôn lay in his bed, he wondered how Ar-Pharazôn could have made a play for him at that moment, just after watching his bedmate whipped bloody. Why should the King forbid them from having a relationship, but feel it acceptable to fondle his messenger, something that was previously unheard of?  Had he grown so arrogant and venal?  Tigôn realized something shameful and potentially treasonous.  He, who had hated very few people in his life, hated his King.   

Thinking back on that now and remembering the merchant’s leer, Tigôn felt utterly disgusted with all those who sought to pervert the magical night he’d spent with his friend. He didn’t want anyone but Sûla. Tigôn couldn’t stop thinking about him. Where was he now?  Who was treating his wounds?  It was all so frustrating!

Feeling disheartened and a bit lightheaded from hunger, Tigôn decided to stop at the servants’ dining hall before reporting to Elendil.  When he got there and went through the serving line, he saw Darîkil sitting at a table with the other two pages, Zanar and Kuphîr.  Holding his plate and wine cup, Tigôn hesitated.  He’d been friendly enough with all of them in the past, although coming as he did from Eldalondë, he’d always felt somewhat of an outsider.  Zanar was the son of a wealthy shipping merchant in Rómenna; Kuphîr was the by-blow of a Bawîba Manô priest that the King had taken on as a favor to Ikar-lak; and Darîkil was the fourth son of a lesser lord of Hyarrostar, who lived in Armenelos. All of them were King’s Men, not members of the Faithful. They were talking amongst themselves, heads lowered. Then Darîkil saw him.  

“Well, look who it is,” Darîkil said, and the other two raised their eyes. “The cock-sucker. I’m surprised you can show your face without blushing, Eldalondë.  That was quite a performance yesterday.”

The dozen or so servants sitting around at long tables ceased talking and stared at him. Tigôn felt himself flushing to the roots of his hair.  

“Ha, look at your face. I guess you do have some shame after all,” Darîkil said.  He stood up, pushing his chair back with a screech. “Do you know how many lewd looks I’ve had to endure today?  One of the foot soldiers actually suggested something unsavory.  I used to wear this with pride.” He tapped the silver messenger wings on his tunic. “But because of you, they think we’re all whores now. I’ve a mind to thump you for it.”

“What happened yesterday was the last thing I wanted,” Tigôn retorted. “I was publicly shamed and lost my position.  I think I’ve paid enough for one night’s folly.  Just let me eat my dinner in peace, will you?”  He set his plate and cup down at a vacant table.

“Ah, let him be,” Kuphîr said roughly, rubbing his thumb across his broad jaw.  

“I’m not going to sit anywhere near the likes of him,” Darîkil said.  He headed out of the room, but as he walked by Tigôn, he pushed his head down into his plate, burying Tigôn’s nose in fish stew.

Tigôn jumped out of his chair and raised his fists. “I have no quarrel with you,” he said.  “But by the gods if you do that again, you’ll find I can defend myself.”

“Let us see you try it, mîki,” Darîkil replied and shoved Tigôn’s chest.

“Not in here, boys,” one of the Umbarian servants said in a threatening growl.

“Quit it,” Zanar hissed, grabbing Darîkil’s arm.  “No fighting, that’s the rule. Do you want to get us all flogged?”

Darîkil dropped his hands to his sides. “You’re right. The pleasure I’d get from kicking his arse is not worth the risk.”  He stalked off, followed by the others.

Angrily, Tigôn sat back down, wiped his nose off with a napkin, and quickly ate his dinner without looking at anyone else.  He’d lost face with everyone. What a fool he was to have involved himself with Sûla!  A weak, wanton fool.  

After eating, he retreated to his room, but found no solace there as it seemed filled with memories of his night with the zirâmîki. He pulled Sûla’s vest out of hiding under his bed and held it up, watching the firelight glinting off the metal links, remembering how it had rippled like a fish’s scales when Sûla had worn it dancing for the King. The very same King who after the dance had caressed Sûla’s cheek with such affection and then, just as easily, sent him off to be raped by Lord Dulginzin.  Tigôn gritted his teeth.  He had promised Sûla he would take the vest back to Lillu, but somehow he had not managed to do it yet.  He didn’t think he could face anyone else laughing at him.

Tigôn lay down in the furs, inhaling the traces of the faint but lingering scent of the zirâmîki’s enticing perfume, and for the first time in a while thought about his mother’s younger sister, Aunt Azrabêth. Tigôn remembered her as a tall, beautiful, and strong-willed woman who was never afraid to speak her mind. He’d been about eight when, on her wedding day, she scandalized the family by running off with a lover, leaving her betrothed and all their relatives flabbergasted.  Tigôn had never forgotten standing in his stiff formals in the garden where the wedding was to take place, and watching his mother having hysterics while the groom’s family shouted at each other. After that, others in his family rarely spoke of Azrabêth at all.  It was as if she had died doing something profoundly wicked. No one visited her either, even though word got back to the family in Eldalondë that Azrabêth was running a tavern in Andúnië down by the havens.  During his summers spent with Elendil and his wife and sons, Tigôn had considered going to see her.  But he never had.

In the past, he had wondered what had possessed his aunt to do such a crazy thing. Now he knew.  She had chosen love over respectability and now he had inadvertently followed in her footsteps.  He dreaded to hear what his parents would have to say about what he’d done. Perhaps they would forgive him, since he had done nothing so drastic as running off on his wedding day.  But he had brought scandal and disgrace to the family name and that would be hard to overcome. Maybe if he promised his father that this was just a foolish lapse that had happened in the heat of the moment, never to be repeated. Yes, that was his firm resolve, never to repeat this mistake.  He would be a dutiful son, forswear any other transgressions, and work hard to make his parents and Lord Elendil proud.  So why did he feel so wretched?  

**********         

Amandil found the King out on a terrace that overlooked the Bay of Umbar. Lord Azgarad stood at his side, gesturing at something in the distance.  It had been a beautiful warm day that foretold spring soon to come. Huge clouds were billowing up in the west but wisps of late afternoon light escaped them, turning the plastered walls of the palace golden. Out in the harbor and along the docks as far as the eye could see their ships were anchored.  Dark figures like ants swarmed back and forth in dinghies carrying out cargo, hurrying before dusk settled in.  

It was a charming scene but Amandil couldn’t enjoy it, exhausted as he was with cares and duties. He had been involved in a dozen arguments that day, problems of every kind with supplies, not to mention the sick horses. Moving legions of warriors from land to ships took plenty of organization.  Nevertheless, he was pleased to be able to report to the King that they were on schedule and should be able to sail within the next sennight.

“Ah Aphanuzîr, there you are,” Ar-Pharazôn said, turning to greet him.  “Azgarad just arrived.  Isn’t it a glorious evening? Smell the sea, will you!”  He filled his lungs noisily.  

The King looked remarkably well, especially compared to how he’d looked yesterday at the trial. His cheeks had a pink blush, his face seemed thinner and smoother.  The dark circles under his eyes were gone. His hair waved thick and luxurious around his face. It was uncanny but he even moved with greater agility. In fact, if he didn’t know better, Amandil would say this was the young man he’d known from years ago.  Could it be the result of Annatar’s potion?

“Sire?” Amandil said, suspiciously.   

“The stuff works!” Pharazôn cried.  “Ha ha! By Manwë’s thunder, the cussed stuff works!  Annatar is a genius!”

“You tried it?” Amandil said, blinking and realizing he’d said something foolish.  He looked at Azgarad, who nodded his head.

“Of course I tried it!  Can’t you tell?”  The King roared jovially, clapping him on the back.  “I feel marvelous and the mirror shows me a face I haven’t seen in years.  Truly, Aphanuzîr, my friend. You must try it yourself.  It’ll cure up all those problems with your feet you were complaining about.”

“You didn’t . . .”

“Now, don’t get all solemn and suspicious on me, as is your wont, Counselor,” the King replied.  “I took precautions. Both Sûla and the Regent’s poison taster tested it before I did.  I watched with my own eyes as Sûla’s whip weals healed up pink and healthy. And Dâurphursa, the taster, who had bad knees before he took it, was dancing about like an otter afterwards.”  He laughed again. “And then I had a whole goblet of the wretched stuff. I have to admit that there was some pain while it did its work but within the hour I was a new man. This is a marvelous day!  The beginning of a new era for Númenor!”

Amandil was astonished.  He truly had thought the Zigûr was lying and had no intention of actually producing his potion. “My Lord, it remains to be seen how it will affect you over the long run.”

“Azgarad said much the same thing and I’m getting tired of both of you,” Pharazôn declared.  “Even if this is temporary, I can always take more.  Damn, I feel as if I could fly right off this balcony!”

“I wouldn’t recommend doing that, my Lord,” Amandil said.  “Not unless his potion also grows you a pair of wings.”

“Aphanuzîr, think of the boon this could be for our people,” Azgarad said, rubbing his long hands together. “The potion could help with all the discontent we have among us about Êru’s ‘gift’ to men, making us one step closer to becoming like the elves.  I should like to try it myself, particularly after the day I’ve had.”

“You won’t be sorry,” Pharazôn said.  “I’m sure everyone who learns about this will be lining up to take it.  I have such ideas for how we can profit from this!”

“Do we know how long it lasts?” Amandil asked.   

“Annatar said he didn’t know, but that the effects are not permanent.  He thought you might need to take it again every month or so.”

“Then it could be addictive,” Amandil said, thoughtfully.  “I know I’ve told you this, my Lord, but it bears repeating. This is Annatar we’re dealing with, Morgoth’s lieutenant and the architect of the downfall of Ost-in-Edhil. He is not to be trusted.  And you saw his power at truthsaying during the trials yesterday.  What if he decides to use his ability to extract information and keep it to himself or project images of fell beasts to terrify our people?”

“You worry entirely too much, my friend,” the King replied. “The truthsaying was brilliant.  It worked perfectly. Those skills could prove very useful to us in uncovering other kinds of threats.  That is, if we wield it.  I wouldn’t want our enemies to get hold of him. As for his trick of turning into a beast, since we know it’s just an illusion, we can always subdue him if we need to. And Sûla informed me that the Zigûr lost his ability to shape-shift when he destroyed his Ring.  I do not see a problem here.”

Amandil shook his head.  “What do you think, Azgarad?”

Azgarad stroked the patch of beard on his chin.  “I agree with you that the Zigûr is an unknown quantity as yet and not to be fully trusted.  But the King has made valid arguments about his value to us.  I feel safer knowing where he is so we can keep a close eye on him.  I wouldn’t want him wandering around free to work his wiles on others.  One of the reasons I felt it imperative to make this expedition was my concern about his alliance with the Haradrim who have been a thorn in our sides.  But that dynamic changed when Annatar came over to our side and proved most useful in helping to crush them.  I think we should learn all we can from him while keeping him constrained at Armenelos.”

“Once we get him to Númenor,” Pharazôn affirmed, “he’ll be cut off from all his support— no servants, no orcs, no fell beasts to call upon.  We will have him surrounded. What harm can he do?”

Amandil took a deep breath.  This was not going well. “My Lord, my heart misgives me.  I counsel you strongly . . .”

“That is sufficient, Aphanuzîr,” the King said abruptly. “I have heard everything you have to say on the subject and I’ve made my decision. If you wish to remain on the Council, you will cease this treasonous talk!”

“My King, I am not talking treason,” Amandil said, affronted. “I am merely doing my duty and offering you my advice.”

Pharazôn laid a hand on Amandil’s upper arm.  “And I value your advice, else you would not be on the Council. But you have always been far too cautious.  You argued against this expedition, most urgently as I recall, and look how successful it’s been.  There will be no more discussion.  The Zigûr is going home to Númenor, on my ship as my personal attendant.” His eyes flashed and his hand closed tightly on Aphanuzîr’s shoulder.  “Have I made myself clear?”

Amandil bowed his head. “You have, my Lord.”
                                    
The King turned briskly toward Azgarad.  “Now, we have another important matter to discuss. Our Regent has been dealt with, but his execution leaves a void in administration here.  Umbar is a key foothold in Endórë.  I must have someone trustworthy to rule in my stead.”

“Ah yes, my Lord,” Azgarad replied. “I have prepared a list of suitable men you might consider.”  He reached to a pocket and removed a scroll of paper, which he began to unroll.  

“No need for that,” Pharazôn said with a warm smile.  “I have an appointment in mind already.  Someone who has proven over many years to be most capable and who has my absolute confidence.”

Azgarad glanced up suspiciously from the list. “Who, my Lord?”

“You.”

Azgarad’s mouth dropped.  And for a moment he was utterly speechless.  He looked at Amandil, who was equally flummoxed, and then back at the King.  “My Lord, I am honored, but I believe I am needed to help run the Kingdom at home.”

“Nonsense. With the Regent’s treason and the Haradrim still marauding our borders, I need your skills here, Azgarad, more than I need you at home.  I am appointing Aphanuzîr as acting Steward in your place.”

“My Lord . . . ,” Amandil said, surprised.  He glanced at Azgarad and shook his head ever so slightly.  He had not known this ahead of time.

Azgarad ran an agitated hand over his forehead and back through his dark hair.  “My Lord,” he said tightly, “As you know, my wife and children are in Armenelos.  I have been away from home long enough as it is . . . .”

“That is no impediment.  I shall send them to you directly as soon as we reach home.  Your wife may enjoy a change of scene.  I assure you, Azgarad, this is only temporary until you can get this place settled and I can send a replacement.”

There was a pause while Azgarad digested this news. The King frowned.  “I have made my decision and will not be questioned.  It is the best course of action, and you know it.  My scribe Aglahad is drawing up the proclamation even now.  Shall we go in and sign it?”

Azgarad set his jaw.  “As ever, I am your humble servant, my Lord.”   
                                    
***********

Both Amandil and Elendil kept Tigôn busy carrying messages as they readied to disembark. There had been much to and fro between the captains of the other ships in the fleet.  It had taken the better part of five days, but they were nearly done. In two days, if the weather held, the Númenórean army would begin boarding and setting off in groups of twenty vessels, departing every hour. Tigôn was to go with Elendil, while Amandil would captain a different ship. They would all be part of the King’s escort.

To avoid further trouble, Tigôn had been taking his meals with Amandil and Elendil instead of in the servants’ dining hall. From them he learned all the news he would normally have been privy to as the King’s messenger.  Amandil reported that the King had given Sûla to Annatar, who had succeeded in making the miraculous brew that conferred youth, which the King had tried successfully.

Tigôn was surprised to hear that the King had given Sûla up, but he thought perhaps the zirâmîki would be treated better by the sorcerer than he had by the King. Still, he worried. Having been touched several times now by black magic, Tigôn knew it was not to be taken lightly.  As he went about his work, Tigôn heard much praise from the Umbarians about Annatar’s performance at the trial.  There were admiring tales aplenty about how he’d turned into a dragon and captured the murderer of the Númenórean lord.  Word of the magical elixir had spread and Tigôn heard much excited talk among members of the court. Although the elixir was a marvel, Tigôn agreed with Amandil. He did not trust Annatar and if the sorcerer desired Sûla as a slave, he had a motive, and Tigôn could bet a stake at bones it was not for Sûla’s benefit.

That night when Tigôn reached his little room, he found an odd bundle of green cloth outside the door.  It was his cloak wrapped around his jacket, the garments he’d loaned to Sûla.  Had the zirâmîki delivered them himself? Tigôn looked around, but there was no sign of him, no note or anything. He supposed he shouldn’t have expected it; after all, they were forbidden to speak, but still he was disappointed.  He entered the room, set the clothes down on his bed, and stared at them and then at the mailshirt lying on his stool. He should honor his promise to Sûla to return it before they left Umbar.  

So, the next morning after breakfasting with Lord Elendil, Tigôn went in search of the former Regent’s zirâmîthi.

He found Lillu talking intently with four other solemn zirâmîthin in their quarters on the far side of the palace.  They were dressed in gaily colored silks of varying hues: red, yellow, blue, green.  Tigôn was reminded of a group of pretty kirinki birds huddled under the eaves during a storm. When he walked in with the shirt draped over his arm, Lillu, who wore a low-cut gown in shades of aqua, stood. Her face brightened with a smile.  
                
“Hello, my lady,” Tigôn said, feeling shy.  He had forgotten how beautiful she was. “I promised Sûla that I’d return this to you.” He bowed and presented the shirt.  

“Ah, I thought I’d never see it again,” she said with a light laugh as she took it from him and set it aside.  “Sûla could have kept it. Although perhaps he has no need of a dance costume now?”

“Probably not.  The King gave him to the Zigûr and I don’t imagine a sorcerer needs a dancing boy.”

“So we heard,” she said.  “The news, it flies quickly. I am sorry about what happened to you both. Such a pity that you may never see one another again.  I knew the night of the banquet that you were hot for each other.”

“You did?” Tigôn asked.  He could feel himself blushing as the other women giggled.

Lillu chuckled lightly. “We were dancing when you came into the solarium.” She waved at the other women. “All of us here nice to look at, eh? Do you notice us? No. What you do is stand there looking at him, like this.” And she jutted her head forward, dropped her mouth open and stared stupidly into space.

Tigôn laughed. “I had no idea I did that,” he said.  “I did not intend to.”

Lillu smiled. “You looked at him like he was your whole world, messenger Tigôn, and now your face is so sad.” She popped a finger softly underneath his chin.  “But please to keep spirits up. Our Lord Zizzûn casts the bones and the first throw is not the end of the game.”

“I can’t imagine how this could turn out well,” Tigôn said. “Although it could have been much worse.  At least he wasn’t hanged.”

“Ah yes, but our master the Regent was. Most horribly.”  Her smile disappeared.  “What do you think will happen to us now, Númenórean?  They say the new Regent is a married man with no use for pleasure slaves.  Will he cast us out onto the streets?  For us, this is the worst of calamities.”

“But I thought you hated Rabêlozar?”

She laughed softly.  “We have to eat, messenger Tigôn.”

Tigôn had not thought about how the Regent’s death would affect others in his household.  “Perhaps I can do something for you,” he said. “I’ll talk to Lord Aphanuzîr, the new Steward. He can pass along the word to Lord Azgarad. There may be another place in the household for you.”

“Oh, would you do that for us?” She gave him a heart-melting smile and leaned forward to kiss his cheek.  “We do have other skills, you know,” she said excitedly. “We all play instruments and sing.” Then she spoke in Umbarian to the others, who got up from their couches and came forward with a swish of silk garments to embrace him.  

Suddenly Tigôn was surrounded by soft voices and pleasant smells. His reaction told him he was not entirely immune to their charms. He laughed and held up his hands.  “Please, I don’t know if Lord Aphanuzîr can help you, but I will try.  And now I’d best be going.” He bowed and turned to go.

Lillu came with him to the door. “Tigôn,” she said softly. “I think you are brave man to do what you did for your friend.  There are not many who would stand up like that in the face of a King’s wrath.”

“Not so brave,” Tigôn said.  “I had no choice.  Not with the Zigûr’s truthsaying.”

“Ah, but you did have a choice,” she replied with a smile. “Our masters think they control us, but our hearts they are like wild horses, not so easy to bridle sometimes. No one can tell us who to love, eh?”

He shook his head sadly.  “I guess not.”

She beckoned him to lean closer and said, “Early in the morning for the past three days, I have seen a handsome young zirâmîki come to the solarium to dance.  He too looks very sad.”  She raised her lovely dark eyes to look meaningfully at him.

“Oh,” Tigôn said.  “Is that so?” And he hurried away.   

All that day and half the night, while tossing in his bed, Tigôn thought and thought, this way and that. And in the end, it was his unbridled heart that made the decision, though he knew not where it would take him.

***********
Miraculously, the golden dragon had returned and with it had come a strange tale. Sûla knew the Zigûr was behind it, although exactly what he’d done was a mystery. Sûla shifted in his cot behind the screen in the sorcerer’s chambers, fondled the warm metal curling about his arm and thought over what had happened yesterday.

Hazûn, Captain of the King’s guard, had come cringing into the Zigûr’s rooms bearing a velvet sack. “My Lord Annatar,” he said with a deep bow. “We have retrieved your servant’s jewelry.”

Annatar looked up from the book he was reading on Númenórean law. Although the Zigûr’s face was impassive, Sûla knew him well enough to recognize the sly satisfaction in his eyes. “Show me,” Annatar said.

Hazûn upended the sack on the table in front of Annatar. With a metallic clang and a clatter, out tumbled Sûla’s earrings, rings, bracelets, and the dragon armband that the guards had taken when he was in prison. Sûla was thrilled. He’d thought he would never see any of it again.

“Very good,” Annatar purred. His eyes lit with fire as he picked up the dragon arm bracelet. “It took you long enough to find it all.”

Hazûn bowed. “As you well know, my Lord, when the command came to return them, at first no one knew where the jewelry had gone.”

“Imagine that,” Sûla said dryly.

Hazûn looked sidelong at Sûla, then back at Annatar. “After your interview with the guards, Hozdûnik confessed that he had sold it in the Umbarian market. The King ordered him imprisoned. Then, last night a very strange thing happened. Hozdûnik said he dreamed that the dragon had curled itself about his neck and was choking him. When he awoke, it was lying across his throat and the rest of the jewelry was sitting on the floor of his cell.”

“And you believed that story?” Sûla said incredulously.

“I’m not certain what to believe,” Hazûn said, nervously licking his lips.  “He wasn’t quite right after his confession to you, Lord Annatar. But the jewelry was there and even odder, there was a red line about his throat, which I saw for myself, and the man was truly terrified. I wondered if you knew more of this?” He appeared both stubborn and fearful, as if he would flee at the slightest word from the sorcerer. Sûla remembered that this was the man who had accompanied him at the battle of Arzog’s Pass when he used the spell. Perhaps Hazûn knew more than he should.

Annatar laughed. “Oft does guilt play tricks on a man’s mind. I trust he will be punished?” He handed the dragon to Sûla, who pressed it onto his upper arm. Somehow it felt heavier than before.

“I have ordered him flogged, Lord Annatar, tomorrow at dawn. He has been dismissed from the King’s service.”

“A wise decision,” Annatar replied. “Sûla, is that sufficient satisfaction for the wrong done you?”

“Yes,” Sûla said. Revenge was sweet. The guard deserved a good drubbing for the way he’d treated him. Sûla’s back itched as he remembered how zealously Hozdûnik had carried out his orders to flog him.

“Please tell your men,” Annatar said in his soft viper’s voice, “that I will tolerate no disrespect toward my servants.” He rose, tall and menacing.

That, too, was satisfying to Sûla—to have someone of such power looking after him in a way that the King had not.

“Yes, my Lord,” Hazûn said, and bowed himself out.

Thinking back on it now in the cold light of dawn, Sûla sat up in bed and looked at the dragon. “Did you really try to strangle Hozdûnik?” he asked aloud, and received only the glitter of ruby eyes for an answer. It was quite likely that Annatar had sent a dream to make the guard think the dragon was strangling him, but was it more than that? Had Annatar ensorceled it so that it came alive? That idea was unnerving. More and more, Sûla admired Annatar’s brilliance, but he was also developing a healthy fear of him. He, perhaps more than anyone at court, was aware that the sorcerer had only shown the pinky finger of his power. But as long as he was doing what the Zigûr wanted, he hoped he would not awaken some night with the dragon’s tail wrapped about his own throat. And now, he had better get up and attend to Annatar’s needs.

Rising naked from bed, he peered past the divider and discovered that his master was not in the room. No doubt he’d spent the night with the King—again. The thought made his blood boil, although he wasn’t sure why. After all, sleeping with the King had been duty, nothing more. Except he had enjoyed being petted and fussed over, and now he’d been flung aside like an olive pit. Annatar had kissed him twice in the past and hinted at more to come, but since healing his back, the sorcerer had not so much as touched him. Must he be celibate while in Annatar’s service? He had needs too.

His thoughts drifted unerringly to Tigôn, the bliss of being in his arms, and then immediately to the pain of learning about the messenger’s betrayal. His heart filled with anger and hate. Sometimes he thought that might be all that he’d ever feel again.

Sûla went over to the dressing table and turned to examine his back in the mirror. The marks from the whip were barely noticeable. Annatar’s potion was truly amazing. Rubbing his chin, he noticed the stubble just beginning to appear, so he picked up a razor, and then, in consternation, leaned closer to the mirror. By Zizzûn! Overnight a blemish had appeared on the side of his nose. He wondered why he cared, when clearly no one else did. And why he suddenly felt like crying.        

But for Annatar’s orders that he exercise in the morning to keep the skin on his healed back supple and his body firm, he would have crawled back into bed and put the covers over his head. Why his physical condition mattered to Annatar, he had no idea. He was only good for one thing and clearly the sorcerer didn’t want him for that. Well, his lot was to obey. Besides, the musicians would be waiting for him in the solarium.
            
Sûla heated up water, washed his face, popped the pimple and dabbed on a bit of salve, then shaved, applied paint to his eyes, braided his hair, and dressed in his black dancing pants and sleeveless blood-red silk vest embroidered in gold thread.  The King’s head of household has sent over his bits of clothing but it was quite limited compared to what he’d owned in Armenelos. He wondered if he could get any of his other possessions back once he returned to Númenor.

As he left the room, Sûla nodded at Bildûn, who stood guard. “Tell his Lordship that I’m going to dance, as he commanded,” he said. Bildûn glanced at the dragon on Sûla’s arm and his mouth opened in alarm. Sûla looked down. The little red eyes seemed to gleam in amusement.

“What is the matter with you?” he asked Bildûn.

“It . . . it winked at me,” the guard said.

“Ha,” Sûla snorted. “Every one around here is seeing things.” He slammed the door shut behind him.       

 

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Chapter End Notes

Azrabêth - sea-sayer in Adûnaic
kirinki birds - canon name for a flashy red bird on Númenor.

Many thanks to my wonderful betas: Russandol and Malinornë and to Lizard Council members, Grey Gazania, Aearwen, Kymahalei, and Erulisse.