The Embalmer's Apprentice by Lyra

Chapter 14

Matters of great importance are being discussed, people are playing in the sand, and Andúnië continues to be highly idealised. Somewhere has to be.

They called their dinner an informal household affair, which sounded harmless enough, but it turned out to be a gathering of several dozens of people. The small dining hall was small only in comparison to the banquet hall we had crossed at our arrival. Here, an enormous square made up of large tables offered room for, indeed, the entire household, including all the servants and stablehands, guards and gardeners, teachers, clerks, cooks and other people. On the occasions that I had dined in the palace, the only palace employees that had been present at all had been the servants that had brought the dishes and refilled glasses, and they had blended into the background whenever they were not needed. Likewise, when Master Amrazôr had hired me to serve his guests, on that fateful evening when Amraphel and I first met, I had been expected to be invisible unless my services were required, and I certainly had not been alotted a place at the table. I had assumed that this was customary in all great houses, but here, things were clearly different. I was not allowed to hide among the servants, either, but expected to sit at the high end of the table with the noble family. I imagined that everybody must be glaring at the intruder in that place of honour, but when people caught my eyes at all, they just smiled and nodded politely and continued to eat. Everybody was eating at the same time, too; we filled our own plates and glasses while the servants ate and drank their share.

The dishes – that, at any rate, was as I had expected – were splendid. Even with the limitations placed upon them by the rationing and the complete lack of flour or grain, Lord Eärendur's cooks managed to produce magnificent food. Not that I had any reason to complain about Amraphel's cooking, but these dishes were playing in an entirely different league. Not only was everything incredibly flavoursome; it was also arranged artfully, a feast for the eyes. The salad had been put together from different varieties of asparagus in green, white and purple, laid out into little suns with fried scallops in the middle, sprinkled with woodland strawberries like sparks. The sea dace (with flesh prepared so perfectly that it melted on your tongue) was covered in scales cut from carrots; the roast billygoat rested on a meadow made of herbs and edible flowers, which also adorned the honey-glazed cheese we had for dessert. There were no bread and no pastries, but here, I did not miss them at all. Nor did it matter that there were no second helpings for anyone but the children. The food seemed to be filling in more than just one way. Part of it, was probably the care and attention that had gone into the dishes. I suppose you couldn't help feeling special when someone went to the trouble of cutting roses from your radishes. In the coming days, I discovered that even fish stew – of which I had grown thoroughly tired – could be a delicacy, and that even broad beans could look appetising.

To my relief, the atmosphere during dinner was not at all quiet and dignified, but quite noisy in a pleasant, companionable way. A lot of things were going on at once, and the room was humming with conversation and laughter, so when a scallop escaped from my plate into my lap, nobody appeared to notice, and nobody gave Azruphel an angry look when she announced in her loudest voice that she didn't like asparagus. Nor did it matter that she kept on interrupting my attempts at conversation with our hosts with questions of her own. Granted, my conversation was not particularly ingenious anyway – at Lord Eärendur's prompts, a few words about the journey, and after that, admiration for the cooks' efforts, the pretty glazed porcelain, the embroidery on the tablecloths and napkins and other superficial things. At least it kept me from lapsing into awkward silence or delusional daydreaming.

Although things kept progressing as if in a dream. As Azruphel had been growing more and more tired and testy, we took her to bed after the meal. Nimmirel had already fallen asleep, and Nienillë promised to look after our girls and alert us if we were needed. I felt a little uncomfortable about leaving the children alone with a stranger, but Amraphel was quite ready to trust Lord Eärendur's servants. Nienillë, at any rate, assured me that she was perfectly capable of looking after two children. As we made ready to go, she sat down by the window, pulling a book from a pocket in her apron. I stopped in my tracks, and Amraphel had to push me out gently.
"Do you think she can actually read?" I whispered to Amraphel once we had closed the door behind us.
I had not whispered quietly enough; Arcanendo had heard me, and gave me a thoroughly puzzled look. "Certainly. Why shouldn't she?" he said.
"Does your lord know that?"
Arcanendo's eyebrows went up in surprise. "Of course he does. He pays for the schools and lets us borrow from his library. Why should he not know?"
I opened my mouth to answer that question, but Amraphel just shook her head at me. I felt more ignorant than ever.

But I had little time to wonder about the reading servant, as we were now supposed to join our hosts in the sanctum of their house, the room with the perpetually burning fire. My house, being small and of no significance, naturally did not have a Heart, but this place certainly had one, complete with servants specifically appointed to tending the fire. They were given leave for the evening, however, when we entered the room and sat on the delicate-looking sofas and chairs (once more upholstered in beautiful brocade). I sat down gingerly, frightened of putting too much strain on the costly fabric. Lady Vánimë, on the other hand, half-laid across a sofa to rest her aching back against her husband and even put her swollen feet up onto the cushions. Lord Eärengolë buried his nose in her hair, and I swiftly looked away, embarrassed to have caught noblefolk at something so private.
"Well," Lord Eärendur said when we were all seated, and had all been provided with a sweet and heady dessert wine, "I hope you have found everything satisfactory so far." He was wearing an open and friendly expression, so I must assume that he was asking in earnest.
"Perfectly satisfactory, your Grace," Amraphel said, while I spluttered, "Far more than satisfactory, your lordship. I am overwhelmed by your hospitality."
The wrinkles around his keen dark eyes deepened as he smiled. I could almost have relaxed. "I will assume that this is a good thing," he said. "This, then, is the time to get to know each other better. So, tell me your story." My heart sank. I had known that at some point, our hosts would realise that I was not worth knowing; I had hoped that this time would not come so soon.
I looked at my feet, as pale against the rich blue carpet as the blossoms that had been knotted into it, but rather less prettily shaped. I studied the intense red liquid in the glass cup that I held between my hands as if to warm myself (quite unnecessarily). A crackling sound came from the Heart as a log popped into several charred lumps. I chewed on my lower lip.
"Azruhâr?" Lord Eärendur spoke in a light, harmless tone, but I had no doubt that his voice would take on the strict note I had heard on other occasions if I continued to avoid replying.
"Your Grace," I said, rubbing my nose awkwardly. "I don't really have a story."

I saw one of his eyebrows go up before I returned to my study of my feet.
"That is nonsense, Azruhâr," Lord Eärendur said, sounding somewhat reproachful. "Everybody has a story, and yours appears to be quite curious. Mine is straightforward, and thus rather uninteresting. I was born the eldest son of the Lord of Andúnië, and thus from the day of my birth have been prepared to fill that position. I had a happy and carefree childhood, but I suspect that my parents and teachers have worked hard to fill my head with lore and lordly virtues all along the way. Later on, I was sent around the island to both broaden my horizons and help me appreciate my home better. Later yet, I went to Middle-earth for a while, to serve in the colonies but also to learn with the Eldar. When I returned, Father gave me more and more responsibility to prepare me for my inheritance, though I still had the time to deepen my understanding of history at the Academy. I must admit, however, that I pursued my studies with less fervour than I pursued a young spirited scholar." He gave Lady Nolwen a warm smile, which she returned with an almost girlish blush, and I realised that she had been that spirited young scholar.
"Although her family has no known Elven blood in it, my parents raised few objections to our union; her father was the dean of the Academy, and my parents reasoned that this made her virtually noble on an intellectual level. So we were allowed to marry; Nolo was born; Quenno followed somewhat later."
"So it does happen," I blurted out before I could stop myself, and then held my hand before my mouth. But Lord Eärendur did not appear angry because I had interrupted him; he merely tilted his head, giving me a curious look.
"What does happen?"
"That nobleman marry beneath them," I mumbled, and then realised what I had said. I turned to Lady Nolwen, ducking my head as low as I could without tumbling from my awkward perch on the sofa. "Forgive me, your ladyship – I did not mean -"
"Let me make one thing very clear, Azruhar: I did not marry beneath me," Lord Eärendur said sternly. I glanced at his wife, who fortunately looked more amused than offended. Nonetheless, my face was burning with shame.
"But yes, I did marry a commoner." He took Lady Nolwen's hand, placing a tender kiss on it. "It happens more often than you think. As the royal house may only marry to the noble houses, it is our duty to occasionally bring new blood into the line."

I looked at Amraphel, frowning. "You told me it was highly unlikely that your father's plan would work."
"I am as surprised as you are," she said, and seeing the puzzled looks of our hosts, she explained, "Father always hoped that I would marry high up, even into a noble house, since he thought that I had been given more than usual beauty." She grimaced as if to prove the opposite. "He paid a lot of money to stuff my head, as you put it, with lore and lordly virtues. I always assumed that his ambitions were unrealistic – my teachers certainly liked to suggest just that." She gave a little snort of disdain. "They told me that I had to work especially hard to please such a husband, because it would be such a tremendous honour for a mere merchant's daughter. Every day, I would have to prove my worth and value so my grand husband would never regret his choice. It didn't sound particularly appealing, but fortunately, it didn't sound likely, either."
Lord Eärendur tilted his head in thought. "A merchant's daughter would be an unusual choice, but to a mercantile mind...? Your father must be very rich, I suppose."
Amraphel laughed. "Not as rich as he would like – certainly not rich enough to be generous."
I felt I had to speak up in defense of the man whose ambition I had ruined. "He was generous when he hired me for that feast – at first, anyway."
"Love, it looked generous to you because you were destitute," Amraphel said gently. "If Father had been truly free with his money, he would have employed additional servants on a continual basis, instead of getting poor day-talers to act as if his household was greater than it was whenever the need arose."
I chewed my lips and did not reply – this was hardly something that we needed to discuss by Lord Eärendur's fire – but our host appeared intent to listen.
"It seems that we are getting to the heart of your story," he said with a smile. "So the admirable Amraphel was supposed to marry a nobleman, and instead she married Azruhâr. How did that happen?"

Amraphel smiled, almost mischievously. "Looking back, it is almost funny, although there was nothing funny about it when it happened. I had reached my majority, and Father kept on hosting these feasts that would bring rich and, occasionally, noble customers into our house. He hoped that one of them would take a fancy on me – he made sure that they would observe my archery practice, and that I would perform on the harp during meals, and that I danced for them..." I saw Lady Nolwen and Lady Vánimë exchange glances.
"Well, on one of these occasions, Azruhâr was among the day-talers that Father hired to fill the ranks of his servants. In truth, he only has four permanent servants and a cook. But it had to look like a grand household for the sake of my potential admirers, right?" She spread her hands. "I was, at that point, tired of the whole business. Initially, the attention was flattering, but after a while I felt like a prize mare on the market. Father certainly treated me that way. It was clear where his efforts were headed. And his honoured guests were playing the same game. Have I been taught to analyse people's motivations and the meaning behind words, I wondered, just to act as if I didn't realise what was going on? Was I supposed, meek as a mare, to simply go with the highest bidder, rather than have my own say in the matter? I had made up my mind to refuse marriage altogether, though I did not even know whether Father was already involved in any negotiations. Apparently I did not need to know. Then, during one of his feasts, one of the supposed servants caught my attention." Amraphel reached out for my hand, smiling at me. "I must admit that at first, I particularly liked how eager he was to please. He went about his tasks as if his life depended on doing them well."
"It did," I muttered.
Amraphel stroked my hand, and went on with her tale. "There, I thought, I wouldn't have to desperately prove my worth to such a man, every single day. That alone looked like a good reason for marriage." Now her smile was apologetic. But I had already known that; we had discussed her choice often enough. I was not offended. It was, after all, the truth. What I had not realised back then was how much her father had invested in her education. I would have felt far guiltier towards Master Amrazôr, if I had known from the start.
"So even when I first saw Azruhâr, the thought of marriage crossed my mind, although I did not pursue it further. However, I couldn't keep my eyes off him. Part of it," she gave me another apologetic smile, "was that he had something of the kicked puppy about him: Folk either want to add another kick, or else to cuddle it and nurse it back to health. I had the latter impulse."
I felt I had to contribute to the telling. "This was shortly after my father's death," I explained, looking down at my feet again. "My sister had married and moved to Rómenna, and I was on my own and trying to pay the costs for the funeral and keep on going somehow. Master Amrazôr's offer to earn some additional coins was very welcome. I had not meant to ruin his ambitions for his daughter. I did not mean to incite pity."
"You simply were in a pitiful state," Lady Nolwen said. She had apparently forgiven my earlier transgression. "That is nothing to be ashamed of."
But it had certainly been treated like a shameful thing. The kicks, as Amraphel called it, had been adding up. Nobody cared to hire a day-taler with a sullen face and swollen eyes, and if they did, they saw fault with everything I did. I had found it harder than usual to find work, and even harder to negotiate for decent pay.

"Be that as it may," Amraphel went on, since I did not speak further, "I was fascinated by this sad young man. So I kept seeking his eyes all that evening, and when the time came to impress Father's guests with my skill on the harp, I played for him. I like to think that I performed better than on any previous occasion." She winked.
"You should play for us, later on," Lady Vánimë suggested. "Nolo also plays the harp very well; we could have a concert."
Amraphel shook her head. "I haven't played in years. It would be a very uneven match."
Lord Eärengolë chuckled. "I am not as skilled as Vánimë makes it sound, either."
I was grateful for the distraction, hoping that the conversation would now stear away from my painful first meeting with Amraphel. But Lord Eärendur was determined to hear the full story.
"So you played the harp, and Azruhâr proposed to you in front of all your father's guests?"
I shook my head violently, shocked by the mere suggestion. I would never have been so audacious!
"Nothing so forward," Amraphel said. "But I saw the way he looked at me – utterly fascinated. I was flattered. Again, I was young and foolish, and while some of Father's guests had certainly been giving me, hm, admiring gazes when he had paraded me before them, this felt... different. So when the feast was over, I passed his way to bid him a good night and ask his name. He had such a pleasant voice, and answered with such reverence. It made my heart beat faster. I was, as I said, a foolish girl."

She might have been a foolish girl, but to me, she had seemed like a figure out of a dream or of legend - like Melian or Lúthien. I had known that I was not the stuff of legends, and should stay well away. I had told myself that she had simply been kind, that there was no more to it – why should there be?
Amraphel continued. "I had hoped that he might come to my window in the night, or that we could somehow meet in the courtyard before anyone else was up."
I cleared my throat, embarrassed. "I hadn't even realised that this well-born lady had taken a fancy to me. And I wouldn't have dared to disturb her sleep. Besides, we had to clear away the remains of the feast, and clean and polish everything in time for breakfast." We had been allowed to finish off the leftovers, too. That had, in those days, looked like the peak of generosity to me.
Amraphel tossed her head with a sparkle of her eyes. "Well, I did not behave like a well-born lady at all. Instead, I snuck into the kitchen to catch another glimpse at that delightful young fellow. When he was sent to the pantry to fetch more nuts-"
"Almonds," I corrected. I still remembered that very vividly, because I had been sorely tempted to stuff a handful of almonds in my mouth just before Amraphel had practically waylaid me on the way back to the kitchen.
"- I went after him, and stopped him so we could speak again. He tried to get past me without touching me. I think I terrified him. "
"You did," I confirmed. "It was clear what would happen if I were caught."
"And you were," Lord Eärendur guessed. He had put another log onto the fire, but instead of returning to his seat, he had begun to pace around the room.

I nodded. "Niluthôr – one of the groomsmen – saw us, and promptly told Master Amrazôr that I had seduced his daughter. We'd barely even spoken." I couldn't help some bitterness from creeping into my voice.
"In truth," Amraphel said, "I had rather tried to seduce Azruhâr – although, as he said, we exchanged no kisses, barely even words. Father acted as though he'd tried to undress me, or more. I found it very brave that Azruhâr didn't put the blame on me."
"I didn't think anybody would believe me, that's why," I admitted, rolling my shoulders uncomfortably.
"I thought you were trying to protect me." Amraphel said, and to our hosts, "It looked quite heroic. Father had him horse-whipped in the yard, and Azruhâr asked permission to remove his shirt first--"
"That wasn't heroic, I just couldn't afford to have it ripped," I pointed out. Lord Eärengolë almost choked on the sip of wine he had taken, and coughed so much that Lady Vánimë had to abandon her comfortable rest against his side. Her grey eyes were on me, round and full of pity. Lord Eärendur had stopped his pacing, staring at me with his brow furrowed. I would have liked to shrink into the cushions.
"Father certainly did not intend it, but that convinced me for good that I loved Azruhâr, and would marry him or no-one," Amraphel concluded the tale. "I was, as I said, a foolish girl, and a man who endured torment for my sake certainly was a man worth having. So I eloped, and sold my jewellery to pay for a healer and two wedding bands, and that was that."
"It wasn't torment," I protested, embarrassed of being depicted as some kind of hero. "It was just a beating. And I didn't endure it particularly well." In fact, I remembered a great deal of screaming, although unlike on the occasion of my arrest, I had tried to be brave at first. I had just learned that it was impossible.
"It wasn't 'just a beating', Father had you whipped within an inch of your life, and he would have taken you the rest of the way if he hadn't worried that your family would demand damages," Amraphel retorted.
Lord Eärendur narrowed his eyes. "Your father well overstepped his bounds, then," he said, and to me, "I hope you filed a formal complaint."
"Who, me? Certainly not!"
"That went far beyond the lines of 'reasonable and appropriate punishment', fuzzy though those terms are," Lord Eärendur said. "You should have demanded compensation for the pain and the time you were unable to work, at the very least. You could have accused him of attempted murder, even."

I scratched my head. "Amraphel told me to try, but I didn't dare," I admitted. "I figured the authorities would mark me out as the troublemaker, and just laugh at me or give me another beating."
"Good grief," Lord Eärendur said, sounding angry. I didn't know what to say, so I just ducked my head. The mere mention of that beating had made my back ache in memory. A hand came to rest on my shoulder, surprisingly gentle, especially once I realised that it belonged to the old lord. It felt unreal that someone like him would take my side.
"For future reference," Lady Nolwen said, "you do not have to accept that kind of treatment. Even day-talers have rights – and the rights of merchants have their limits."
"It's easy for you to say that, your ladyship," I said, looking down. "But a day-taler who complains is a day-taler without work. And a day-taler without work is going to starve – whatever his rights. No, my lady, we must kiss the hand that strikes us, and hope that it will still give us coin. Not that it did any good, of course," I said with some bitterness, "because Master Amrazôr made sure that nobody in his quarter of town gave me work again."
Lord Eärendur took a deep breath, his eyes closed. "Ai, Armenelos, osto ondona ar ondoron óri"*, he said. "I am beginning to see why you were so unwilling to come into my house. And I am beginning to see, I suspect, how you became a burglar and a thief."
I hung my head in shame. He patted my shoulder. "Enough for today, perhaps? Let us turn to happier topics, and then to bed."

I felt exhausted when I at last fell onto the well-stuffed mattress on the grand bed, but I could not sleep. Amraphel snuggled against me and kissed me good-night. I suspected she would have been up to more than a kiss, too, but my mind was too agitated to relax into love-making, even if I hadn't been afraid of soiling the immaculate bed coverings. I told her to sleep well, and soon, her breath came as evenly as that of our daughters, while I stared up at the painted silver stars on the ceiling. The evening's conversation had rekindled so many memories that had been well-buried under the events of the past years, and it was almost impossible to reconcile them with where I was now. It felt as if I was two different people, because the person I had been born as couldn't possibly be allowed to rest his lowly head on these snow-white pillows, to dine with the king and the noble family of Andúnië instead of begging for the leftovers. It had been years since I'd had to worry where the next day's money would be coming from. But I had been too busy to adjust to the change, somehow. Things had moved so fast. Now that I was forced to rest, in the unlikely position of a guest, nothing made sense anymore. How much of what I had been taught about the world and my place in it still applied? How could I find out without getting myself into trouble yet again?
My thoughts kept on tumbling over each other, but it seems that I fell asleep eventually, because the next thing I remembered was that Azruphel climbed onto my chest to give me a very wet kiss, and that Arcanendo opened the curtains and bid us an excellent good morning.

Our days fell into an easy, pleasant rhythm. Between breakfast and the mid-day meal, each of us had something different to do. Amraphel spent much time with the ladies, doing whatever noble women did and talking about whatever noble women talked about. "Administration, literature, childcare, plans for the week – all kinds of things," Amraphel said when I a sked her. "I have to admit that I was rather too confident in my own learning; there are many things that Father's teachers didn't bother to mention, or maybe I didn't bother to learn them well. There are a lot of new things to soak up." She laughed a little. "I have grown far too used to being an authority!"
But she did not seem to mind that she was no authority here. I admired her confidence; she walked with the ladies, conversed with the lords and accepted Nienillë's attentions as if she had been born to it. It made my heart sting a little, too. If she had followed her father's wishes rather than married me, she could have led this kind of life all along, after all. She consistently told me that she did not regret her choice at all, and I longed to believe her, but deep in my mind, I was worrying that she just wanted to humour me.

Azruphel, too, had a lot of knowledge to soak up. She followed the young Lady Eärrimë everywhere, even attending her lessons. I assumed that these lessons went right over Azruphel's head, but she managed to acquire a couple of words of Eldarin if nothing else, making Lady Nolwen smile and offer to assemble a list of good teachers in Arminalêth. I thought that was rather excessive, for a former day-taler's daughter, but Amraphel reminded me that learning could do a whole lot of good. She was probably right. Yet, it was a strange idea that I should invest into the future of my daughters like her father had done. (I began to expect that even Nimmirel's first proper words might be Eldarin, since she kept hearing so much of it around her. To us, everybody spoke Adûnaic, but amongst themselves, they all spoke in the solemn language of the Elves.)
After lessons, the two girls played in the nursery, or ran through the gardens where some servants' children joined them to play tag or hide and seek. They built brightly coloured kites out of silk paper and feathers, which they flew on the beach in the afternoon. They played ball, climbed trees and tried to find their way through the hedge maze faster and faster. In short, outside of their lessons they were behaved just like ordinary children, except they were doing it in the elaborate surroundings of the mansion gardens.

Meanwhile, our hosts showed me around the property and took me along as they went about their duties. I had declined the offer of joining them for hunting, feeling not up to the task. I neither had the necessary skill with bow and arrow, nor would it have felt right. Instead, I was shown around the property, "to help me feel at home". I could not have felt less at home. They had several kitchens and several larders, a very well-stocked wine cellar, and an ice cellar for storing perishables. They had their own baths, built by long-dead ancestors for the enjoyment of their noble kin. They had their own woodlands whence to take firewood for the many fireplaces in the house, and a vast orchard to provide fruit for the household. They had broad stretches of land for their horses and lesser beasts, and a huge south-facing meadow where their linens were bleached. They had a piece of garden for every purpose, be it practicing archery or growing vegetables.
"Um," I said. "Your lettuce and spinach are going to seed, my lords."
It was intentional. I learned that the growing and distribution of seeds was among the duties of the nobility. It made sense, I suppose – they could afford letting their lettuce grow bitter and tall, their peas dry in the pod – but it was odd somehow to see the otherwise so perfectly tended garden sport the misshapen pillars of lettuce, the wiry growth and bitter roots that every other gardener would seek to avoid.

I was taken to the vinyards. I was taken along as the lords inspected the progress on the new granaries. "We were not prepared for a year like the last," Lord Eärendur said, as if he had to explain himself to me, "assuming that the Valar in their kindness would forever protect us from bad weather and crop failure. It was foolish, and has brought us to the brink of ruin. That must not happen again." He expected that food would remain rationed for years to come, no matter how good the harvest, simply so that some surplus could be stored for the future.
I noticed that neither the winegrowers nor the farmers nor the builders knelt to my hosts, showing them no more than casual respect. I had already observed that lack of humility – almost shocking to me, who was ready to bow low to every craftsman – in their servants, and couldn't help commenting on it now.
Lord Eärendur smiled sagely. "We know who we are, they know who we are. There's no need to constantly demonstrate power and subservience, is there? I'm aware that you are prepared to fall to your knees at every opportunity, but it is not the custom here. Respect can be shown without casting yourself on the ground. I find it rather tiresome, if there is no good reason."
"But you kneel to the King, lord," I said, confused.
That made him laugh. "He is the King - it is not my choice to make," he pointed out. "We lords must, after all, uphold order, and thus submit to it. That is reason enough. At any rate, Ancalimon does not expect me to kneel to him when we are amongst ourselves."
Ancalimon, I thought. His cousin on the throne. Expressions like that certainly served to remind me in whose company I was spending my days.

Other than that, it was sometimes too easy to forget just that. When we went down to the beach in the afternoon – the tide was at its lowest then, the beach at its widest² – the nobles stripped down to their loincloths and frolicked in the waves, or played ball, or picked up shells to decorate the children's sand buildings just like I could see other people doing. This seemed to be a popular pastime even among grown-ups, building walls and cities and towers of sand that would be washed away by the flood overnight. When I asked why anyone would spend time and effort on something that would be destroyed within a few hours, Lord Eärendur gave me an amused look. "Mostly because it is satisfying to create something quickly and easily, I suppose," he said, "but it is also a useful exercise to remind us that ultimately, nothing that we make will last forever."
Why anyone would find that satisfying, I did not understand. I always felt wistful when we left Azruphel's lovingly crafted hills of sand behind, artfully decorated with stones and shells and starfish, knowing that they would be gone tomorrow.

One remarkable afternoon, Azruphel came running from having collected new shells for her sand buildings, yelling at the top of her lungs: "Atto, Atto, I have found a Silmaril!"
I glanced up in alarm, and saw curious looks from all around.
"Good grief, I hope not," Lord Eärengolë said flatly.
Azruphel reached us and showed us her finding. It was not a Silmaril. It was a small, rounded lump of clear, silvery material that shone with a pale blue light under the sun. But when Azruphel cupped her hands around it, the blue sheen turned into liquid gold. I gasped. If not for that glow, I would have thought she had simply found a little shard of glass, worn round by the waves and sand. But it was too light for glass – it felt almost weightless - and it exuded warmth in a way that could not be explained by Azruphel's warm little hands. It reminded me of amber.
"It is amber," said Lord Eärengolë confirmed, in an awe-struck tone that I had never heard from him before. "But it is far more special than ordinary amber. This is from the sap of the Trees of Valinor – very rare and very precious – though not quite as rare as a Silmaril. Still, you could probably buy a horse with that little piece. Did you see any more of it?"
"No, just the one," Azruphel said. Of course, the girls spent the rest of the afternoon searching. But neither of them found any more, to their great disappointment.

"You must give that piece of amber to Lady Eärrimë," I told Azruphel as we made our way back up to the mansion.
"But I found it," Azruphel protested, clutching her little fist tight around the piece of amber.
"But you found it on her family's beach, love," I explained it, "so it rightly belongs to them."
Azruphel's lip trembled unhappily, but she held out the shining little stone to her noble friend.
Eärrimë's eyes lit up, and she made to take the gem. Her father intervened.
"Finder's Keepers," he told Azruphel. "You found it, and it belongs to you. You can give it to Eärrimë as a precious gift, if you want, but you don't have to."
I could see that Azruphel was now torn between her desire to keep the precious stone, and the wish to make her friend happy. But Lord Eärengolë's words had made an impression on young Eärrimë as well. She shook her head. "You can keep it," she said with astonishing firmness. "I can go and search for one every day, but you will soon have to go back to Armenelos."
Azruphel beamed as she pocketed the stone. I caught up with Lord Eärengolë and quietly said, "Your generosity, lord, is as always appreciated; but you are putting ideas into Azruphel's head."
Lord Eärengolë's eyebrows went up. "Ideas? What, that she should be permitted to keep the fruits of her labour? A shocking idea indeed. I might as well accuse you of putting ideas into Eärrimë's head, that she is entitled to things she did not earn just by virtue of her birth."
"Well, that's what it's like," I pointed out. "Not, maybe, in blessed Andúnië, but as Lady Eärrimë has wisely observed, we will soon have to return to Arminalêth. And there, a day-taler's daughter mustn't think she is entitled to anything."
A moment's silence. "An embalmer's daughter," he eventually corrected me.
"That amounts to the same thing," I said, frustrated. "Nothing."
Lord Eärengolë studied me for an uncomfortably long while before he finally said, "Do not sell yourself under value, Azruhâr. Nor your children." Then, at last, he smiled again. "At any rate, we already have some fine pieces of Valinorean amber. Azruphel is welcome to keep hers."

To prove it, he showed us a pendant later on. It was far larger than the little shard that Azruphel had found. If you could buy a horse with Azruphel's stone, then this probably sufficed for a whole herd, and the stables to house it. Moreover, it had been polished and set in silver. Even more precious than its size was the pretty caterpillar encased within. Amber sometimes held insects in it, of course, but this one was especially impressive, the plump body of the caterbillar arched in mid-movement, brightly coloured spikes sticking to all sides, lit by the gentle glow of the petrified Tree-sap. Absurdly, I felt sorry for the hairy little beast. It must be a horrible feeling, I thought, to be entrapped in this manner, helpless, unable to move or escape until death took you at last. And centuries later somebody found your dead body, unchanged in its resin prison...
Dead but unchanged, centuries later. I drew my breath in sharply.
"How long has that caterpillar been dead?" I asked, my voice ringing out inappropriately loud for polite company.
Lord Eärengolë laughed. "We were not there, so we do not know," he quipped, but grew more earnest when he saw my face. "Well, we know that the Trees were destroyed three thousand and twenty-one years ago. So it must be older than that."
"Three thousand and twenty-one years!" My mind was racing, and I could barely keep my hands still. I wanted to run and sing and dance. I could feel Lord Eärengolë's bemused gaze and his mother's inscrutable eyes on me, and forced myself to stay still. But inside, I was hollering in excitement. Dead for three millennia, and still undecayed! If that wasn't food for thought, nothing was.

On the day that the local council convened, I rode down into the white city of Andúnië. I had been invited to attend the council meeting but could not bring myself to face another council, even if I had to do nothing but sit on the side and observe the proceedings. Besides, it was interesting to travel into the town on my own, as a random visitor rather than a guest of the lords. As Amraphel had said, the place was well worth a visit. I admired the bustling port, the little fishing boats, the large boats for transport, and the tall ships which belonged to our host. I admired the busy market hall and the craftsmen's quarters and the Academy of Andúnië, almost more imposing than the house of the noble family. I admired the clean, nicely paved streets and the white-walled houses with their tiled roofs, even in the outskirts. Of course, parks had been turned into vegetable patches even here, showing that the hungry winter had taken its toll on Andúnië, too. Nonetheless, the atmosphere was one of peace and prosperity. Nobody was shouting, or shoving past others to get to the market stalls first; nobody was yelling at the street urchins to stay well away from the goods. In fact, there were no street urchins, neither in the marketplace nor in the side streets; nobody came running after me to beg for coin or offer to watch my horse while I took a look at the stalls.

"Where are all the urchins?" I asked of a passer-by, who first gave me a puzzled look and then, once she had understood that I did not speak Eldarin, pointed me at a market stall. I could see plenty of seafood there, but no children, and after a moment's confusion I realised that the woman must have thought I was looking for sea urchins. I asked the fisherwoman behind the stall for the whereabouts of the street children. She gave me a look very nearly as puzzled as the first woman's. "Why, in school, friend," she said. "You're from the East? We have our holiday week after Erulaitalë, for the sake of the merchants and artists who attend the fair in the capital and then return for our own. So this is a work week, and a school week."
I blinked hard. "Why are the street urchins going to school?"
She tilted her head at me, studying me like I was some kind of curiosity. "So they learn their letters and their numbers, I presume, or so it was in my day. Why else?"
I pondered the question. Why else indeed? Nobody had bothered to send me to school when I was young. In fact, my parents had rather expected me to make a few coins by shining shoes or passing messages, or at the very least to 'find' the occasional apple or loaf of bread. Nobody in my neighbourhood had bothered with letters or numbers until this winter, as far as I knew. Nobody would have taught them, for that matter. They didn't need to know that kind of thing.
"Isn't your lord afraid that nobody will be willing to sweep the streets and empty the chamberpots if everyone can read and write?"
I stopped being some sort of curiosity and became a proper marvel, from the look she gave me. "Apparently not," she said. "Did that happen in your place?"
"Well, no. But I'd think that nobody would want to do dirty work, if they can write."
She snorted. "Fishing's dirty work, too. Or butchery. But somebody has to do it. We can wash afterwards, no? There's a fine public bath just around the corner, and another one down by the port --"
Hopeless. But that certainly explained the mystery of the reading servants. I remembered something Lord Eärengolë had said, about Andúnië having very few unlearned workers, and I tried to ask the marketwoman about that. I had to explain the concept of day-taling to her because she did not know the Adûnaic word, but she apparently didn't know the Eldarin eqivalent, either. "You mean, like the new people who came here from other places last fall?"
"No, not refugees. I mean, proper citizens."
"Well, those who stay are becoming citizens now, I hear. Well, I expect they'll try to find positions as assistants or servants, right? I mean, what would you do?"
I opened my mouth, but couldn't think of a sensible answer. "Are there that many positions for assistants and servants to fill?" I asked instead.
"We'll have to create a few more, perhaps," she conceded. "Or maybe a few journeymen will be promoted to master sooner, so they can start taking on apprentices. Our lord will think of a way, no doubt; he always does."
I did not know what to think about that. "Your lord is very gracious, I suppose."
"Well, yes," she said. "That's why we call him 'your Grace', isn't it?"
I gave up. That, I thought weakly, was the sort of logic on which Andúnië operated. There was no getting behind it.

If my impertinent questions caused offense, I ever heard of it. In fact, the noble family continued to treat my ignorance with kindness. Even after I had ruined what should have been a pleasant evening sailing cruise by being exceedingly prone to sea-sickness and a childish terror of drowning, Lord Eärendur insisted on viewing that as a strength.
"If all men were like you," he simply said once we were safely sitting by the Heart of the House, overlooking the perfectly peaceful sea, "then the Valar need have pronounced no ban, and we need not worry that anyone would think of breaking it."
That was no consolation. "You are determined to paint me in a good light, your Grace," I said weakly. "I cannot understand why."
"Yes, I expect that it's an unfamiliar feeling," he drily replied. "But somebody has to."
"I agree," Amraphel said, "but I cannot help but wonder why you care, lord."
"Yes, I suppose I will have to explain," Lord Eärendur said with a sigh, as if it should all be obvious. "Let us try to make it simple. I am an old-fashioned man. I also like to think that I am a good man. Good people should support each other – whatever else they may be."
I grimaced, and felt that I needed to make a confession. "I – I'm afraid that I don't fit your definition of a good person. I'm a Keeper of the Dead – and you know what brought me into that position – and I am no man of faith, I just went to the Mountain because it seemed the right thing to do. I have a knack for biting off more than I can chew, and I manage to cause offense wherever I go --"
Lord Eärendur's keen eyes bored into mine. "I would have held these things true, not long ago. But it is said that a man will reveal his true character when he is given money or power. You have been given money, and this winter, you have put it to good use. You have ennobled yourself - in fact, you have put many a nobleman to shame."
He made it sound like a good thing. "But that's not what I wanted. I just – something had to be done!"
"Exactly," Lord Eärendur agreed. "Something had to be done, and somebody had to do it. Let me tell you something. After that council session that Alcarmaitë dragged out so unnecessarily, I returned here to help Nolo deal with the situation, with no time or mind to expend on Armenelos. Still, we heard that a private individual was employing poor folk to keep the road to Rómenna safe, and we rejoiced."
"We did," Lady Nolwen said with a smile. "We spoke of the Good Man of Armenelos."
I felt my cheeks fill with heat.
"At first, it looked only like a way of creating additional work, which would have been valuable enough," Lord Eärendur continued, "but it became apparent that the capital was desperately dependant on fish from the coast. Somebody was helping the poor, the fishermen, the fishmongers and much of the citizenship of Armenelos – a highly commendable somebody. So we began to speculate who the Good Man of Armenelos might be. Alcarmaitë had reason and the means, but no inclination. Atanacalmo would have been in the right position, but he wasn't behind it, either. Who then? A rich merchant? Or Quenno, perhaps? Naturally, as a proud father, I hoped that it might be Quenno, and the more I thought about it, the more sense it seemed to make. But when we next spoke, he told me that he had no hand in it; however, he did tell me the identity of the Good Man. Imagine my surprise."

I tried to imagine his surprise. It must have been massive. Azruhâr the Nothing was the Good Man of Arminalêth. I was glad I hadn't known at the time that I was being discussed in such terms. There mere responsibility would have terrified me into inaction.
"It was Amraphel who thought of it, your Grace," I said, for the sake of saying something at all.
"So the Good Man of Armenelos was in fact a woman? This is getting better and better." Lord Eärengolë clapped his hands.
"After Azruhâr expressed his intent to use our money to help our neighbours," Amraphel said. "It was a joint effort, really."
"She did all the calculations and grasped the opportunities," I insisted. "I couldn't have done any of that. I just happened to have the money."
"Well, it was fortunate that you two came to be together, then," Lord Eärendur said matter-of-factly. "Perhaps it was fated."
That thought, at least, was reassuring. If it was fated that Amraphel should marry me, then it was not my fault. She wrapped her arms around me, and I leaned into her embrace.

"At any rate, at that point I had to realise that in spite of the unflattering light in which I had first met you, you must in fact be a decent fellow – not, as Alcarmaitë would have it, an unrepentant criminal, undeservedly protected by the King, who all too freely trusts anyone who promises to save him from death."
I winced. "Save his body from decay," I corrected. "That is all I can hope for. And his royal Highness is doubtlessly correct, but I'm not sure I deserve his hatred, either. I should be beneath his notice, shouldn't I? Why does he hate me so?"
I was speaking to myself rather than to the others, but Lady Vánimë replied nonetheless.
"If that knowledge can help you: I think it is jealousy," she said.
I blinked, hard. "Why should the Crown Prince of Yôzayân be jealous of me?"
Lady Vánimë drew herself more upright. "Because from his perspective, you have been given something that he has been struggling for his entire life: his father's affection."
I opened my mouth, shut it again; there was nothing to say.

"Vánimë is right," Lord Eärendur calmly said. "Alcarmaitë has, for a long time, been treated as a disappointment by his father. He is a formidable warrior, but he appears to be lacking the intellectual disposition – or at the very least, the patience and subtlety – that Ancalimon prizes. Alcarmaitë has found it hard to please the King."
"Is it true that his Majesty considered passing the sceptre to you instead?" The question had slipped from my tongue before I knew what I was saying.
"To me? Unlikely." Lord Eärendur laughed. "I am too far removed from the direct line. Atanacalmo³ was a more likely candidate. It stands to reason that if Ancalimon would not pass the sceptre to his son, he should pass it to his brother. But it is true that he took his time to declare Alcarmaitë his successor."
"Amraphel says that the Crown Prince had to prove himself in the colonies," I said.
"Amraphel is well-informed," Lord Eärendur said. "Yes, Alcarmaitë had to lead a campaign in Middle-earth to show that he was capable of good leadership, strategy and planning. He succeeded – or at the very least, he showed himself capable of listening to sensible advice - and he returned with rich treasure to lay at Ancalimon's feet. After that, he was at last declared worthy of the sceptre. But it has been a struggle for him."
Lady Vánimë held out her hand as if presenting me with something – the evidence, I suppose. "And now imagine that this man, who had to pay precious silver for his birthright, sees a man like you showered with favours, with money and kind words."

I ducked my head lower. Put like this, it really was no wonder that the Crown Prince hated me.
"Alcarmaitë is a bitter man," Lord Eärendur summarised, "and that makes him dangerous. You are under the King's protection while you are of use to him, but his protection will run out – one way or another. When that happens, you'll have to convince Alcarmaitë that you are useful to him. I will help you where I can, obviously --"
"You will, my lord?" The words slipped out of me before I knew what I was saying. I had no intention of doubting his words. I was just overwhelmed by the generous offer.
He raised his glass to me. "I certainly will – although I do not know how much I can. I can speak in your favour, but I cannot overrule Alcarmaitë. If he puts his mind to hurting you, all I may be able to do is offer shelter to your family."
I shifted uneasily. This was not something I wanted to think about, although I probably should. If the Crown Prince put his mind to hurting me... it was absurd, but unfortunately, it seemed quite likely. There probably was no protection from him, certainly not once he was King. But at least Amraphel and the girls could be kept safe. I thought of Lômenil, driven back to her mother after Lôbar's execution – well, until Master Târik had fallen in love with her, anyway. I thought of Lasbêth, abandoned by her lover and raising her son in despair and squalour. I thought of Master Amrazôr's questionable behaviour towards his daughter. It would indeed be a powerful relief to know that they would be provided for in Andúnië, should the worst happen to me.
I took a deep breath. "That would be a generous gift – of all the generous gifts I have been given this week, the greatest. I wish I had some way of repaying you, lord."
"The point of a gift is that it does not require repaying, Azruhâr," Lord Eärendur pointed out. "But who knows? Maybe a day will come when I need your help, rather than you mine. Should that happen, I will naturally hope that you will give it."
"Of course, your Grace," I said. "I am entirely at your service - as long as it does not interfere with the King's interests, of course."
"May my interests and those of the King never be at odds," Lord Eärendur said. He spoke lightly, as if there could be no doubt about that, and I desperately hoped that he was right.

Chapter End Notes

*“Oh, Armenelos, city of stone and hearts of stone“ - or so I hope.

² I am not trying to figure out the tidal calendar of a potentially flat world. Azruhâr's observation may apply to that specific week, or every day ever; take your pick.

³ If you are desperately searching for canonical evidence of this Atanacalmo dude, you can stop; he isn't canon. We are told that Tar-Telemmaitë's daughter Tar-Vanimeldë marries one Herucalmo (Tar-Anducal), who is a great-grandson of Tar-Atanamir – just as Tar-Vanimeldë is his great-granddaughter. To make them a little less closely related, it seemed sensible to give Tar-Ancalimon siblings: a brother Atanacalmo (nominally Lord of Armenelos, a rather useless office, but he's got to have some kind of title, right?), and a sister Calimíriel, whom Azruhâr hasn't yet (consciously) met. One of the two canonically has to exist, but the details? I totally made them up.