The Embalmer's Apprentice by Lyra

Chapter 37

Chapter 37

On Valanya, having returned to the capital the previous evening, Lord Eärendur made public supplication to the King and gave over the first instalment of the fine that had been fixed at the trial. All in all, he would have to pay three thousand Towers, an unimaginable sum. To make sense of it, I did some maths and came to the conclusion that even at my fairly generous pay, I would have to work for two thousand and three hundred and eight years to meet it, assuming that I had no other expenses, which of course I would have. It was more than could be made in a lifetime, or even several of them, and I was certain that even for a nobleman, it must be a ghastly amount of money.

I did not go to watch, but Amraphel went and later told me about it. Apparently, Lord Eärendur's humiliation had been met with stony silence on the part of the audience (who would normally be expected to jeer and whistle). "I think the King was hoping to convey that Eärendur hadn't been arrested without reason, even if he hadn't committed quite the crime he was arrested for," Amraphel said, "but I don't think the crowd was all that convinced. Mind you, it's a rather abstract crime, all things considered." Even when the King had tossed some of the coins - silver Crowns and even half-Trees - into the crowd, nobody had cheered, and more astonishingly, nobody had at first moved to pick them up. According to Amraphel, that was a powerful demonstration of what the people thought about the judgement, a silent act of rebellion. (Although later, when the crowds dispersed, the money was apparently gone. Some people must have picked it up in secret, and who can blame them?)
It made for a heartwarming story, but I remembered what Lord Atanacalmo had said about rebellion and civil war, and my stomach clenched in fear. Times were already frightening enough, I felt, without further upheavals.

Later in the day, Lord Eärendur had asked whether I would rather have him visit my house, or attend dinner at his house. In all honesty, I wasn't enthusiastic about either option, but it seemed less of an effort to invite him here. Since I didn't want him to think me incapable of looking after myself, I even cleaned myself up and dressed properly, as I hadn't bothered to do since my conversation with Lord Herucalmo, although I didn't shave again; the proximity of a knife to my skin had been rather hard to endure the last time, and I didn't care to repeat it too soon. Then I sat in my study feeling restless and irritated, wondering whether I could send Tîmat to Lord Eärendur's house, telling him that I was feeling too unwell. But Amraphel would probably not have let me get away with it. Besides, it would make me look like a child hiding from an unloved chore, and while that was very much how I felt, it was not how I wanted others to think of me.

So when I heard a muffled knock on the door and equally muffled voices in the corridor, I forced myself to get up and make my cautious way downstairs, past the watchful Valar in the corridor, just in time to hear Azruphel proclaim, "... just such a shame that Atto is so weak."
I had to steady myself against a pillar before I could go on, feeling as though I had been dunked into the barrel of icy water in the cellars of the catacombs again. She wasn't wrong, of course, but still I was overwhelmed by despair. Even my daughter had by now realised what sort of man I was, and I hated myself a little bit more for it. Taking a deep breath, I managed to march on.
"Child," I could hear Lord Eärendur's firm voice, "you should know that your father is one of the strongest men I know."
"You should not say such things," I said, having reached the entrance hall.
Lord Eärendur met my weary look with his warm, bright eyes. "Why not? I doubt it will make her conceited; surely she has inherited your modesty. Hello, Azruhâr. I am glad to see you on your feet again. The beard suits you." Then, in a fluid motion, he went on both knees at the foot of the stairs, as though I was the nobleman and he was the supplicant. The man could make even a genuflection look elegant, but it was still an absurd display, and I felt my face flare up at it.
"Don't do that," I said, my throat suddenly dry. "It really isn't necessary." I was glancing sideways at Azruphel, who was watching with curiosity, but no apparent surprise. I suppose she didn't understand how inappropriate the situation was.

Lord Eärendur, meanwhile, looked up at me. He was much taller than me, normally, and it was strange to see his face tilted back to see mine. "Oh, but it is necessary, if you have the impression that I do not hold you in the highest esteem," he replied, sounding entirely unperturbed. "I owe you firstly an abject apology - or many apologies, really - and secondly, my abject gratitude, and I must ask you to allow me to express them."
"If you must," I said rather gracelessly, "but I wish you would stand up for it."
He replied, quite earnestly, "I can, if you insist, but I don't think it would properly show the extent of either my shame or my gratitude."
"Sweetheart, can you please go and tell your mother that our guest has arrived?" I told Azruphel, and when, after a little pout, she had run off, I said to Lord Eärendur, "Let's take it as given. You do not even want your subjects to pay you homage - yet you expect me to accept yours?"
A genuine-looking frown of confusion appeared on his face. "But that is not the same thing. I do not want people to abase themselves simply because of a difference in birth. There is no particular merit in that. But you have done something truly praiseworthy, and for that --"
"I didn't do it for the praise, and Lord Atanacalmo already informed me that it was unnecessary and didn't make much of a difference either way," I interrupted him. "And I really wish people could stop acting like it's a miracle. Yes, everybody knows that I'm a coward, but that doesn't mean I'd betray you."

"Azruhâr," Lord Eärendur said with a strange look on his face, half-way between tears and a smile, "I don't think anyone in their right mind still believes that you're a coward." But he got to his feet at last, continuing, "It grieves me that you should speak so lowly of yourself, and that your daughter thinks you weak for your pain. You should tell her what happened. She is old enough, I think."
"I think not," I said flatly. "Anyway, I don't see what good it would do. I'd rather have her think me weak than realise what a rotten place this world is."
The corners of his mouth drew back in a pained grimace. "It is your decision, of course," he said in the gentle tone one would use to address a child that hurt themselves playing, careful not to startle them further. I grit my teeth and tried to swallow my annoyance.
"Well," I said when I had regained something akin to self-control. "Why don't you come inside."
Again, he looked at me with a pained expression, but he came up the stairs - now he was towering above me again, which at least was familiar. For a moment, his hand wanted to reach for my shoulder. I stiffened in anticipation, and maybe he noticed; at any rate, he let his hand drop. "We shall talk about it later, I hope," he said, still in that kindly tone of voice.

Amraphel came and welcomed him more warmly than I had been able to. She made pleasant conversation throughout dinner, too, which allowed me to take my attention off things. I found it unpleasant to focus on things for too long, since it made me constantly worry about the right thing to do or say. That in itself wasn't new to me, but since the trial of Lord Eärendur, it was more stressful than before, as if my mind was still somehow convinced that a wrong word would have disastrous consequences. Reassured that Amraphel would take care of the right things to do, I kept out of the conversation. I couldn't prevent hearing a couple of things - at Amraphel's prompting, Lord Eärendur spoke about Lady Nolwen's return to health, and told us how difficult it would be to extract the sum of money he was forced to pay. It transpired that in spite of his riches he didn't have a ready hoard of Towers upon Towers, but that a great deal of the money was loaned out and invested somewhere. The first instalment had been paid from his personal assets, but for the next, he would have to withdraw investments and raise rents and cut grants. "It's quite against my usual way of governing, and entirely against my father's wisdom," he said with a sigh. "And it's going to cripple Andustar for years to come. Which is the point, of course."
Before my mind's eye, I saw Andustar personified, hobbling through the formerly fair streets of Andúnië on unsteady legs with a walking stick and a begging bowl, like a beggar unable to earn his keep through work. That could have been my fate, if my life hadn't taken such an unexpected turn, and I grieved at the thought that Andúnië had been brought to such an unhappy state; that the place where I had previously found rest and peace was so badly reduced. With a sudden flash of clarity, I was certain that this was why it had been reduced: to close that harbour of peace to me. That was why Lord Eärendur had been arrested in the first place, to damage me, to rob me of a friend who had money and power, at least more power than I had by myself. Surely, that had been the true point. What was worse, the plan had been succesful: maybe not in the way the Crown Prince had intended, but still very much in his favour. There was no winning against him.

I was torn from my horrified realisation by Amraphel and Lord Eärendur, one of them holding my hand, the other saying my name in a soft but urgent voice, and I blinked at them. "Yes, what is it?" I said, embarrassed that I had evidently missed a cue.
"You were staring into space for a good quarter of an hour and responding to nothing," Amraphel said. There was no mistaking the worry in her voice, and I felt helplessly guilty.
"I am sorry," I said, and the words made me realise just how sorry I was. I stood up abruptly. "Excuse me for a moment," I managed to say. "Do continue your meal."
Amraphel was also getting to her feet, but I said, "No, no need." Then I rushed out, first to the latrines where I divested myself of what little I had eaten that day, then out into the garden. While the courtyard was already pleasantly warm, storing the day's gentle warmth until well into the night, the garden still cooled down quickly as soon as the sun was down, and it was the cold night air that I was craving now. I paced up and down the lawn, clenching and unclenching my good fist, breathing deep to fight the urge to cry, then sobbing as I succumbed to it. It was pointless, everything was pointless and hopeless and useless, and it took me a long time - or so it felt - until I stopped sobbing. If any of my venerable neighbours were out, they must have lost whatever esteem they ever had for me, but I did not have the strength to contain my tears until they had exhausted themselves. Only then could I calm my breathing and regain some modicum of dignity. I washed my face and took a drink of water, and went back to the hall.

The others had the good grace of pretending that I had only been away for a moment, as if they weren't already well into their dessert of white cheese, sorrel and woodland strawberries. In my turn, I pretended not to notice the worried looks I received and sat back down in my place. After a moment, Lord Eärendur's hand moved towards mine in a gesture of encouragement, but I said "No." It came out hard and flat, and much faster than I had intended, but I did not trust myself enough to explain. His hand stopped on the beautifully embroidered tablecloth - yet another gift from him - and he looked down at his plate. I breathed deep and forced myself to empty my plate without looking up again. Somehow, dinner passed. I think it passed in awkward silence, but in all honesty I didn't have enough fortitude to pay attention to my surroundings as well as keep myself in check, so perhaps there was spirited conversation and I just didn't hear it in my state. I think Amraphel ended the dinner and invited our guest to the room of the Heart; at any rate, I became aware of people rising from their chairs and benches, and dutifully followed.

"How are you, Azruhâr?" Lord Eärendur asked once we were sitting by the Heart, nursing our drinks (the same dross that all my household drank).
"Fine," I said instinctively. "Great." Then I decided that such an obvious lie was even more childish than the urge to bawl in the dark garden, and amended, "Miserable, actually."
Lord Eärendur bowed his head. "I thought so, and I wish I could help you-"
"But you can't," I said flatly.
He was looking back at me, his eyes suspiciously wet, and said, "I would like to try, with everything that's in my power."
I said, "There's no point, because it's nothing you can do." I took a deep breath, and went on, "I realised something. This was never about you. Well, maybe a little. But mostly, it was about me. Against me. You just happened to be in the way. Because you helped me." I stared at him trembling, hoping that he would understand. "You need to leave. Get yourself away from me. It's all my fault; they only punished you in order to get to me."
Instead of getting away, he knelt on the carpet before me, very gently taking my shaking hands in his own warm hands. "I certainly won't abandon you!"
"You must, Lord. Think of Andúnië. Denounce me in public, rid yourself of me - maybe the King will waive the rest of the fine once we are no longer friends."
"Rid myself of you? What are you talking about? My dear fellow, I am going to do no such thing. You deserve the same loyalty that you have shown me. Besides," a lopsided smile crept over his face, "if you are right, and it was all done to harm you, then we must not let them win."

I shook my head. "But they will win. They already have won. There's no point in fighting against them. It will only get worse and worse. Who knows what the King will dream up next?"
Lord Eärendur sighed. "I should hope that whatever he dreams up, he will not act on it. The council is paying attention now, and so are the people. Just today, the council - without my doing, I should add - made an urgent petition to the King to return his attention to 'the true priorities of the state' instead of wasting attention and resources on private feuds. Your name was not mentioned, but it was clear that they were thinking of you. In the past, and at the turn of the year, they were happy enough to turn a blind eye, but now, several of them have noticed that it's always you who ends up injured when the King is anywhere near, and that it's never quite clear what you did wrong."
I could no longer resist the urge to shrug. It still felt strange, albeit no longer painful. "What of it? They must have noticed that before."
"Perhaps, but they had no reason to care. You had been introduced to them as a convict, a liar, a weakling, a coward who had betrayed his friends and agreed to do the distasteful work of embalming to save his hide, an upstart who meddled in the King's business and pandered for my favour - I apologise for saying these things, but that is how they were speaking of you -"
"No need to apologise," I said sourly. "I've heard it all before. And you believed it, too, because you wanted to gainsay my confession before you even knew what I'd said. You don't have to pretend now."

I received a wide-eyed stare in response. "Azruhâr, that has - I did not say that because I thought you were weak! I said it because I could not have expected such endurance of anyone! Not my sworn servants nor any of my friends, not even those whom I have known, loved and trusted for well-nigh a century. I know, in theory at any rate, how insidious the pain must be. It is too much to bear for anybody."
"Yet I bore it," I pointed out.
"So you did." His hands were wandering up to my elbows, gripping them gently. "Which proves to the world and, I should hope, to yourself that you are not at all the weakling and coward some people thought you were."
"But I am."
Lord Eärendur heaved a sigh. "I must wonder why you find it so much easier to accept insults than to accept praise," he said.
"Decades of practice," I said without thinking.
"That," he responded, "is rather sad."
Once again, I could not resist the urge to shrug unhappily.
"Which reminds me of what you said earlier, though," he went on. "I don't know why Atanacalmo told you that your bravery was unnecessary, or that it didn't make a difference --"
"He explained that I could have withdrawn any confession I made -- I made while they hurt me. So I wouldn't have had to endure it all. As you thought I had done." I tore my arms free so I could wipe my eyes: they were dry, but they were stinging as if they were waiting to flow over again. "So it was pointless, like everything else."

Lord Eärendur's eyes and lips contorted in a brief expression of barely suppressed rage. "Oh, I should like to shake him! Your pain was certainly pointless, because it should not have happened in the first place! But it still made a difference, and he knows it. Parts of the council are now taking your side. They would never have done that if you had confessed and then gainsaid, would they? Yes, confessions can be withdrawn, but nonetheless, what's said is said. Doubt would always remain. But when a man refuses to lie even under torment - especially a man held in such low esteem - that is a potent demonstration, both of your bravery and of the repugnancy of the entire process." Once again, his hands were seeking mine, gently, reassuringly. "The council is paying attention now. And the people? Rumours have gotten around. You make a fine unexpected hero in them, and Telemmaitë has to take great care not to become the villain. If Atanacalmo has any sense at all, he'll have told his nephew that if anything else befalls you, the populace might revolt."
"Perhaps," I said dully, "but that will only make the King hate me more."
"He doesn't have to love you, if only he leaves you alone."
"I suppose." I did not know what else to say. Behind him, the flames in the Heart were dancing, mesmerisingly. Amraphel sat silent, and I could feel that she was frustrated, not with Lord Eärendur but with me. I could not blame her, really; I could not stand myself, either, but I didn't know how to change myself.
Lord Eärendur was stroking my hands, and I forced myself to tear my attention from the flames and back at him.
"So you see, there is hope," he said, and in order not to upset him - or Amraphel - I made no protest.

So far, there had been no question of returning to my work, but as Lótessë drew to an end, Mistress Nîluphêr died after all. Master Târik brought me the news and asked, after some awkward conversation, whether I would be able to honour my agreement with her family. The idea was ridiculous. Master Sérindo had still not taken the bandage off my hand and had furthermore told me in no unclear terms that I was not allowed to put any strain on either my back or my shoulders. I wasn't allowed to lift anything heavier than Palatârik, nor would I be able to use more than one hand. I could not even write. At best, I would be able to hand Master Târik the necessary materials, and to observe the process.
"Do that, then," Master Târik said, his posture a little too tense. "I'm sure it's enough if you are present; nobody can ask more, under the circumstances."
So I agreed to go. At first, Amraphel was entirely against it, but after a night's sleep she had changed her mind and said that perhaps it was a good idea. I suppose she must be glad to get me out of the house for a while.

The morgue had made a great deal of progress since I had last seen it; the underground part of it was entirely finished, and the only thing missing to the work-rooms above the earth were the truss and roofing. We could therefore use our own cellar and did not have to work in the tomb Mistress Nîluphêr's family had finished a month back, which gave us more space to move and store our things (and more room to sit, for me). Similar tombs were springing up elsewhere on that site of the road. It appeared that Mistress Nîluphêr had started a fashion. If things had been otherwise, I might have been happy about it, because it would mean work for us embalmers. As it was, I just remembered in bitterness how I'd had to argue with Lord Atanacalmo to get permission for our morgue. Of course, I had to expect the rich folk who were building tombs for their elderly relatives paid well for the privilege. That probably had put Lord Atanacalmo's qualms about poison in the ground to rest far more easily than anything I could ever have said.

We collected the body at Master Yadrahil's house together, so nobody could later claim that the King's Embalmer had not been personally involved. All I did was exchange some sombre words with Master Yadrahil, and then walk next to the bier with a grave expression, but Master Târik felt that it would be enough. Or so he said. I had no idea how anyone truly felt; they were all acting cautious around me, as if I was a volatile salt that might explode if shaken, or if a single drop of water fell into it.
So we set to work, or rather, my colleagues did. I tried to pay attention without commenting on anything, since it would have been inappropriate to comment on work that I wasn't doing myself. At any rate, they knew perfectly well what to do; although the procedure had been my idea, we had developed it together, and the whole "King's Embalmer" thing was nonsense anyway. I found it hard to watch and do nothing; it made me feel quite useless. Not that it made much of a difference to my useless existence in the past weeks, but I had vaguely hoped that going back to my work would give me some sense of normality. Now I had to accept that normality simple wasn't available anymore.

Still, I dutifully rode to work in the morning, and back to the city in the evening. By the third day, I had grown used enough to the uncomfortable pressure on my backside that I took in something more of my surroundings. There were goats and sheep in several of the far fields now, but in others I could see rows of supporting poles, and between them young trees - not the tiny cuttings my neighbours had tentatively stuck into the ground in fall, but proper young trees that must have been grown for five years at the least, and probably hadn't been any less expensive than the animals. I wondered whether Lord Herucalmo had promised the people who had planted them a bonus, too. Must have. Otherwise, there wouldn't be so many trees. Even in my half-numb state, I couldn't help but heave a sigh. I suppose it was too much to ask for anyone of that house to tell me "Good point, thank you for your insight," or something of the sort. Of course, Lord Herucalmo wasn't likely to acknowledge that I'd done anything remotely useful. However jovial his behaviour on our last meeting had been, I had not forgotten what he had said about taking the blame if things went wrong.

And I was certain that I was about to take the blame when I was summoned to the palace the following Valanya. I could only assume that I had neglected some duty that I had forgotten about. Or word had gotten around that I wasn't properly working on Mistress' Nîluphêr's preservation, and now I was going to be brought to book for shirking at my work, as Lord Atanacalmo had threatened all those years ago. At this point, it was almost a relief to think that it might end like this. I prepared mechanically, letting Amraphel shave my face, putting on my good grey robes, a little too warm now. To be on the safe side, I put the vial in my loincloth. I would not make the mistake of leaving it in my strongbox again.
"I doubt he would send a formal summons if he meant to kill you," Amraphel said, indubitably meaning to reassure me.
"Better safe than sorry," I said. She didn't argue, and when I left, she hugged me more tightly and kissed me more deeply than usual. Clearly, she wasn't wholly certain that I was not in immediate danger after all.

Still, I managed to make my way up to the citadel in a fairly calm and detached mood. I had at that point grown used to the way people turned away from their business and their conversation to stare at me. I ignored them. The guards at the gate greeted me civilly enough, and let me proceed on my own. Nonetheless, as I crossed the ornamental moat-street that led to the Raisers' former laboratory and our former morgue on the left, and the torture chambers on the right, I began to tremble, and my breath was coming much too fast for the simple effort of going up the broad stairs to the palace. Even as I sat on the marble benches, waiting to be admitted to the state room where the King was apparently doing his business today, my heart would not return to a normal rhythm, and it was all I could do not to gasp for air noisily. I felt myself breaking into a cold sweat. I told myself that I no longer cared what happened to me, that it did not matter either way, but my body would not believe me. As the door was opened for me and I could see the King, sitting at the long table where he had gone through his correspondence back when I had posed for the painter - mere months ago; it felt like a lifetime - it felt as though somebody had punched me in the stomach with full force. I actually doubled over, and I very nearly would have thrown up. I shut my eyes tightly and waited for the feeling to pass, but it didn't pass, not fully. When I had regained enough self-control to enter the room, I had to hide my hands behind my back because they were shaking so badly and I didn't want the King to see my terror right away. He rose and came closer, and I felt a powerful revulsion, an urge to either charge at him screaming or run away (also screaming). With great effort, I locked myself in place, clenching my jaw and looking through him rather than at him.

"Azruhâr, Azruhâr," he said, in that cold voice of his, "the bane of my existence."
Somewhere underneath my terror, a rebellious little voice wanted to laugh. It was laughable, really. Here I was, powerless as always and even weaker than usual, and there he was, King of Yôzayân, calling me the bane of his all-powerful existence. I felt my lips twitch, but I kept my teeth firmly gritted so neither laugh nor protest escaped.
He seemed disappointed by the lack of response, and studied me for a while, even walking around me in an uncomfortably close circle. There was no hiding my hands now, and he spotted them right away. He grabbed my right hand in its bandages, inspecting it, and I gasped out loud, not because it hurt that much, but simply because he startled me so badly.
There was a small sound from further back in the room - a cough, or maybe a rustle of precious cloth - and I noticed now that the old Queen, the King's mother, was sitting at the table also. Otherwise, we were alone, except for a single servant at the wall behind the Queen, and the guards at the doors on either end of the room. They did not look threatening at this time, simply standing to attention, but of course that meant nothing; they could become a threat to me at a moment's notice. I swallowed hard and tried to get my breathing back under control.

The King let my hand drop. Either he had satisfied his curiosity, or he did not want to touch me for too long. "How slowly you heal," he announced.
I avoided meeting his eyes by continuing to stare ahead, but the half-buried voice at the back of my mind took control of my tongue, and I said, "I have been told that it was not a clean fracture. These things take time, apparently." My voice was hoarse, straining against the tightness of my throat.
"Obviously," the King said dismissively, "but it has been eight weeks..." he trailed off. "But then, of course, you are common as dirt."
"Precisely, your Majesty," I heard myself say. "Not a single drop of Elros' blood in my veins. Mortal through and through. From the foot of the hill. That's the kind of man you've chosen to be the bane of your royal existence." The words came out, dripping with anger, before I could stop them, before I was even aware that I was thinking them - although I certainly was thinking them. I was angry. When he had accused me of hating him, in another life, another world, I had told him that I would never be able to hate him, my future King; but now I found myself perfectly capable. I hated him with every ounce of my feeble being. Of course, I was hating the entire world, and I was also hating myself, but if there was a focus to my hatred, he certainly was it. I was boiling inside - I could feel the heat of it behind my eyes - and I was now no longer avoiding to look at his face out of fear, but rather because I half believed that one of us would drop dead, the moment our eyes met. I clasped my right hand in my left behind my back so that neither hand would rise against him.

"One should think," he said, turning his back at me and taking a few steps away, as if feeling the heat of my anger, "that you were entirely beneath my notice, but somehow you are a thorn in my side. A constant itch. I see you, I have to scratch at it." He turned back to face me, his eyes narrowed and his mouth twisted into an ugly jeer. "Your mere existence infuriates me. Like a midge, you should be swatted."
"Alcarmaitë," the old Queen said sternly. I remembered how Lord Atanacalmo had addressed him like that, admonishingly, when he had still been the Crown Prince, and already wanted to swat me. Where was Lord Atanacalmo, anyway? I had not seen him since his visit to my house, and I cannot say that I missed him, but at least he seemed to have known what was going on. It had been reassuring to believe that at least one person had some sort of plan. But I suppose I was no longer a part of that plan. I wondered whether I should be relieved or disappointed.
Without acknowledging his mother's intervention, the King went on, "Some people appear to think that my justified distaste for you is..." he paused, clearly searching for the right words, "an irrational feud threatening the stability of the state. Absurd, but there we are. So something must be done."
My thoughts had begun to drift off again, still occupied with the question of what Lord Atanacalmo was doing behind the scenes; I had to force myself to pay attention to the unpleasant reality of listening to Tar-Telemmaitë.

"Obviously, I should like to simply execute you-"
"That would be nice," I heard myself say. I had not meant to interrupt him; the words simply slipped out, and I didn't even realise that I had really said that until I became aware of the Queen's irritated stare, until the King asked, in utter disbelief, "What?!"
"A simple execution," I explained. "Clean. Quick. Nothing messy or drawn out." Behind my back, I was gripping my right hand so tightly that I was probably setting the healing process back by several weeks, although I didn't feel anything.
"Oh, good grief," the old Queen muttered, while the King's eyes had widened in absolute exasperation. "You see how impossible he is, Mother," he exclaimed. "How can I not strangle him?"
"You are not making it easy, either," she said, which from my point of view was putting it very charitably. "Maybe I should deal with him while you do something more pleasant?"
I could see his fists clench and unclench rapidly while he was making up his mind, perhaps uncertain whether it would be more pleasant to strangle me on the spot, or to leave my impossible person to his mother. "Yes," he finally said, "that would be better."
He turned and strode away without another glance at me, but I bowed low nonetheless, until the door slammed shut. I had some difficulty regaining my balance; my mind didn't seem to be working properly.

"So, Azruhâr," the Queen said, and I bowed again. "Yes, yes, very well," she said, almost irritably. "Why don't you sit?"
I obviously did not sit because I had not, so far, been invited to do it. But it was the sort of question that was really a command, so I didn't reply, instead sitting down in the chair she was indicating. She studied me, unmovingly, for a while. I tried to be inoffensive. I was unreasonably hurt by the King's claim that I was impossible. Until recently, I had tried so hard to please him, yielding whenever I could, conceiling the truth for his sake. Yet he acted as if I was the impossible one. I really hoped that the old Queen would somehow accept that I wasn't impossible, just at the end of my wits and out of my depth.
She raised her hand in a beckoning motion, and when the servant hurried to her side, exchanged a few whispered words with him. The servant bowed and left, leaving us under the indifferent eyes of the guards at the doors.

"I expect you are still not wholly recovered, and should be in your bed," the Queen said, not unkindly. "So I shall try to make this brief." She briefly glanced to the side, where the King's papers lay abandoned, and selected a folded sheet of paper. "My son has received a letter from his governor in Umbar. Apparently your embalming impressed him when he came over for," she paused briefly, evidently struggling with emotion, "the funeral." Another pause. I said nothing.
She went on, clearly reading from the letter, "This craft of embalming appears to me immensely useful for those people of Yôzayân who die in the colonies. If their bodies can be preserved incorrupt, we could send them back to their families and their native soil, which is not possible under the current circumstances. Therefore, I humbly request the services of one of your Majesty's embalmers at your earliest convenience for the purpose of teaching the craft in Umbar. Ah, yes, thank you." That last part was addressed to the servant, who had come back with a tray bearing a glass of wine, which he set down in front of the old Queen, and a cup of something steaming, pale and gold-green, which he set down on the table in front of me. It smelled of honey, lemon balm and meadowsweet. Apparently, the Queen thought that I might be running a fever, or that my nerves were badly frayed. She probably wasn't wrong.

I thanked the servant, and tilted my head at the Queen, waiting for what was coming. Not that I couldn't guess. Lord Roitaheru of Umbar had written to the King requesting the services of an embalmer. The King wanted to get rid of me. Since he could not kill me, he would send me off to Umbar. I remembered Lord Roitaheru, cheerful and noisy, at Lord Atanacalmo's feast. Now I knew what Lord Atanacalmo had been doing. He had devised a new punishment for me: exile.
The old Queen raised her glass, and I tried to control myself, lifting my cup in response. My hand was shaking so badly that I spilled some of the hot liquid on the table. "Calm yourself," she said, "I have no intention of poisoning you. To your health."
I had to clear my throat again. "To your health, your Highness," I said obediently, taking a cautious sip, not because I thought it was poison but because it was hot. It was also sweet, and it would have been pleasant, if my throat had not constricted with misery. I set the cup down cautiously.
"But you intend to send me into exile," I heard myself say.

She raised her eyebrows. "I would not necessarily think of it as exile. You will be given a prestigious appointment in the colonies. The first to teach your craft! It could be the cornerstone of a great career. Many would jump at such an opportunity. Especially at your young age."
"At my young age," I repeated, feeling old.
"Yes, indeed," she said earnestly, ignorant of my feelings. "More importantly, it will get you away from my son. You two are like two dogs that hate each other, and I needn't tell you that he'd rip your throat out easily. Get yourself out of the way. Do your work in the colonies. Build a new life. It will be better for everybody - not least of all, for yourself."
"Yes, your Highness," I said. No doubt many would jump at the opportunity of a post in the colonies, but unfortunately, I wasn't one of them. I did not want to go to Umbar. I did not want to cross the ocean, that was part of it, but I also didn't want to leave home. It had been hard enough to leave my old small house; moving to an entirely different part of the world was horrifying. I had considered the possibility once, to save myself from the King's wrath; but in all honesty, I would never have done it, not then, not now.
Something more important crossed my mind, and I raised my head and asked, "Can I hope for any monetary support for re-settling my family? I'm rather short of funds at the moment."

Her brow creased in a pained frown. The creases were there all the time, of course - she was very old, after all - but they contracted further as she considered my request. "I'm afraid that there is no question of re-settling a family. Journeymen who travel to their appointments typically travel alone. Even nobles who go to the colonies do not take their wives along. It is not done."
"I'm only an apprentice," I said dully, as if that made anything better.
"And you will be working as a master in your own right!" she said with forced enthusiasm, as if trying to distract me.
"My family," I repeated, undistracted. "My wife. My children. I cannot go without them."
She grimaced - sympathetically, perhaps - and then said, "In theory, you could try asking for dispensation, to allow you to take your family along."
I nodded. "Whom do I ask?"
She occupied herself with the letter, folding it back up. "My son," she replied.
I stared at her, but she did not look in my direction. "Do you think he would grant such dispensation?" I asked, against better wisdom.
Briefly, she pursed her lips, and I wondered whether she was displeased by my question. Personally, I did not think it was all that unreasonable. Then she met my eyes again, and her expression was one of pity. "I wouldn't bother. In fact, I would advise you not to call attention to your family at all, if you understand what I mean."

I understood. I felt my eyes well up, and then flow over. Lord Roitaheru had appeared perfectly happy, clearly not too worried about being far away from his family and his native soil. But me? I could not imagine living so far from Amraphel or the children. Even now, I felt as though I was living worlds apart from them, a wall of misery between myself and their life, and it was hard to endure. Being physically apart, with a whole ocean between us, was unthinkable.
"Then it is exile," I said through my tears, "whatever the prestige." And bitterly, I added, "You might as well put me on the rack again."
Again, her lips thinned as if in anger, but her voice wasn't unfriendly when she replied. "Please do not think that I do not understand your plight. But I need you to understand that there is very little choice. Being sent to Umbar, even alone, is the best thing that can happen to you. Let Alcarmaitë forget that you exist, or forget his anger, at any rate. He is reaming himself on this petty obsession with you, and while I do not doubt that you suffer from it the most, at this point the entire realm is affected. We need stability, and that means that you need to go. For the good of the realm. And, of course, for your own good. If you stay, I must warn you nothing will be simple; it will get messy, in every possible respect."

"You ask a lot," I could not help saying, and to her credit, she said, "I know."
I looked down into my tea, so liberally honeyed to make me swallow the bitter medicine. I thought of Amraphel, and of my children. Already, they were the only thing keeping me alive. How should I live without them?
I struggled with myself. I would have liked to scream, to shout, to throw the cup in her face, although it was probably not her fault; she seemed perfectly understanding, perfectly reasonable. In a way, that made it worse. But she was right. There was no choice. The King would rip out my throat eventually. Already, Lord Eärendur and the citizens of Andúnië were paying the price of having been friends with me. Who knew what would come next? No; I would have to go. It would be better for everybody; though not, I felt, for myself.
I dug my fingernails into my thigh until I managed to stop crying. I took the tea-cup and emptied it. I set it down very carefully. I said, "I am at his Majesty's disposal, of course. If he sends me, I shall go." The words rang out, to my miserable ears, like hammerfalls.
The old Queen smiled a joyless smile. "Brave fellow. I knew that you would be reasonable."
I bowed my head while my eyes welled up again. "I have unfinished business," I managed to say. "I beg leave to settle my affairs before I depart."
"Yes, naturally," she said. "It will take a while to make arrangements for your journey, too. You have until early Úrimë. Then you will be expected to take sail."
"Yours to command and mine to obey," I responded mechanically. It was the easiest thing to say.