The Embalmer's Apprentice by Lyra

Chapter 38

Chapter 38

I don't remember how I got home. I know that at first my feet carried me aimlessly through the city. At some point, I became aware that I was on the way to my old neighbourhood, so I went the rest of the way on purpose.
For a while, I stood at the fence of my old house. The garden was well-kept. Young pea-pods were hanging plentifully from their twines. The house had been given a new coat of whitewash. It must have been fairly recently because it was still gleaming, unsullied by the winter's wet woodsmoke or by mud flung up by heavy boots or overshoes. Clearly, the Daytalers' Welfare Society had been doing well enough in my absence. I suppose I was no longer required. The sun was bright in a sky that already had the colour of summer, and the world had moved on without me, and would happily continue to do so; if I lived or died, stayed in Arminalêth or went to Umbar, was entirely inconsequential.
I suppose my feet must have taken me back to my new home, or perhaps Târazôn or some other old neighbour had chanced to see me and guided me on my way. But I remember nothing, no faces, no conversation, no streets that I passed through. Earlier, I had burned inside; now I felt frozen in the warmth of that Lótessë afternoon, and I seemed to be walking through a thick fog of despair.

The fog surrounded me for another day or two, and then it lifted. The sun was bright. My house was beautiful. Amraphel, warm and patient and indefatigable, was lovely. My children, gifted and full of life, were treasures, and I had to say farewell to them. I was seeing them for the last time, and I felt that I had to make that time count. They deserved to remember a father who loved and cherished them, who shared their joys and their sorrows - not a man who stole away in secret and hid in his bed-chamber.
So I made myself be there. I rode home from my work at the morgue as fast as I could, so I had sufficient time to hear about my children's lessons and games, to let them teach me the steps of a dance they had learned or made up, to admire Azruphel's paintings (which were, under the patient guidance of a retired painter, improving in quality), to hear about slights perceived and arguments had. I could not play horse with Palatârik as I had done for my daughters, and I made a dismally bad fencing partner for Nimmirel, but I hope they still appreciated my efforts. At any rate, Palatârik stopped behaving like I was a stranger, and instead began to greet me with clumsy warm hugs when I came home in the afternoon.

I explained to them that I would have to go away in the summer, and stay away for a long time. In the manner of children, for whom time is still a vague and shifting phenomenon, they accepted this without much protest. Only Azruphel objected that I would not take her along. "I can be your assistant," she declared grandly. "I will sketch your work, or make paintings of your customers' lives, like the tapestry for the old King."
"That is a wonderful idea," I said. "Maybe I will be able to call upon you -- later." I did not have the heart to tell her that my family was not allowed to come by design; even now, I did not want to sow resentment or brook rebellion.
Amraphel explained to Azruphel that the first years of my work would consist in building and making arrangements, which would be arduous and boring, and that it would be much better for the children to stay here, in our comfortable house, and complete their learning. She made it sound almost as if she believed it.

We dined at Lord Eärendur's house before he returned to Andúnië. In truth, he said, he was considering retiring from the council and the city. Although his reputation had been barely tarnished except among those who had already opposed him before, the King no longer deigned to listen to him for long, and he feared to do more damage than good by speaking up on matters that were dear to his heart. "It is time for Eärengolë to take over," he said. "He is young and patient. Maybe he will be able to make up with Vanatirmo, too; I haven't got the strength for it."
I wondered, not for the first time, why Lord Vanatirmo had turned against him in the first place. It made no sense for him to covet Andúnië; he already had Eldalondë, and his daughters were well-married, and his grandson was bound to inherit Andúnië, anyway. When I posed the question to Lord Eärendur, he said, "Because Vanatirmo was a neighbour and a friend, but first and foremost, he is a father. Vanilótë's marriage is not a happy one, and I expect Vanatirmo thought he might ease her lot by endearing himself to the King. I can only hope that it worked out for the poor girl." The poor girl, I thought, was easily three times my age, although I suppose we were both like children to a man of Lord Eärendur's age.
"What of Lady Vanimë?" I could not help asking. After all, Lord Vanatirmo was also Lord Eärendur's brother-in-law.
Lord Eärendur sighed. "I do not hold her responsible for her father's deeds, and besides, he knows that I am not vengeful," he said. "Telemmaitë is."
I thought of the pretty blue-eyed Crown Princess - no, the young Queen, she was now - who had been so out of sorts at the feast for Lord Vanimon's birth, and felt an unexpected surge of pity. "Does he hurt her?" I said, as if I needed another reason to detest the King.
"There are rumours," Lord Eärendur said tersely. "But we should not gossip."
We changed the subject.
He tried to encourage me about Umbar - he had passed through the city during his service in the colonies, a few centuries ago, and remembered it as a prosperous and orderly place - but I asked him not to remind me of my impending departure, and so we spoke about other things instead.

Lord Atanacalmo, too, invited me for dinner (and chess) at his house, but I had no desire to speak with him. I knew that I would only lose my temper, and whatever he wanted to do with me, it would almost certainly weaken my determination to be happy and present during my last weeks at home. So I sent word that I was indisposed.
I should have known that he would not be satisfied with that, but somehow I had expected him to just send another summons that I might be able to postpone again. Instead, he simply came walking into my courtyard one afternoon as I was watching my children perform a play of Azruphel's own invention. I didn't notice his presence until he laughed and clapped heartily at the end of the act, then announced to the children that their father would be occupied for a while.
I rose from my make-shift seat on the stairs dutifully and knelt stiffly. "Pardon me for not greeting you sooner, my lord," I said, but could not help adding, "I do not remember inviting you."
He continued to smile at the children who had lined up at the foot of the stairs for a respectful bow. "The good thing about being your lord is that I need neither invitation nor permission," he said, and I could hear the steel underneath his words. "Your study, if you please," he said, no longer smiling.
I did not please at all, but of course, I had no choice.

He had brought the chessboard and pieces, and he had brought a bottle of what he considered decent wine, and he dropped both on my desk, on top of my books and papers, as if to demonstrate how unimportant my puny work was. I offered him the more comfortable chair, asked Enrakôr to bring him a cup for his wine, and water for myself, and sat down in the other chair. I extricated my rumpled paperwork from underneath the chessboard. I watched as he arranged the pieces. I did not ask what he wanted; in all honesty, I didn't care. Besides, he would tell me, sooner or later.
And he did, once the pieces were set and the cup was filled with wine. "You can have some of it too," he said carelessly. "I have more of it at home."
"Oh, I would not want to impose," I said.
He smirked, evidently hearing what I had not said: that he was imposing himself on me.
"Of course you wouldn't," he said. "Not even when I explicitly invite you."
I felt my fists clench. The fingers on my right hand were still stiff and awkward, but they were no longer restrained by bandages, and they managed to curl into my palm firmly enough. "Your lordship will understand that I am not at my best health. And I have many pressing matters on my mind. As your lordship is doubtlessly aware, I will have to journey to Umbar in a few weeks' time. There is much to prepare."
"Hmmm," he made. Perhaps he was savouring my answer, or perhaps he was savouring his wine. "And yet you have the time to watch childish performances in the middle of the day." He pointed at the board. "Make your move."

"That is different,"I said. "You cannot blame me for spending as much time with my children as I possibly can, since I will not be seeing them again after the summer." I could feel my hands begin to shake again, and I set the pawn down with unnecessary force. The carved piece had been cushioned with a sliver of felt so it wouldn't scratch the precious ivory and wood of the board, but it still made enough of a pang to convey my anger.
"Ah, yes. Of course. You really love them, don't you?"
"Of course I do," I said.
He raised an eyebrow at that. "Oh, many people don't love their children. Beyond the call of duty, that is. They're quite a bother, aren't they? Especially when they're still so young and labour-intensive. They're a necessary evil, obviously - we don't live forever - but it takes them terribly long to become tolerable company." He pushed his pawn ahead gently, smiling to himself.
"That is not how I feel," I said.
"Good for you," he retorted. "Or rather, bad for you, since you can't take them with you. I shall tell my nephew that you're heart-broken, shall I? He'll like that."
I felt the small hair on my neck stand up. "You leave my family out of this."

He smiled more fully now. "Ah, so you still have a little fight left in you. I'm glad." His eyes met mine, keen, perhaps not cruel, but certainly mischievous. "Don't worry; I will look after them."
"Is that a threat?" I said, feeling my throat constrict and my stomach grow cold.
"Oh, Azruhâr, you wound me. It's a promise, of course! How can you think anything else."
I ground my teeth. "How indeed."
Lord Atanacalmo sat more upright, no longer smiling, which strangely enough made him look less frightening to me. "Now, young man, be reasonable. I am not your enemy, and you would do well not to treat me as one. I assure you that worse things could happen to you than being sent to Umbar to teach embalming. Technically, your probation has not ended. Yet you need to get out of the King's way, far away. Roitaheru's request makes that possible."
"You arranged it, didn't you," I said bitterly.
"Of course I did," he said. "But you needn't thank me. I owed you a second favour, after all."
I suppose he did, at that, but I couldn't think of my appointment in Umbar as a favour. "Couldn't you rather have spared me the torments?" I suggested.
He steepled his long fingers and rested his chin against them. "Unfortunately not," he said, "but you are in one piece, aren't you? Mostly, anyway. Believe me, it could be worse." He nodded at the board. "Come on. Your turn."

I dutifully moved a rook, then watched as one of his pawns advanced. "I am heart-broken, you know," I said, feeling the grey fog rise again as soon as I put the feeling into words. "Just trying not to show it so much."
"Good, good," he said. "Keep your feelings under lock and key. They're an impediment to greatness."
A bitter laugh came from my mouth. "Greatness! Your lordship must be confusing me with your nephew." I pushed at another piece.
He looked taken aback for a second; then the smirk returned. "I suppose I must be," he agreed. "I have to think for him all the time, after all. How do I repair his reputation? It is a thankless task. It would be easier to replace him with his heir, but poor Vanimeldë is not ready for that. She's never been raised to be a ruler, only a trophy wife. He was always counting on a second child. Vanilótë really should have given him a son. It can't be that hard, can it? Her sister managed. Arancalimë managed. Even your wife managed to have a son, and you're not much of a man!"
Not much of a man, I thought. Of course. I would have liked to see him on the rack or under the lash. That would show us how much of a man he was.

Hopefully unaware of my thoughts, he made his move, then returned his attention to me. I studied the board with some displeasure. The situation had become confusing and overwhelming; now every move could have unexpected consequences, and I did not like being faced with so many choices that would probably all turn out to be disastrous. I tentatively moved an archer.
Lord Atanacalmo was still fixing me with his keen, cold gaze. I had done something wrong. Maybe he had sensed my thoughts after all. I tried to meet his eyes innocently. "I hear you, my lord?" I said with strained politeness.
His eyes narrowed, briefly; then he chuckled softly. "Never mind," he said.

Perhaps I should have asked again, but then, I didn't really care to understand what he was aiming at. I just wanted to navigate his visit without making things worse. Preferably, I wanted him gone before supper. So I did not ask, instead focusing on the game. If he wanted to talk, I thought, he'd do so by himself.
For a while, however, he kept his silence, until at one point I tried to end the game more quickly by exposing my king to an attack by his archer. As soon as I began to move the shielding pawn away, he slapped my hand irritably. It was not a very strong blow - like the warning slap you give to a child trying to snatch a fruit that is not theirs to eat - but he hit me right on the tender knuckles of my right hand, which at any rate was not up to its old strength. To make matters worse, it slammed onto the chess pieces underneath. I snatched it away, cradling it in my good hand, but the damage was done. It hurt. It hurt far more than it should have, and I barely managed to stifle a stream of profanities by sucking in a long, slow, deliberate breath between clenched teeth.

Lord Atanacalmo looked surprised for a split second, then realisation dawned, and then he raised his chin and looked indifferent and superior once more. "That is what happens when you cheat," he said. "You know it is forbidden to jeopardise your king. Do something else."
I did nothing, just held my hand and fought the urge to cry. I had known that the fingers were still weak - no wonder, after the injury and then the long period spent in tight wrappings - but they had been back in working order, and I was shocked not merely by the intensity of the pain, but also by the reminder of my fragility. Through the rushing of blood in my ears, I heard Lord Atanacalmo's cold voice, "You will never amount to anything if you do not play by the rules."
Like a cornered dog, I bit back. "I amount to nothing when I stick to the rules," I snapped, "so what does it matter?" I had to get up and walk to the window to distract myself. When I came back, he had put the toppled-over pieces back into their proper place and smiled up at me expectantly.

I think it was that smile that pushed me over the top. If he had at least pretended to be sorry, if he had uttered a half-hearted apology, however insincere, I am sure that I would have swallowed my frustration. I would have sat down and tried to end the game, angry but obedient. But that smile and his patronising phrases about the rules of the game, after he had hurt me again, after he had told me that he was not my enemy: that was too much. His hand lay on the table with the palm upwards, indicating the board. I remembered how these long fingers had gripped my hair and pulled my sore head up at the end of my torment. In his place, I would have been thoroughly ashamed, but I expect such a feeling was wholly alien to him: his great game justified everything.
I held my stinging hand in my left, close to my gallopping heart, as if that would somehow protect it or make it better, and said, "I no longer care to play by the rules of your game."
He raised his eyebrows in a silent reprimand. "They are not my rules," he stated, "they are the time-honoured rules of the game everywhere." His forefinger started to tap on the desk, showing that he was displeased.
Well, so was I. "Then maybe I am playing a different game, with different rules. One where it's just as condemnable to jeopardise pawns." I took a deep breath, but it did nothing to calm me. "You know, if there is one, just one good thing about my exile, it's that I will no longer have to play your game."
In response, he bared his teeth in what might have been a grin. "I shall write to Roitaheru and tell him to challenge you to a round of chess every now and then," he announced. "You clearly need it."

Perhaps it was a peace offer - a joke - but it might as well have been a threat. At any rate, it was a potent reminder that I would be far away, but not outside his sphere of influence.
I was too angry to be scared. "Yes, I am certain you shall send him a list of all my weaknesses," I retorted, "just in case I ever manage to find my feet."
He raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
"That is, if I get there in the first place," I went on bitterly. "If my ship doesn't sink, to make sure that I never come back."
Lord Atanacalmo yawned exaggeratedly to show what he thought about my diatribe. "Highly unlikely. Ships are expensive."
I sucked in another slow breath. "Maybe I will jump into the sea," I said between gritted teeth.
He pursed his lips, thoroughly displeased. "Now you're being melodramatic. I despise melodrama. Besides," he said sternly, "you mustn't do your enemies' work for them."
I gave him an impotent glare. "You said you were not my enemy."
He smiled. "That is true. I am not. So stop being obstinate. Calm yourself. Finish the game. You will never master others if you cannot even master your own feelings."

I couldn't bear the sight of him anymore. I turned my head away, staring at the wall without focussing on it. The strengthening anger was dissipating, leaving weariness in its place. After the initial pain, my fingers had gone numb, and I let the useless hand drop. I would have liked to curl up and cry, and I struggled against the urge, not because he had told me to calm myself but because I would not give him the satisfaction of seeing me break down. I do not even know why I cared. Because I did consider him my enemy, I suppose, and I did not want to do his work for him.
"What you do not understand," I heard myself say, "is that I have no desire to master others."
He shrugged at that, continuing to smile serenely. "Then you may as well sit down and finish the game."
I ground my teeth, but I could no longer sustain my resistance. Like a straw fire, my anger had burned itself out, and the smoke that was left from it was much like the fog of despair. He was right. There was no point. I might as well stop being obstinate and finish the game.
I sat down, resting my right hand in my lap. I took a sip of my water. I studied the chessboard, and finally moved an inoffensive piece with my left hand.
"Good boy," Lord Atanacalmo said, as if I were his dog. I would have liked to throw the chessboard in his face, but I had by now remembered who he was and what he could do, so I merely clenched my left fist and studied the wall again as he made his move in return.

"A word to the wise," Lord Atanacalmo began, and then he cut himself short. "Do you remember what I told you, a few years back?"
I forced myself to look at him. "That I am walking on thin ice?"
He tossed me a grin like a reward. "Precisely. Or rather, you were walking on thin ice, very thin ice. By now it has broken. You're in the deep and the cold now, among currents and floes that are perfectly capable of crushing you, and all you are doing is flailing your arms and spluttering and swallowing water. Stop doing that. You need to heave yourself onto one of those floes and go with the current."
"Or maybe I should just give up and sink," I pointed out.
He raised his eyebrows as if to say that he did not expect me to have the courage, but what he said was, "You could do that, naturally. But what a waste. What a waste."
I clenched my fist again, then slowly forced it open and towards the board. "At what point, my lord," I said, moving my archer, "is it no longer worth the struggle?"
He raised his eyebrows, took his wine cup, leaned back as if he had to consider the question at leisure. I was half surprised that he didn't put a foot on my desk. Instead, he blew up his cheeks, then let the air out through lips stretched thin. "Phhhhh! With that kind of philosophical question, you'd better turn to Eärendur. Me, I'm more interested in worldly matters."

I thought that that was all he'd have to say on the matter - brushing it off with an oblique remark, as usual - but after drinking deeply from his wine, he spoke on. "Look here, Azruhâr. I know you're not an idiot. So stop behaving like one. Let this be an occasion to test your courage -"
"One should think," I said testily, "that I have sufficiently proven my courage. Ah, no, I forgot. That was just a useless display of childish loyalty."
He chuckled at that. "I was rather thinking of emotional courage. Fortitude. Self-control. Those things you lack. But yes, very well: you have shown yourself capable of enduring physical pain. That takes some sort of courage, I suppose."
"How grudgingly you acknowledge it, Lord," I observed. "Does it cause you pain to say something friendly?"
With a shrug, he said, "It might. Best not to risk it, hm? Besides, friendliness will get you nowhere. Endurance grows in adversity."
"What do you know about adversity?" I couldn't help asking.
The easy grin disappeared from his face. "I am the second son of a King. The spare. What do you think?" He took my last knight and practically threw it to the side. "My battles may be different from yours, but that does not mean they are easier. Check."
I let my king take a pathetic step back, and said, "You dragged me into your battles, on top of my own. You needn't have done that."
"No," he agreed, "but I thought you had it in you. I suppose I was wrong." His rook moved into a killing position. "Check."

Again, I dutifully pushed my king out of immediate danger. Little morsels of generosity, I thought. That takes some courage, I suppose. I know you're not an idiot. I thought you had it in you. What a waste. Just enough for a good boy to lap up and go on.
But I did not care to go on. I wanted more than morsels - or nothing. Right now, nothing was perfectly acceptable. I was tired of trying to guess his meaning, tired of trying to please to protect myself. So I made no reply, just pushed my king away from his pursuit until he had it cornered.
"Checkmate," he said, stating the obvious.
"As always," I couldn't help noting.
He raised his eyebrows at me while he collected the pieces. "You really need to work on that defeatist attitude of yours."
I felt my lips purse. "That's hard in the face of all that adversity."
"Oh, stop whining. You can go to your darling wife, or to Eärendur, if you want to have your courage stroked; they'll build you back up in no time, I am sure."
"Not in Umbar, they won't."
"That is true." He smirked at me. "We will see what you are truly made of, won't we?"

I would have liked to make a scathing reply, or any kind of reply, but I was struck dumb with rage and misery. Evidently, he noticed, because he went on, "Cheer up, man. It could be much worse than Umbar. Much, much worse. Roitaheru runs the place well enough; it's much like Arminalêth itself. But as a man of Yôzayân, you'll immediately be part of the elite. That should be a new experience, shouldn't it? No-one will know your past. Your money will count twice as much, and there are plenty of pretty things to take your mind off your lost love. As long as you keep your apprentices in control, you'll be just fine. So stop moping. I don't see why you're acting as if I were dragging you there in chains, which, as you surely realise, is also something that could happen."
My cheeks burned. "Of course you don't see," I said, tight-lipped and narrow-eyed. "After all, I expect you have never loved anyone besides yourself in your entire life."
Far from insulted, he raised his cup. "I'll drink to that. Love is a childish fancy that you, too, will outgrow."
"I will not," I said; and after that, I said nothing more, except for bidding him a pleasant life when he bade me a pleasant evening. I later reflected that, as far as parting words went, I could have done worse. Still, the whole encounter left me moody and morose, and when I found that he had left his bottle of fine wine on my desk, more than half full, I was sorely tempted to empty it all by myself. Instead, I sent Tîmat to Lord Atanacalmo's house the next day, to return the bottle (and its contents) to their rightful owner - whether he wanted it or not.

The closer Úrimë came, the harder it got to keep my misery secret. I now frequently found myself staring at something - the garden, a familiar street corner, the Cornflower tavern - as if trying to commit it to memory, however trivial or even unattractive it seemed. The street urchins started to make fun of me for my habit of stopping in the street for the better part of a half hour, staring and muttering to myself.
At work, Mistress Nîluphêr was now safely entombed and new customers were not yet in sight, so my colleagues, with the help of a roofer hired with Master Yadrahil's money, completed the slate roof for the morgue, while I made copies of our most important documents so I would be able to take them along to Umbar. My writing fingers were still clumsy and, on occasion, painful, especially after a long day's writing; but I had to assume that they would not get better except through practice, and in a way, the hurt in my hand was a good distraction from the constant screaming at the back of my mind.
Lord Herucalmo occasionally looked in on me when he went on an inspection of 'our' agricultural project, but his grandfather I didn't see again. Even when I went to his house for the unpleasant but necessary negotiations for my travelling papers, for my upkeep in Umbar and my family's upkeep in my absence, he would not receive me, but told me - through his steward - to speak with Lady Arancalimë instead. I was actually grateful for that. Even though she was intimidating, she hadn't hurt me nor pushed me beyond my breaking point. I could keep my wits and my temper around her, even when she insisted that my status as apprentice would remain unchanged. I had not expected her to agree to my promotion, anyway; it had been Master Târik's idea. So I wasn't particularly disappointed, and I left with the impression that I had done what I could to secure the future - if I had one, that is. I probably would not have accomplished that with Lord Atanacalmo. Perhaps his indisposal had been supposed to be a slight, but I perceived it as a mercy.

Then again, perhaps it was neither insult nor mercy; perhaps he genuinely was too busy.
That summer, we were treated to a series of splendid theatrical performances and public dances. The merriment felt as if it was designed to mock me, although I expect it was rather meant to lift the spirits of the general populace. The spectacles were patroned by none less than Princess Vanimeldë, and she made regular appearances, not merely as a spectator in a high seat, but as a performer herself. The princess was as charming and graceful as her father was abrasive. She might not have been raised to be a ruler, but she was a splendid entertainer; it was impossible not to cheer for her, not out of deference but out of true admiration. I stayed away from these events after the first times, since the delight and cheer made me chafe painfully against my impending departure, but I did not forbid my family to participate in them, and anyway, they were the talk of the town. Occasionally, the King himself would be in the audience, showing his appreciation for the arts (or, more likely, for his daughter's involvement) and regaining the trust of his people. I suspected that I was seeing Lord Atanacalmo's hand at work once again.

The midsummer prayer on the Mountain had been officially cancelled, but the holiday week preceding it, with its fair and further plays and dances, was kept. Lord Eärendur had invited us to Andúnië for one last visit as a family, and in spite of my worries that it would cost him too much, I had agreed to go. I hoped to make a few more good memories, I suppose, and I suppose I did. The region and the city were beautiful as ever, unmarred by the change in its fortune. True, the grand house was emptier, and meals were more limited than they had been even under the rationing. But the harbour and market were still bustling, and people still went to the beach at low tide, to build ephemeral sand castles or play in the waves. It was beautiful and painful at once. Even in those happy moments, the knowledge that I would not come here again was like a brutal fist that squeezed my heart together. I do not exaggerate: I could barely breathe at the thought that soon I would be on a wholly foreign shore, the alien coast of Middle-earth, alone. Lord Eärendur tried to offer what consolation he could. We would write many letters back and forth to keep each other in each others' lives. He would visit in person, as soon as he could. My family, too, might be permitted to visit, once the King's mind was no longer bent so firmly on hurting me. When I had been younger, I might have clung to these faint hopes. Now, they were too frail to bear my weight.

And then it was Úrimë. I finished my business as best as I could. Amraphel had taken care of most of the travel preparations, so all I had to do was go through her lists to learn what had been arranged. I said farewell to the newly-made farmers by the road to the Mountain, now preparing for the first major harvest which I would no longer see. I said farewell to Târazôn and Thâmaris and the members of the Daytalers' Welfare Society, who now had to elect a new spokesman. I sent polite notes to my new neighbours. At Amraphel's suggestion, although there was nothing to celebrate, I hosted a farewell feast at my house, to gather all my friends and colleagues and the in-laws in one place. It was a fine feast, and we did not use the word exile, so the occasion was cheerful enough for those who did not know me quite so well. Lord Saphadûl, who had been in Umbar before, listed its many amenities and the riches of its Adûnaic inhabitants, making it sound as if I was heading into affluence and luxury; some of the guests even expressed envy. For me, it was hard to endure, and I stole away to the quiet of my study repeatedly, there to lean against the wall or stare out into the dark street. Once, I thought I saw a shadow darker than the shadows of the cherry trees, hiding, watching; but when I looked again, it was gone. At any rate, nobody attended the feast uninvited.

And in the next morning, we packed my bags and my travelling chests onto the hearse, which would serve as our coach, and the younger children sat next to Master Târik, who was driving, while Azruphel very proudly rode on the horse that had been Balakhil's, behind Amraphel and me on our own horses. The misery had settled in my stomach like a lump of poison ice despite the summer heat; yet to my own surprise, my eyes remained dry. They stung so badly that it would have been a relief to cry, but no tears were coming.
In Rómenna, we stayed at my sister's house until it was time to board. There was another feast with exceptionally fine wine. It had been a gift, I learned, from Lord Pallatin and Lady Fáninquë of Rómenna themselves, not for any service my sister or her husband had rendered, but specifically to 'sweeten my departure'. I thought of the venerable noble couple who had never shown the slightest interest in me. Not that I wanted it - I had quite enough on my plate with the noble acquaintances I already had - but it was nonetheless strange that they should be interested in sweetening my departure. However, I did not think too much on the matter. I did not even have the heart to get drunk on that night. As on my earlier visit to Nardurîl's house, plenty of people dropped in to toast me, and quite a few of them seemed to think that I was going on a delightful adventure, but I drank sparingly, for fear of spoiling these last hours with my family. When at last it was time to sleep, I lay awake, staring into the dark and clinging to Amraphel until at last I succumbed to my exhaustion.