The Embalmer's Apprentice by Lyra

Chapter 15

Azruhâr has impressed the right people; time to pick a fight with the wrong people. Violence warning applies.

It was very different to travel home in the company of the Lords of Andúnië – mostly because we travelled by ship to Eldalondë, which cut the length of the journey to a single day. In Eldalondë, we would then be welcomed and fed by the family of Lady Vánimë even though she herself did not come with us. Her parents, however, would apparently ride along to the capital for Erulaitalë; her father, Lord Vánatirmo, would then stay in the city, while Lady Lótirië would join Lord Eärengolë on the journey home a few days after the celebrations. It seemed to me a cumbersome amount of travelling, but nobody else seemed to marvel at it. They were used to it, I suppose. Lord Eärendur assured me that I would not be expected to come to the Minultârik with them, so I could settle back in at home. Privately, I thought that I would not be able to do much settling in, considering that my colleagues and I had once more been summoned to the royal celebration in the afternoon, so I might as well begin the holiday in the proper manner. But I did not say that out loud. There was little time for conversation while we prepared for the journey, and I was ill at ease for having to board a ship again. However, I hadn't wanted to leave earlier to make the entire trip on horseback, either. I could have used the additional days to sort my thoughts, I suppose; but I was now as loath to return home as I had been to depart, a week ago.
Still, it had to be done. So I went on board, and then stood at the rail and watched Andúnië grow smaller and smaller until it disappeared behind the headland altogether. The wind was strong enough to make my eyes water. So close to the shore, I found that I did not feel particularly nauseous, but my known weakness was a welcome excuse to stand aside and look back in silence.

Amraphel walked up behind me, and I hastily wiped my eyes. "Are you well enough to handle Nimmirel?" she asked. "I'm not quite comfortable with Azruphel's courage; I want to stay close to her just in case."
I looked around guiltily. Azruphel didn't show the least sign of sea-sickness or anxiety, instead exploring the ship seemingly at random, ducking under ropes and jumping over steps. It was all too easy to imagine her getting in the way of the sailors, who might easily overlook a small girl running behind them. Or she might start climbing the rail or even the mast... I held out my arms to take Nimmirel and her rag doll. "I can manage," I said, ashamed not to have thought of helping Amraphel to look after the children on my own account.
"Thank you," she simply said, handing me the squirming infant and hurrying after our firstborn.

Anxious of dropping Nimmirel, who wanted to move, I went looking for a safe place in the middle of the ship where I wouldn't get into the way of the sailors. I could see Lady Nolwen and Lord Eärengolë and some of their attendants by the prow. I assumed that this was a safe place to stay, so I went to join them, sitting down on the deck so Nimmirel could comfortably sit in my lap. She stopped squirming and took to throwing down her doll, laughing whenever it hit the polished planks. Then I had to pick it up again and return it to her (not without pretending that I really wanted to keep it, and that she had to tug it from my hand with all her strength). I hoped that we didn't disturb the other's conversation too much. At any rate, they did not seem to mind. One of the servants even crouched down to join in the game. Nimmirel seemed to like that even more; her eyes flitted from my face to the servant's as if to guess who of us would take the doll this time, and she squealed in delight whenever she had guessed right. It did not seem to occur to her that we were taking turns.
I felt Lady Nolwen's eyes on the scene, and looked up, embarrassed. "I don't know why she loves this game so much," I said as if to excuse myself.
She laughed. "I suppose it is exciting if you aren't yet sure how the universe works," she pointed out. "Can I make the doll fall sideways instead of down? Will Atto give it back to me, or will he keep it for himself? Wise as we are, we naturally know that things will always fall down when dropped, and that you have no interest in keeping the doll. But Nimmirel is not yet certain about these rules." She squatted down, joining our little circle. "She has the makings of a scientist - like her father, perhaps?"

In my surprise, the doll slipped from my fingers. Nimmirel squealed in protest; I had messed up her game. "You overestimate me, my lady," I said, returning the toy to my daughter.
Lady Nolwen raised an eyebrow. "From what I have learned, you conduct experiments as a scientist would. You note down your expectations, and your materials, and the results. You may do so with a specific application in mind rather than out of general interest, but otherwise, I assure you that this is precisely how the chemists at the Academy work. You could pursue a doctorate, you know."
I was so puzzled that I missed my turn. Nimmirel made another protesting sound, and I hastily picked the doll up again. "Certainly not," I said then. "That is for learned folk. Besides, I don't have the time. I have my work."
"If you say so," Lady Nolwen said, shrugging, and fully turned his attention to Nimmirel. "Maybe you, then?" Nimmirel gave her a searching look, held out her doll, and opened her hand. The doll dropped and hit the planks with a soft thud.
"I must disappoint you, Mistress Nimnîmirel; gravity is already well-documented," Lady Nolwen said in an inappropriately serious tone. "You will have to find something else to study." She gave the doll back to Nimmirel, then rose. "About an hour until Eldalondë, and then an hour and a half, maybe two, until we are ready to ride. We will make Armenelos well before sunset." A small smile. "You will be glad to sleep in your own bed again, I expect."
I wondered whether she was mocking me. "It will be good to be home again, your Grace," I said without much conviction. "But I already know that I will miss Andúnië. Not because I am lazy!" I quickly tried to clarify. "But because it was so... pleasant." I should have liked to find a stronger word.
Lady Nolwen gave a small smile, saying, "Well, come and dine with us every now and then, when we are in the capital, although I realise that it is not the same thing. But you can visit us again in fall – then we can marvel at how big your Nimmirel will look next to our new grandchild, if all goes well."
"I would like that very much," I admitted, and again forgot to pick up Nimmirel's doll.
"A-do!" she said, reprimandingly, and I blinked.
"Did you just say Atto?"
"She said it earlier, too," the servant confirmed. He had clearly paid more attention than I had. My little daughter was starting to speak, and I was too distracted to notice!

I hadn't thought that Lady Nolwen had been serious, but later as we rode along the river Nunduinë, when I thanked Lord Eärendur for his hospitality and kindness, he confirmed the invitation. "We can make a habit of it, if you want," he suggested. "There are merchant ships that would take you along, too; that way, you will not take so many days. Unless you prefer riding, of course."
"I don't rightly know," I said, rubbing my nose. "I don't even know whether the future will allow me to accept your offer..."
He nodded sagely. "But you may remember it, if you are free."
Lord Vanatirmo of Eldalondë deigned to notice me. "I do not think I know your guest, Brother?" he told Lord Eärendur, with an apologetic nod in my direction. I felt my face flare up, because of course he knew me; after all, he, too, was on the council. He had mocked the nobleman in the expensive velvet robes. I knew his face, even if he could not recall mine.
"Oh, you do know him," Lord Eärendur promptly said, with a smile that looked almost mischievous. "You remember Azruhâr the Embalmer, don't you?"
It was almost comical, the way Lord Vanatirmo reacted; he physically withdrew, startling his horse and making it fall back before he got himself – and the animal – back under control. I bowed my head, both out of embarrassment and so the amusement in my eyes would be hidden..
"Really," Lord Vanatirmo said in a shocked tone. "Brother, I should hope that you have no need for an embalmer!"

Lord Eärendur continued to smile serenely. "Oh, at my age, it does not take a seeing stone to know that the time is approaching," he said lightly. "But Azruhâr is not here in his function as an embalmer, but rather as the founder of the Copperhoods. You remember that, too, don't you?"
"I remember that, yes," said Lord Vanatirmo, giving me a wide-eyed stare. "The Good Man of Armenelos. That was you?"
"That – I do not deserve such a title, your Grace," I said, trying to hold his gaze. His eyes were blue and innocent like an infant's, even though there was silver in his dark hair and beard. That beard had been allowed to grow up his cheeks, maybe to conceal that his face was rather broad and round, as I could see from so close.
"Yes, that was Azruhâr," Lord Eärendur said without looking back at either of us. I could hear the smile in his voice, though. He clearly enjoyed his brother-in-law's surprise. I wondered whether he had planned on it.
Lord Vánatirmo continued to fix me with his round blue eyes. "It appears that I underestimated you, then," he said; and then, to my endless surprise, he lowered his head and bent forwards in what was, considering that he was on horseback and could not risk tumbling off, the lowest possible bow.

It was good to be home again, although the inferiority of my house (the best, I dully thought, in the entire neighbourhood) to the place in which I had spent the past days was naturally striking. Still, it was my own, and I knew how to move in it. That was worth something – even though I found myself looking up at the bedroom ceiling, wondering whether I would get away with painting stars on it. When I mentioned the possibility to Amraphel, she just gave me a gentle smile and asked, "Are you putting on airs?"
I hastily assured her that I wasn't, and she kissed me. I wasn't certain whether she was serious or not.
Old Palatâr and his family had taken good care of the house. It was much cleaner than I remembered it being when we had left, and the garden had been weeded in our absence. There was even a pot of pea soup waiting for us, and when we lit the fire to re-heat the soup, thereby announcing our safe return, several neighbours arrived to welcome us back. They were curious about the journey and about Andúnië, of course, but they also appeared to be genuinely pleased to see us again. That was a nice feeling, and I was quite sorry when Amraphel reminded me that we had to rise early in the morning so we would make it to the Mountain on time.
"I should like to come along," old Palatâr mused, "but if you who ride have to leave early, I should probably have to start walking right now."
Others agreed. "In the old days, the ceremony didn't begin before poor folk had a chance to get there on foot," said Lasbeth. She had been a regular worshipper, though whether it was out of conviction or because she had hoped that her erstwhile lover would see her and her son and feel a sense of guilt, I did not know. Not that I had any right to question her motives.

"Well, in the old days, there was no feast at the palace," I pointed out. "Now that the ceremony has to take part before the official celebrations, it has to be done earlier. That's all. But you can come later; you don't have to go to the palace celebrations, after all." I couldn't speak the last part without some envy. The council was supposed to see how well the King trusted and honoured his embalmers, and that was why we had to attend. I would gladly have foregone the honour.
"But that's not the same," Târinzil said. Despite her youth, she had probably been to the Mountain far more often than I had been; her parents were proper elf-friends.
"It's not the same, either way," I replied. "The King is not there, and Lord Eärendur can't speak. It's all silence, and very few people. It's just..." I tried to remember the words Lord Eärendur had used. "An interim solution."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
A way to do things until we have a younger King. I could not bring myself to say the words.
"It means," Amraphel said, "that you can just as well go there at your own leisure, to have your own impromptu ceremony, because that's the only kind we currently have. And now, it's time to sleep."

As we reached the Mountain early in the morning, the noblemen's servants were in the process of putting up the pavillons for the horses and a table for a brief lunch.We were immediately hailed by Lord Eärengolë. He greeted us with a grin. "Good morning, Amraphel, Azruhâr! And your lovely daughters." He helped Azruphel off the horse, then turned to offer his hand to Amraphel, but she had already unhorsed without assistance. "How good to see you again," Lord Eärengolë said cheerfully, as if it hadn't been a mere half day since we had parted. "We did not expect that it would be so soon – since Azruhâr professed to be no man of faith." His eyes were glinting as he looked at me. My face grew hot.
"It's not that I never pray, Lord Eärengolë," I tried to explain. "It's just that it's not a habit."
"But it felt necessary - again?" That was Lord Eärendur, silently walking up on us. Like the others, he was again wearing a very simple white shift, barely more than a night-shirt. Maybe it was a night-shirt. I suddenly wondered whether Amraphel and I should have removed the embroidery from our holiday robes. In spring, I had not known any better, since I had not been among the people informed that there would be a ceremony at all. Most of them appeared to belong to Lord Eärendur's household and that of Lord Vanatirmo, anyway – although there were a couple of faces I recognised from the market in Arminalêth. Of course, it had to be a private affair; only the Crown Prince could have continued the official ceremony.
Still, by now I knew that this year's fashion was apparently humble, and maybe I should have acted on it. On the other hand, the nobles wore highly elaborate garlands of cornflowers and carnations, while Amraphel and I wore simple wreaths of sweet peas, picked and wound this very morning. Perhaps that levelled the field.

Either way, despite their joking tone, both the young and the old lord of Andúnië honestly seemed to be happy to see us, even if we were overdressed. Why else should they have interrupted their conversations only to greet us? And if they had not, in fact, been involved in any conversations, did that not imply that we had been waited for?
My silence appeared to be answer enough. Lord Eärendur's hand, warm and firm, came to rest on my shoulder. It was a perfectly friendly gesture, but somehow, it threw me off-balance – perhaps because the friendliness in it still was so unexpected. He could have steered me like a ship, in this manner.
And in a way, he did. "There is still time for refreshments. It is only getting hotter, so everybody should drink something before we climb. We will join you in a moment."
Lord Eärengolë raised an eyebrow, but no objections. He politely led Amraphel and the children into the small crowd that was standing, talking and laughing and toasting the holiday, in what shadow the pavillons provided. I could see Lady Nolwen greet them, immediately including them into her circle of friends or retainers or whoever they were.

I stayed behind, wondering what was coming next. "I hear you, my lord?" I said in what I hoped was a neutral tone.
He looked down on me with a smile. "No need to be afraid, Azruhâr." My voice clearly hadn't convinced him. "There is simply something I want you to have, but I don't feel it necessary to have everybody know it."
I frowned, still disconcerted. He produced a small velvet bag that he had been hiding in his left hand. I took it, more confused than ever. When I looked inside, I saw a glint of silver, a gleam of pale golden light, and a shadow that rather looked like a very dead caterpillar.
"It is very beautiful," I said, wondering why he was showing me this pendant again.
"It is yours," he said.
I felt as though he had knocked the breath out of me. "Have mercy, lord! You know that I cannot repay such a debt."
"There is no debt."
"There is always a debt, lord."
There was a hint of a smile. I was grateful for it, but it did not make me feel any more at ease.
"You should not think of it as a debt, Azruhâr. It is a gift. Perhaps, an investment. It clearly means something to you that it does not mean to me, and I am certain that it belongs in your hands."
I felt myself break out in a sweat that had nothing to do with the burning sun.
"I understand nothing of investments, lord, but I think I should tell you why I found this pendant so intriguing," I said. "It has to do with my work. With preserving the dead. I keep thinking – if that caterpillar could outlast three thousand and however many years in there... perhaps it would also work on a human body."
"You want to encase the King in amber?" Lord Eärendur asked, an eyebrow raised.
"No, your Grace. But amber is made of resin, is it not? Before the caterpillar was encased in amber, it was trapped in resin. Maybe that is enough. I don't know – yet. But I will try to find out. I know you cannot approve of my work, so I cannot accept your pendant for that purpose. Besides, it is much too valuable."

I held the bag out to him, and after a moment, he took it. His other hand left my shoulder, and he slipped the amber pendant into it, pondering it. It had looked brighter while surrounedd by the thick fabric, I thought. Under the sun, its gleam might have been a mere reflection.
Lord Eärendur looked me in the eyes. "I thank you for your honesty, Azruhâr. You are right in that I should condemn your work. But I have been forced to give the matter much thought, and I suppose I have come to terms with it." He shrugged his shoulders. "As for the pendant's value, yes, it is an expensive piece, but I assure you that my house is not going to go bankrupt over its loss. I have made up my mind to give it to you, and taking it back would be graceless. So take it. Keep it, wear it, or sell it if you need money to support your neighbours again. It is yours." Without further ado, he slipped the silver chain over my head. The lump of amber came to rest on my chest, just below my sternum. It left barely an impression in the white fabric. Nonetheless, it felt heavy. It felt like an obligation. An investment, that much I knew, was supposed to pay off at some point. It was the same thing as a debt, I suppose, only seen from the other end.
Not that I had a choice. "Refusing it would also be graceless, I know, so I accept it with gratitude and good will," I said, touching the pendant to my brow in order to display the gratitude I wasn't able to feel. "I pray that I will not disappoint you."

It seemed to suffice, for the time being. "Today is a good day for praying," Lord Eärendur said drily. "Come, let us join the others."
We made our way towards the pavillon, and he said, very quietly, "It is good that you are here, you know. It will convince Vanatirmo and Lotórië that you are of the right sort, and their approval will go a long way."
"Oh? Why did you not tell me that, yesterday, lord?"
"I could have," Lord Eärendur agreed. "But then your decision would have been guided by ulterior motives. That would have been quite inappropriate. But as you have come of your own accord, I do not mind telling you that it was a good choice – for more than one reason."
I chewed my lips. "I made that decision weeks ago, your Grace," I said, which was perfectly true, although I wasn't certain that he would believe me.
But apparently, he did. "Then there was no need for me to tell you anything."
"You knew it, though, lord, didn't you?" I couldn't help asking. "You were expecting me. Lord Eärengolë was keeping watch for us. And you wouldn't have brought the pendant along if you hadn't been reasonably certain that I would be here."
Lord Eärendur laughed. "That is true. Let me just say that I have more trust in your faith than you seem to do."

The ceremony on the Mountain was, in spite of the unavoidable silence, comfortable and reassuring. In contrast, the feast at the palace was an unpleasant affair, even more so than usual. The King was not feeling well, so instead of walking around and speaking with all of us in turn, he did not rise from the throne even once. He accepted everybody's felicitations with a few gracious words, but it was obviously wearing him out. We Keepers, lowest of rank among the visitors, spoke to him last, and he appeared very much out of spirits, exhorting us to continue our good efforts without much energy. We were soon ushered away so he would be able to rally his strength.
Instead of the King, his son was making the rounds, and I dreaded the moment when he would reach our group. Master Ipharaz of the Coffin-Makers, invited in his function as a councillor, made civil conversation with us, which Master Khôrazir had never done. I tried to catch up on what I had been missing, but couldn't help casting furtive glances around. It made me a bad listener, but it had the advantage that I noticed when the Crown Prince began to steer the Lords Atanacalmo and Têrakon, with whom he had last been speaking, towards us.
"Master Târik, your former lord is approaching," I said under breath. "Maybe you want to be elsewhere."
"You are right," Master Târik said at once. "Councillor Ipharaz, shall we get some fresh air before the meal?"
Karathôn and Mîkul joined them on the way to the terrace. I wondered whether I could seek refuge in the company of Lord Eärendur, but I doubted that I would be welcome there. Perhaps he didn't want to be seen associating with me in public, either. It was one thing to entertain me in the privacy of his house, or in the select company of elf-friends; but I probably should not expect public displays of friendship just here. At any rate, there was no more time to go anywhere without looking as if I was fleeing. So I stayed where I was, forcing a nervous smile onto my lips.

"Well, well, if it isn't Lord Azruhâr," the Crown Prince said by way of greeting. "Though how anyone could mistake you for a lord is quite beyond me."
"Royal Highness," I said, kneeling. "I do not know it, either."
I did not dare to look at his face, but I could hear the sneer in his voice as he told Lord Atanacalmo, "I believe it was Azruhâr who was so unhappy with the way you run the city, Uncle..."
"Was he," Lord Atanacalmo said, sounding strangely distracted. He probably did not care about my opinion very much, and would have been happy to ignore me, if the Crown Prince hadn't forced him to take notice. Lord Têrakon seemed more affronted than the Lord of Arminalêth. "Is that so, Embalmer? Do you know better than your betters?"
In some respects, I just might, thought a rebellious part of my mind. Out loud, I said, "Not at all, your lordship."
"Then why did you take matters that should have been your lord's into your own hand?" said Lord Têrakon, the distaste in his voice clearly audible.
"I did not think of it in such terms. I only wished to help my neighbours."
"Really? I hear you hired a whole army."
I tried to remember Amraphel's construct of an explanation. "No, your Grace, I made a loan to the fishmongers of Rómenna. So they could employ assistants to keep their transport safe."
"Why such generosity towards the fishmongers?" That was Lord Atanacalmo, now. I thought I could discern some amusement, although it might have been displeasure as well.
"My sister is a fishmonger," I said.
"Well, in that case, it clearly wasn't political," Lord Atanacalmo said with a shrug, to my puzzled surprise. I doubted that he would buy my explanation so easily, but he acted as if he did. "I can surely trust that you will not be so forward again?" he went on.

I studied the hems of our robes as I thought about my answer. Brocade appeared to be out of fashion, because the others were all wearing embroidered silk, much lighter than the festival robes I had bought a few years ago. Gold and silver thread had been used for the embroidery – of course – and the bright lining contrasted sharply with the solemn colours of the outer layer, but gaudy brocades like mine were clearly outdated. I called myself to order. "I doubt that I will be able to – to again make such a loan, anytime soon," I said. That was the kind of answer that Amraphel had recommended to me for such cases: not saying yes or no, but something that could be taken either way.
A benevolent interlocutor would play along, but of course, the Crown Prince was not benevolent towards me. "You have not answered the question, Embalmer."
I glanced up at Lord Atanacalmo. His gaze still seemed entertained rather than angry, which gave me a little courage. "I will remember to ask my lord's permission, in the unlikely case that the occasion should ever arise again," I said.
Lord Atanacalmo's lip twitched in what might have been a sneer or a suppressed smile. "Then all is as it should be," he told his kinsmen. "I daresay there are other matters that require our attention."
"More important matters, doubtlessly," Lord Têrakon agreed, and they moved on. The Crown Prince appeared to be taken aback; I could sense hesitation before he stalked away. I awkwardly straightened my cumbersome robe. The worst thing, I reflected, was that the King was so unwell. In fact, he now appeared to be fast asleep on the throne. Still, I was probably safer within sight of his Majesty than I was anywhere else, so I carefully walked closer to the throne in spite of the temptation to take refuge with my colleagues outside. I was sorely missing Amraphel. The councillors and noblemen had been permitted to bring their wives and grown children with them, but Master Târik and I had explicitly been invited alone. Clearly, we were to be honoured, but not so much as to feel like peers to the other guests.

I wondered who else I could talk to. The answer was Quentangolë, who also appeared concerned about the King's well-being and slowly fell into pace next to me.
"How has your holiday week been, Azruhâr?" he asked in a seemingly harmless tone.
I wondered that he did not ask his father instead of me. "It has been an excellent week, albeit too short," I said with a sigh. "I marvel that you can stand it here, if that was your home."
A wry sideways glance. "I can as little choose to leave as you can," Quentangolë said. "We both have our duties, and yours, I'm afraid, is growing more dire than ever."
I gave the sleeping King an anxious look. "Yes." I chewed my lips a little, wondering how much time the King had left. "Yes," I sighed again. "I have an interesting new idea, and I hope that it will enable me to do what his Majesty requests, but..." I trailed off. The amber pendant was still around my neck, I suddenly realised. I had stuffed it underneath my white robes as we had climbed the Minultârik, feeling that it was inappropriate to display such rich jewellery when everybody else was clothed humbly, and I had forgotten to take it off when I had changed into my festival finery. Now my fingers were drawn to the slim silver chain, pulling the pendant out of hiding. The smoothly polished amber was pleasant to the touch, reminding me of warm, peaceful days on a distant western beach. I had to force my mind back to the present.
"But I fear that I am running out of time," I said.
Quentangolë nodded earnestly. "I fear that also." With another nod, he left me to greet some noblewoman who was probably a distant relative.

When the meal was served – splendid by the standards of that year, doubtlessly ignoring the rationing and using up food that should have lasted a whole week; there even was white bread, wherever they had found the wheat for it – the Crown Prince saw another chance to attack me. "We have been able to secure a modest feast," he announced loudly, "although much of our due has already been eaten by the greedy and the undeserving at the foot of the hill."
I opened my mouth to protest, remembered myself in time, and bit my tongue. With the exception of the King and my colleagues, everybody was staring at me. Lord Eärendur was wearing a pained expression. Lord Atanacalmo looked annoyed, and I wondered whether his annoyance was with me or with his nephew. He might not be especially fond of the Crown Prince, I reckoned, considering that he might otherwise have been the one to inherit the sceptre. I sought his eyes, trying to see whether he was ally or enemy, and he met my gaze, raising his eyebrows in challenge. Indifferent, I decided. Lord Têrakon was giving me a narrow-eyed stare; Lord Vánatirmo was toying with his plate, pretending to pay me no attention whatsoever. His wife, the Lady Lotórië, whispered to the lady next to her – no, no lady, but the Crown Princess herself, seated beside her royal husband and decked out in silver and sapphires. She turned her head to look at me. Her eyes were wide and round, blue like the gems on her throat and in her ears. Blue like a new-born child's – or like those of Lord Vánatirmo of Eldalondë.
It was this realisation that made me bold, I think. Before I properly knew what I was doing, instead of crumbling underneath the combined weight of all these important eyes on my face, I stood up and bowed low. "Majesty, Royal Highness, Lords, Ladies, I beg your pardon. If I had realised that the state of Yôzayân was so desperate, I would gladly have starved both my neighbours and myself so as not to ruin your feast. In token of my contrition, I shall refrain from eating your precious food today." The words seemed to come out of nowhere - surely my feeble mind could not have come up with them. My face was flaming. Quentangolë, now in his place by the King's side, was clearly stifling a laugh – his shoulders were shaking a little. The King actually did laugh – a hoarse, wheezing laugh. "I should say that there is enough – even for you," he said, and there was some dutiful laughter around the long table. Slowly, the tension lifted. People's attention turned away from me and towards the many dishes on the table (there really was no reason to complain), and I slumped back into my seat. I did not touch the food, spending the meal staring at my empty plate. My stomach was churning as badly as if I had been taken out to sea again.

Of course, my little speech did not go unpunished. I had not expected it to, but the attack still came as a surprise. Everybody was entertained, distracted by music and dancing and conversation. Even I was listening to the bards, as much as ease as I could be, when the Crown Prince approached me again. This time, he had two guards with him, who positioned themselves behind me. It was a warning, I suppose, but it wasn't much use as I had no hope of escaping. I attempted a low bow. The Crown Prince's hand swooped past my nose, clasping the silver chain around my neck.
"That is a very fine pendant you are wearing, Azruhâr," the Crown Prince said in a deceptively soft voice. "One must wonder where you got it."
I answered truthfully. "It was a gift, royal Highness."
He laughed, harshly. "Really! A gift from yourself to yourself, I daresay. You have gone back to your old thieving ways, haven't you?"
It was, I realised with a sinking feeling, not likely that he would believe me. I did not want to draw Lord Eärendur into this – he had, after all, said that he didn't want everybody to know – but I urgently needed him to confirm my story. I looked around, trying to spot him. But my noble friends were clearly busy elsewhere; I could not see any of them nearby.
I protested louder than necessary, hoping against reason that Lord Eärendur would hear me and realise that if he had any intention of helping me, now was the time. "I have done nothing of the sort, your Highness! Do you think that I would wear it openly, if I had stolen it?"
My reasoning impressed nobody; instead, I was struck around the head, hard. As I stumbled forwards, the Crown Prince hissed, "Apparently. Well, you will pay the price now."
Fear was making way for panic, and I appealed to the highest power I could think of. "Lord King!" I cried, senselessly. "Your humble servant is wrongfully accused!"

His Majesty showed no sign of hearing me; either the music fully absorbed him, or he had fallen back into a stupor. I had no chance to find out, because I received another blow to the back of my head. Black dots danced in front of my eyes, and my knees buckled. The next thing I knew was that the guards were twisting my arms behind my back and dragging me away. In a flash of clarity that tore through my aching mind, I realised that the truth would no longer matter, if they succeeded. I would confess to theft - or any other crime - sooner rather than later, under the threat of torment. My only hope was that that my case would be treated openly, in public, right now.
That thought got me kicking. I had no hope of convincing the Crown Prince, but I could try to get people to notice. Secrecy was no longer an option, and so I sobbed, "It was a gift! It is true! I got it from Lord Eärendur - ask him!" Through my tears, I could see that some of the lords and ladies began to crowd in, alerted by the commotion. As far as I could discern, there were no friendly faces among them, but at least they were paying attention.
"Eärendur?" the Crown Prince asked, incredulous. "Eärendur - of Andúnië? Can you not fabricate a less transparent lie?" A third blow to my head made everything turn black. As if from far away, through a world of mist, I heard laughter.

I was in front of the throne when I came back to my senses. I should have rejoiced at the realisation – it surely meant that there would be no secret interrogation - but I could not muster the energy. The darkness wanted to keep me, and light and voices seemed to reach me only through a wall of mist. I shook my head to clear it, which only made things worse. A wave of agonised nausea washed over me, and I just barely managed to swallow the bile that wanted to rise up my throat.
"What has Eärendur done?" The voice had little to do with the King that I knew and loved; it was muffled, as if every word had to be wrested from a formidable enemy. But it was his voice. I had apparently made enough noise to alert him. Or had Quentangolë intervened? The scribe's familiar figure seemed to hover before me, holding a book that I was certain hadn't been there before. My head felt fit to burst. From the whispers around me, I learned that Lord Eärendur had been sent for, but it had taken quite some time to locate him; apparently, he and Lady Nolwen were taking a stroll around the gardens with the Princess and her parents.
The Crown Prince insisted that there was no need to wait for him. "Lord Father, that man is obviously lying. Look, this is the pendant that he has stolen. Why should he be given a gift like that – from Eärendur of all people?"
"It is unlikely..." the old King agreed readily, sounding like a man talking in his sleep. "Is it mine?"
"No, Majesty," I heard Quentangolë's voice. "Yours has a bee in it. This indeed looks like my father's..." Doubt was in his voice; even he did not believe me, I realised.
I struggled to explain, but the words kept hiding just out of my grasp. Articulating them was almost beyond me. "Majesty – the caterpillar," I managed to get out. "Still perfect. After thousands--"

There was unrest around us; Lord Eärendur finally arrived. Although he must have received quite a dramatic summons, he sounded calm and collected. "What happened, your Highness? How can I help?"
"This man has stolen a highly valuable pendant of Valinorean amber, and claims that you have given it to him," the Crown Prince spat out. The stress he put on the word you made clear that he was convinced I was lying. To be fair, it did not sound likely. Suddenly, I wondered whether Lord Eärendur would confirm my story at all.
I lifted my aching head to give Lord Eärendur the best pleading look I could muster. I could barely recognise his face, and I could not read his expression as he tilted his head to take in my appearance. Everything was fuzzy. I must be badly drunk, although I could not remember drinking all that much.
"It is Azruhâr, who has already dragged your name in the mud before," the Crown Prince helpfully supplied, fury colouring his every word.
"Yes, thank you," Lord Eärendur said mildly. "I know Azruhâr. He speaks the truth. I have given this pendant to him." Relief almost made me loose my fragile grip on consciousness.
The Crown Prince spat out an incredulous "What?!" that made my head feel fit to burst.
"Yes," Lord Eärendur repeated, and then held out his hand to me. It seemed to be very far away. "Come, get up, Azruhâr; such grovelling should be beneath you."
"He stays where he is until this matter is settled," the Crown Prince snapped before I had even begun to react.

Lord Eärendur heaved a heavy sigh, but before he could speak again, the King intervened.
"I want... an explanation," he grated out. "Eärendur... what is going on?"
"I think both his Majesty and Azruhâr are in dire need of a drink," Lord Eärendur said smoothly, turning to one of the palace servants who were paying intent attention to the events, and none to their duties. Footsteps were hurrying away, and then back. A cup was pushed into my trembling hands. I could barely hold it still enough to drink, and when the water was in my mouth, I could hardly swallow it, although my throat was dry and screaming for refreshment.
The King, meanwhile, seemed to have profited from the drink. "What is going on?" he repeated, more clearly. "What has Azruhâr done?"
"Nothing wrong, as far as I know," Lord Eärendur said. "There really is no need to treat him like that. There seems to have been a misunderstanding about the pendant I have given him."
"It was a gift?" the King asked.
"Indeed," Lord Eärendur confirmed.
"Why?!" The Crown Prince was practically shouting. Lightning shot through my mind, and the world seemed to be quaking around me. Nobody else seemed to notice it. I wanted nothing more than to sleep. Maybe nobody would notice if I rested my bursting head on the nice, cool marble...?
From high above, I heard Lord Eärendur's voice. "We spoke about the amber – about its age, to be precise. Azruhâr seemed to feel that it was relevant to his work for you, my King. It seemed appropriate that he should have the pendant, as a reminder. It is really very simple."
By the murmur that arose around us, the others did not seem to agree that it was simple. I tried to follow their shreds of conversation, but it was impossible to hold on to any but the most important thought.
"But you oppose my Keepers," the King said, sounding nearly as bewildered as I was feeling.
"I do not," Lord Eärendur stated calmly. "I have long been uncomfortable with their efforts, that is true, but I have come to the realisation that I have no right to be that. If the knowledge that their body will be preserved incorrupt helps people to accept the Gift of Ilúvatar more readily, then the Keepers' work is as valuable to me as it is to your Majesty."

There were gasps in the audience, and I realised that something momentous must have happened, but I couldn't bring myself to care. Darkness was tugging on my consciousness again, and it was all too enticing to give in to it. But it appeared that I would not be allowed to do that. "Let Azruhâr stand," the King said.
I realised that I would have to move. The effort of pushing to my feet made the quaking worse. I felt like a ship tossed about by the hostile sea. Bile was rising in my throat again, and I sank back down, doubling over. Strong, supportive hands pulled me to my feet and held me upright; I clung to them, unable to steady myself. The people around me all seemed to be present twice, and danced along with the movement of the world.
"He is addled," somebody said.
"Addled!" I heard the King's puzzled voice. "Who has addled my embalmer?"
An abashed voice directly behind my shoulder said, "I must have hit him harder than I intended." I realised that the helpful arm I was clinging to belonged to the very guard who had beaten me, and tried to push away from him, but my hands were sluggish and did not obey my will.
Two faces of Lord Eärendur closed in on me as he took a look at my eyes. "I recommend Azruhâr to the attentions of a healer," he said, sounding suddenly alarmed. But before I could even begin to worry, the faces and the candles flared up. The world turned first into shining white, and then into black nothingness.