Time of Trial by Lyra

The assembled crowd fell silent as the lord Zîgur (1) raised his hands.

"I know that you have heard rumours," he said in a voice that betrayed his distress. "I will, then, tell you what is true. It is true that there has been an attempted assault on the King..."

The crowd gathered before the balcony began to murmur again, expressing shock and disbelief in hushed voices. Mairon allowed them to exchange their opinions for a while before he raised his hands again.

"There has been an attempted assault on our beloved King. Thanks to the valour of his Majesty's guards, it could be confounded. But the would-be assassin got away. We are told that our guards succeeded in severely wounding this man, but in the darkness of the night he nonetheless escaped. The danger has not yet passed, nor has the deed been punished." Again he paused so the crowd could take his words in. From the beggars living in the outskirts to the nobles dwelling in proud mansions close to the citadel, all had been united by concern or at least curiosity. He gave them an earnest stare, making each of them feel addressed directly. "Searches will be conducted throughout the city. I am certain that you will all do your utmost to help seize and punish this cowardly traitor, and will support his Majesty's guards in their search. If any of you find or hear anything that may be linked to this disgusting plot, I hope you will not hesitate to pass the information on to the watchmen." He unrolled a piece of paper that he had so far held in his left hand. "Here is a description of the culprit: 'A young man of narrow face, bright eyes, straight nose, dark hair of shoulder-length, wearing a loose undyed tunic and coarse breeches of dark grey or brown. Slender build, but broad shoulders. Dirty appearance. Armed with a dagger of good craftsmanship, either stolen or given to him by wealthy accomplices.'"

The various members of the crowd looked at each other. "Aside from the dagger, that description applies to almost any poor man in the city," a thin, dark-haired man shouted. He was indeed wearing a dirty, undyed tunic and breeches that might once have been black but had faded to a greenish grey.

"Indeed," Mairon said, giving the man an intent stare, and adding with a thin smile, "Pâmilthon." The man paled most satisfyingly as he heard that his name was known to the mighty lord. Mairon's lips curled scornfully. "I hope you spent the past night at home in your bed as you should."

If that was at all possible, Pâmilthon paled yet more. "My lord, I assure you—"

"Enough," said Mairon. "There is more. As you would know if you had listened better, the man was injured. Affirmed injuries are: blade cuts in various places, especially the arms. One arrow to the right shoulder, at least one more to the haunch." His gaze fixed on Pâmilthon again. "Perhaps you want to show us that you bear no such injuries?"

Pâmilthon's chin worked unhappily, and he gave Zîgur a defiant stare; but the crowd was now turning on him. "Yea, off with his shirt," somebody shouted, joined by others. Some began to push towards the poor fellow, and those closest to him reached out as if to seize him or tear the shirt off his back. Pâmilthon twisted out of their reach; then, coming to a decision, he took his threadbare shirt off, revealing a torso that was dirty but sported no injuries worse than one or two old scars.

"Good man," Mairon said without bothering to hide his scorn. Then he turned back to the crowd. "With the injuries the attacker sustained, it is unlikely that he will be walking the streets. We will have to search houses to make sure that he is not hiding in some cellar – or maybe being hidden by fools or accomplices. Has anyone here, by any chance, taken in an injured man last night?” He sent a searching look into the crowd. Vacant expressions. Of course.

“There are hints that the man we are looking for belongs to the sect of those who call themselves the Faithful." Mairon's distaste was clearly audible. "If any of you have neighbours who still... cling to the old superstitions, now might be a good time to question their true allegiance." Murmuring arose again, and Mairon allowed himself a moment of triumph. Within the next days, many people would denunciate others whom they knew or suspected to be of the Elf-friends. It was always good to know where his enemies lived. Even those who until now had gone undiscovered would doubtlessly be warned to tread carefully. Whoever the man in the gardens had been, he had done Mairon a great favour. It was all too easy to link a mysterious stranger to a plot of treason. That always enraged the masses, and their rage could be directed at the Faithful with next to no effort. It was almost too easy. Mairon was certain that by tomorrow at least a few of the foolish traditionalists would have been hunted by enraged mobs that suspected them of complicity with the unknown traitor. He smiled to himself.

"We will send messengers throughout the country so everybody will know how close Yôzâyan2 came to tragedy this night," he said, concern colouring his words. "Perhaps that will teach those who would sow dissent among his Majesty's subjects some moderation." There were cries of outrage and agreement, and Mairon smiled again. His enemies would have some sleepless nights at the very least.

"Any cues that lead to the arrest of the culprit or those behind him will be richly rewarded," he added by way of encouragement, already envisioning the chaos that would break out not only among the less well-to-do citizens. "I trust you all understand how important it is to solve this crime. If any disadvantages or discomforts arise for any of you, you must remember that it is for the good of your king and country." Again he gave the crowd an intent stare. "That is all."

"Long live the king!" one of the councillors duly shouted, and the rest of the crowd joined in. Mairon gave them the sort of smile a proud father might give his children before he turned and walked back into the palace.

"Whoever the coward was, my Lord, he will be found," he told the king, bowing low to hide the gleam in his eyes. "He cannot have come far. And we will make sure that no man dares to ever plot against you again. I shall dispatch the messengers at once, if it please you."

"I thank you, my Zîgur," Ar-Pharazôn said. "Would that all my noblemen served me so well as you."

Mairon bowed again. "Your Majesty is too generous in his praise."

Chapter End Notes

(1) Zîgur is Sauron's Adûnaic name. Unlike Sauron (which he was named by the Elves, who did not like him much), it carries a rather more positive meaning: zîgur means "wizard", which contains the root "wise".

Sauron means "the Abhorred", and I rather doubt that Sauron would name himself that (or like being called that). When Sauron is not being addressed by Númenoreans, I here refer to him as Mairon. Apparently Sauron thinks in Quenya. ;)

(2) Yôzâyan: Adûnaic translation of Andor or "Land of Gift" – Númenor.

Within a few weeks, the dungeons were full of suspects who had been accused of involvement in the plot. "Three-and-eighty," Ar-Pharazôn told Mairon, who of course knew the numbers already. "So many people who hate me! So many who would plot against me!" The look that he gave Mairon was full of hurt and confusion.

Mairon fought down his disgust. It was hard enough to keep up his act of eager servilitude under normal circumstances; it was even worse when the Númenorean king showed weakness. On such occasions Mairon's hands itched with the desire to overthrow the mortal. Patience, he told himself, patience, but he found it hard to listen to his own advice.

"It is unbelievable, your Majesty," he now said, forcing his voice to echo the confusion in the king's eyes. "Who knows what depravity dwells in the hearts of men?"

To be fair most of the arrested people were very likely innocent, but it was far too good a chance to get rid of some of those pesky Elf-friends. Every little helped, after all.

"Who indeed? And how shall we ever find out the full extent of this plot? Three-and-eighty people!"

"And that's only those who were caught on time," Mairon said encouragingly. "Who knows how many secret supporters..."

"Enough," Ar-Pharazôn interrupted him. "I do not wish to think on this any longer."

Mairon bowed low. "As you wish, dear lord, of course. I am afraid that you will have to think on it once more, though, for these traitors will have to be judged and punished..."

"Three-and-eighty," Ar-Pharazôn said again; then he slammed his fist onto the table. "No, I cannot imagine that so many people can be involved. Surely at least some of them were drawn into this by mistake..." He gave Mairon an imploring stare. Mairon very nearly cursed, and lowered his eyes so they would not betray his anger. Whenever he thought he had made some headway, the king's brain took another turn. Dealing with these mortals really should not have been this hard!

"And even if all of them are guilty, I cannot order eighty-three executions," Ar-Pharazôn said.

"Why not, dear lord? They are traitors. It would be justice."How hard it was to keep his voice humble, not to let his impatience register!

Pharazôn stared at him for a long while. "But Zîgur, you must realise what that would mean."

"That your enemies would never again dare to rise against you?" Mairon suggested in what he hoped was a harmless tone.

"Civil war!" Pharazôn retorted. "And rightly so! Three-and-eighty men -" he glanced down at the list of names - "and women cannot all be equally guilty, and if I were to have them all executed... my people would never take it."

Mairon almost groaned. Scruples, there were always scruples! Sometimes Ar-Pharazôn was more difficult to handle than most of the Eldar! Those had generally been easily impressed by displays of wisdom and lore and craft. With Pharazôn, on the other hand, it had for a long time been Yes, most intriguing indeed, and now take him back to his cell.

Well, at least those days were over – though, in Mairon's opinion, not nearly long enough. Nor had he been properly avenged. Patience, patience...

"I suppose you speak wisdom, lord King," he said demurely. "But then I am afraid these three-and-eighty cases all will have to be judged individually, and what with all the accusations and protests and evidence, that will take a long time – surely more than a year! And who will in that time rule Yôzâyan?"

"I will," Pharazôn said sharply, "and I will decide how to deal with the suspects. Enough of them, for now."

Mairon bowed his head yet again, swearing to himself that he would make the mortal king pay for wearing him out like this. "Of course, your Majesty."

"You had something else to discuss with me?"

"Ah, yes, your Majesty. I promised you to look for a place to build the great temple, if you remember...? Well, I found just the right location within the very walls of this city. Convenient, central, and the finished edifice could be seen from everywhere in Arminalêth – and beyond. A few houses would have to be pulled down, but I am certain that we could... encourage... their owners to relocate. So that should not be a problem. With your permission I could begin the work forthwith."

"Now? This late in fall? This is an ill time for building, you know," Ar-Pharazôn said with a slight smirk. Mairon hated him for that smirk, and for the unspoken words that stood behind it - What do you know of building, Maia?. Again he lowered his head.

"I was thinking only of your well-being, your Majesty. The sooner the temple is built, the sooner we can offer proper ceremony to the Giver of Freedom – and the sooner he may reward you..."

Ar-Pharazôn looked thoughtful, and Mairon felt the much-needed glow of triumph warm his heart. At least that ruse was working.

"I do not fear the difficulties of building in winter," he pressed on. "Everything to please you, my lord."

The corners of Ar-Pharazôn's lips curled up briefly – whether with pleasure or scorn Mairon was not certain. Had he overdone it?

But the king said, "I appreciate the sentiment. I merely wonder where you would find builders willing to work on such a huge building at this time of year."

Mairon pretended to ponder the question for a bit, pacing before the throne. Finally he looked up again. "I think I recall reading that the wharfs in Rhómenna were built by condemned criminals, as an alternative to... other punishments?"

"That is true. The great tower of Ar-Minulhâr (1) was built in like manner." Ar-Pharazôn gave Mairon a quizzical look. "Do you mean to suggest putting the imprisoned suspects to such use?"

Mairon put a thoughtful expression on his face. "Since you put it like that, my lord..."

"It is not a bad idea, I suppose. Not entirely just, since all would receive the same punishment regardless of their actual guilt, but it would save us the trouble of determining the extent of their guilt."

"That is what I thought, Majesty."

"And they would be set free after the building is finished, so no one could complain that we judged them too harshly."

Mairon blinked at that – he'd had no intention of setting people free - but masked his surprise swiftly, keeping his voice soft and encouraging. "As you say, my lord."

Ar-Pharazôn sighed. "Let it be done, then. I can entrust this task to you, I presume?"

"Of course, Majesty." Mairon bowed again, then hesitated briefly. Was the time right? He might as well try. "Oh, and if I might make another suggestion, my lord?"

"Speak."

"Perhaps it is time to set a sign – to discourage the traditionalist dissenters from further plots? Perhaps it is time to fell a certain tree..."

"Fell the White Tree?" The king was frowning deeply. "That is out of the question."

"Remember that the guard discovered the would-be assassin near that Tree! It is a symbol dear to the Elf-lovers, you must realise that. Lord King, while you are afraid to fell the White Tree the so-called Faithful will believe that you are afraid of them. Show them that it is not so!"

Ar-Pharazôn shook his head. "I see your point, my Zîgur, but it cannot be done. You may not know it, but my ancestor prophesied that the line of Kings would come to an end when the Tree perished..."

"I am aware of that, dear lord. But I also wonder. The White Tree-" he grimaced in distaste - "has not perished, and yet your line is sadly lacking an heir. Now your queen is almost too old to bear children..." Mairon saw the king's fists tighten in anger, and he hurried to continue. "But there are two readings for that prophesy, is it not so? One – which you, Majesty, appear to believe in – is that the end of your line means the end of your house's reign. But may not the end of your line mean instead that there is simply no need for heirs?" He saw confusion on the king's face, resisted the temptation to roll his eyes, and pushed on. "Why would Ar-Pharazôn the Immortal need to continue his line?"

"Ar-Pharazôn the Immortal..."the king repeated, longing in his voice. Mairon nodded encouragingly.

"And why should Ar-Pharazôn the Immortal set store by the superstitions of Ar-Inziladûn the Foolish?"

"Why indeed," Ar-Pharazôn muttered. "And the tree is half-dead anyway..."

"It is that, too," Mairon agreed eagerly. He had, after all, taken care that it should be so. He watched the king's inner struggle calmly – there was little doubt now that the king would follow his advice.

And he did. "You speak wisely, my good Zîgur,"Ar-Pharazôn eventually said. "We will fell the tree on New Year's Day."

Chapter End Notes

(1) Ar-Minulhâr: Tar-Meneldur. "My" Ar-Pharazôn refuses to use Quenya even in retrospect, and has thus duly translated his predecessor's name into Adûnaic. Minal (objective minul) is provided by Tolkien (as in Ar-minalêth, Armenelos, or Minultârik, Mt. Meneltarma). The professor does not, however, give us an equivalent for Quenya -(n)dur, servant. So I shamelessly invented something. To make the -ntur/-ndur ("lord/ servant") dichotomy of Quenya at least vaguely translatable into Adûnaic, I came up with hâr as a counterpart for bâr. It might have been more correct to choose pâr to also maintain the minimal pair character of the Quenya example, but that felt too simple, and besides there is at least one example (sapda/sabda) where Adûnaic treats [p] and [b] not as separate phonemes but merely as allophones. In other words, pâr and bâr might not have been considered as two different words but merely as variants of the same word. That would've been kind of awkward, right? So hâr it is. For the sake of maintaining appearances, let's assume that the H here represents a bilabial fricative rather than our glottal fricative. Not that anyone is likely to care about all this anyway, you probably stopped reading halfway through the footnote. ;)

It took Mairon a while to compose himself. Inside, he was boiling with frustration at being torn away from the rapidly progressing temple building. The construction site was his pride and joy, a place where he could almost feel as though he were back at home, with all his might at his disposal. Summons from the mortal king - urgent summons, moreover – destroyed that pleasant illusion.

His irritation was not at all allayed when he had entered Ar-Pharazôn's study, and had not been greeted with the usual indulgence but rather with a very grim look, and the words, "You took your time."

"I could not immediately get away from the building, your highness. I most abjectly beg your pardon if I have offended you."He bowed low. The king still wasn't appeased.

"Yes," he said curtly. "There are things we must discuss, concerning that building. I have had a letter from Aphanuzîr (1)..."

Mairon could not prevent that his eyes widened. As far as he was concerned, Amandil should not even dare to consider communicating with the king; certainly the king should not feel that he had to discuss things with Mairon after receiving a letter from him, except perhaps the best way of silencing the former lord of Andúnië forever.

"What does he want? He should take care of his injured grandson and not pester your Highness with letters." Mairon was not entirely certain that he managed to keep the impatience out of his voice.

"He has some protests to make concerning the building of the Temple..."

"Well, yes, of course he does. It is a temple to Melkor, and Aphanuzîr wants you to worship his beloved Eru," grumbled Mairon, and was silenced with a glare. To his disgust, he actually felt a rush of fear. Had that Faithful pest managed to turn the king against him again?

"He has kept silent on the matter of the Temple's purpose,"Ar-Pharazôn said, and the disapproval in his voice was unmistakeable. Mairon did not mind if the mortal king sounded disapproving, under normal circumstances. He did not like, however, when that disapproval was aimed at him – that should not happen, not anymore!

"What Aphanuzîr complains about," the king continued, "is your treatment of the workers." He gave Mairon another grim look, and Mairon swallowed his surprise, waiting instead. "He says that you keep them in exceedingly cruel conditions; is that true?"

Feigning ignorance, Mairon tilted his head. "I do not know what you mean by 'exceedingly cruel', lord King."

Ar-Pharazôn lifted the letter and read out, "'I hear that they are not only chained, but also kept naked at all times; that they are forbidden to speak, and beaten and tormented for trifles or for no reason at all; given no furs or blankets against the cold of night, and instead bedded on straw like oxen or swine, but without any of the care that we give our beasts; moreover insufficiently fed, and under most humiliating circumstances. I must beg my most noble King to investigate whether these reports are true, and if so, to check the Lord Zîgur's cruelty, for it has never been and should never become our custom to reduce men in this manner...' And he is right. So I am investigating this matter, you see, and I ask you: Is it true?"

Mairon allowed his surprise to register on his face. "My dear lord, they are traitors..."

"They may be that, but when all is said and done they are nonetheless my subjects! Either we have them executed as traitors, or we keep them alive; but we do not reduce them to beasts – to less than beasts - and over such a long time! This is a civilised realm, Zîgur, not the wilderness of Middle-earth! You will amend their lot at once, or I shall have to find somebody who understands our laws better to take care of the site."

"Naturally, I will obey your every command, Majesty," Mairon said hastily, surprised by the vehemence of the king's answer. In his mind he cursed Amandil and his entire line. Obviously it had not been enough to remove his opponent from the council; he was still capable of hampering Mairon's work from a distance. It was a pity that the old man still held sway over the king. With their short lives, these mortals really should not form such lasting loyalties. "I do wonder where Aphanuzîr heard these reports," he couldn't help saying.

Ar-Pharazôn, soothed by his hasty compliance, looked thoughtful at that. "So do I, indeed. Especially since I have heard nothing of the sort." The look he gave Mairon was again unflattering.

"Majesty, I had not realised that you might object. I was – foolishly, I now see - convinced that I was acting according to your will. I was not aware how generous you are to your enemies."

"You of all people should know. Have we ever mistreated you in such a manner when you were our prisoner?"

That reminder was really unnecessary, Mairon thought angrily, and his hurt pride was clearly audible when he answered. "You did threaten to torture me, and I believe I was struck once or twice..."

The king snorted, waving his hand dismissively. "For your insolence, and because you threatened me and my noblemen. But we neither kept you like an animal, nor did we beat you for trifles, now did we?"

Mairon's jaw worked angrily before he regained control over himself. "Lord King, please allow me to remind you that it is only Aphanuzîr who speaks of trifles. When a mason mixes mortar with a little too much sand, that may appear a trifle to a nobleman who knows nothing of these matters, but any master builder will agree with me that what seems only a small mistake may have grave consequences – it may cause a building to topple, perhaps killing dozens – with a structure as large as the Temple, hundreds of people! When such a mistake is committed intentionally, would you consider it a trifle?"

Ar-Pharazôn was silent for a while before he asked, "Is that what happened?"

"Among other things, Majesty."

The king sighed. "I understand. You did right then. But Zîgur, you still cannot keep these men as beasts."

"As you say, your Highness. I can but apologise." He turned away. Oh, the revenge he would have on Amandil once he got the chance! If only that time came soon. He forced himself to calm down. Perhaps he could set the king against Amandil at least a little...? "I suppose he must have spies in the capital," he said softly, pretending to mutter to himself. "How else would he have heard?"

"Who are you talking about, Zîgur?"

Mairon blinked as if torn out of deep thought. "Why, Aphanuzîr, my lord King."

Ar-Pharazôn pursed his lips angrily. "You think he spies on me?"

"I think he must have spies in the capital – for whatever purpose," Surely, Mairon thought, he was not even lying this time; without spies, Aphanuzîr could not have known about any of the more unpleasant details of the Temple construction.

"Spies..."Ar-Pharazôn appeared truly struck by the idea. Mairon felt his anger abate a little. Something good might yet come out of this, he told himself.

"Indeed, Majesty. No doubt you have wounded his pride when you – very justly – banned him from the council..."

Ar-Pharazôn shook his head. "I would not have thought it. I thank you for bringing this to my attention."

Mairon smiled to himself even as he bowed low. "At your service, your Highness. Would you like me to take action against him?" He kept his eyes downcast, but his spirits were rising. It would be too delicious if Aphanuzîr had, by his own letter, condemned himself!

But the king was apparently not struck enough. "I would not,"he said flatly. "Aphanuzîr was my teacher and my friend, once, and I for my part will not betray that friendship. Stay away from him!"

Mairon, still keeping his head bowed, rolled his eyes. Quite hopeless, he thought. He wouldn't get his revenge against Amandil, apparently, until the king was dead – and that was likely decades away. At the moment, that appeared an interminably long time, which was odd, since really he had all the time he needed. Being among mortals was really getting to him, he thought. He needed some taste of success, and soon, or he would go mad.

"Very well, your Highness," he said, and added somewhat desperately, "I assume your loyalty extends also to the rest of that family...?"

"Naturally,"said Ar-Pharazôn, but then he said, "Why do you ask?"

"Well, I did not mean to disquiet you yet," said Mairon, buying time. Then inspiration struck: "It is just that I have heard rumours that Gimilnamân(2) has cursed your queen with barrenness because she would not marry him, and that is why you do not have an heir yet. I meant to investigate some more before bothering you with something so horrid, but if you want me to stay away..." He glanced up, and saw that the king had gone pale. Very good.

"No, in this case I do ask you to find out more," Ar-Pharazôn said between clenched teeth. "And if these rumours be true, then Gimilnamân must be punished. See to it, Zîgur."

"As your Majesty commands," said Mairon, smiling to himself. This was promising. Amandil's letter was a bother, to be sure – while Mairon had no intention of honouring his promise to amend the workers' lot, he would have to make sure that the king would hear no further complaints. That would mean filtering the guards, and taking more care than before that nobody infiltrated the Temple site. It was really too bad that the king still protected Amandil, Mairon thought. Still, with any luck the man didn't know that. If his brother was arrested and taken to the temple, that should be a warning to stop meddling – and while Elentir was not quite as satisfying a victim as Amandil himself would be, Mairon took some consolation from the fact that Amandil might hear about his brother's pains. Let him send his spies! He would sorely regret that letter!

And perhaps one of Elentir's servants might be convinced to cooperate instead of sharing his master's fate? Amandil's household was hard to crack, but surely the old lord wouldn't turn away a servant of his lost brother...? Promising indeed. He might even have to thank Amandil, Mairon thought.

Chapter End Notes

(1) Aphanuzîr: Amandil's Adûnaic name, which he would likely use in public (where an Elvish name would not be well-conceived). To make matters more confusing interesting, Mairon/Sauron here thinks of people in Quenya when he isn't talking. Force of habit, I assume!

(2) Gimilnamân: Elentir (Amandil's brother in some earlier drafts of the Akallabêth) is not (that I know of) given an Adûnaic name, so I got creative once more. Assuming that Elentir means "star-gazer"(or "elf-watcher", but that sounds kind of stalkery, eh?), replacing elen with gimil was easy (the objective case, gimul, supposedly refers only to the singular, although if that's true then Elendil's Adûnaic name, Nimruzîr (note that here the elen was translated as "elf", not "star"), would translate as "Lover of one [particular] elf", which I for my part find odd). tir, however, posed a problem, as once more the little Adûnaic corpus we have doesn't offer any words for "watch", "gaze"or even just plain "see". There isn't even a word for "eye", good grief. So what I did was take the closest concept I could find, which happened to be nimir (which not just means "elf", but also "shine", thus having to do with light, which in turn enables one to see, so there), isolated the stem (Adûnaic works with consonant stems for concept groups, thus N-M-R for light-related things) and added a new stem vowel. Thus when N-M-R +I means "shine"(= emit light), I used N-M-R +A to translate "see/watch/gaze"(= to perceive light). Thus we have the newly coined Adûnaic verb *namir (or *namar). Huzzah! But wait, there's more. After all, we said "Elentir"meant "star-gazer", not "star-gaze"! I found two alternative agent forms of verbs (… possibly), one being -ân (as in kathuphazgân, "Conqueror", or Ar-Balkumagân, "King Ship-wright (=maker)") and the other being -îr (as in Gimilnitîr, "Star-kindler"or the above-mentioned Nimruzîr, "Elf-lover"). Before I end up writing lenghty essays on my interpretations of Adûnaic (which I already started, apparently O.ó), suffice it to say that I decided to apply the -ân ending to triconsonantal verbs, thus giving us namân for "watcher". Or "gazer". And thus was Elentir Adûnaicised...

Elentir's motivation in cursing the queen (not that he did anything of the sort) is fairly simple to explain if we choose to go with Tolkien's idea that Zimraphel/Míriel was originally betrothed to Elentir but then ditched him in favour of Pharazôn. Which I do. It makes her much more interesting. :D

"I am confident that we will have finished the Temple within a month's time, and that we can have the inauguration in early Spring,"Mairon told the king, who reacted with rather less enthusiasm than expected.

"Very good. Very good," he said, but his heart did not seem to be in it.

Mairon raised his eyebrows. "Are you well, Highness? I thought the news would cheer you more."

"I am thoroughly cheered,"Ar-Pharazôn said. "The speed with which you have built this Temple is commendable, and it looks most impressive. Strange design, but pleasing. Very good work."

"I am glad," said Mairon, bowing. "What is wrong then, my lord?"

The king gave him a wistful smile that Mairon found as repellent as reassuring. "You are right, of course; something is troubling me." He sighed. "This inauguration, it will comprise the full ceremony that you have told me about?"

"Naturally, my lord. I can provide you with the full procedure, if you wish to familiarise yourself in advance...?"

Ar-Pharazôn sighed again. "Yes, yes, I suppose that would be helpful." His jaw worked for a while until he finally said, "So there will be a sacrifice?" He sounded almost frightened, and that surprised Mairon. He tilted his head. "Of course, my lord King. The full ceremony, after all."

Ar-Pharazôn began to pace, and again took a while to order his thoughts. Mairon watched him, somewhat at a loss. Hopefully the king would explain himself soon, he thought. No doubt he would be able to deal with whatever troubled the man, but it would have been nice to be able to plan ahead nonetheless.

Finally, Ar-Pharazôn stopped his pacing, and looked Mairon in the eye. There was a haunted quality to his gaze, as though the issue had cost him many sleepless nights already. "I must admit that I am... not entirely comfortable with the idea of that sacrifice," he said, unconsciously raising his chin as if challenging Mairon to laugh at his discomfort. Mairon did not laugh. He was not in the least amused. One should think that he had invested time and persuasive power enough to win the Ar-Pharazôn's unquestioning trust. Instead, the mortal king evaded him again and again. Something had gone wrong, apparently – again! But what?

"Have you had another letter from Aphanuzîr?" he asked, not bothering to keep the annoyance out of his voice. If Amandil had written to the king again – and the king was still inclined to listen to the old lord – that was a desaster. It meant that the danger from Rómenna was more dire than previously assumed. Mairon wondered how Amandil might have heard about the planned sacrifices. Had anyone overheard when he had explained the purpose of the Temple to the king – some servant, maybe, whose presence he had not registered at the time? No, impossible. He had been too vigilant for that. The easiest explanation would be that the king – foolish man! - had spoken about this to his queen, who might then have written to Amandil... but no, Mairon read all their letters, he would know. Unless they knew that he was reading along, and had developed some sort of code to fool him...?

He was unable to mask his relief when the king snorted and said, "Aphanuzîr? Hah. I have not heard from him for months." His fondness for the old lord had declined significantly after Mairon had declared Elentir guilty of cursing the queen. Which was as it should be, Mairon reflected, although there was a trace of bitterness in Ar-Pharazôn's eyes and voice, suggesting that the king was unhappy about Amandil's silence.

Before he could further ponder this, the king interrupted his thoughts. "Why did you think I had?" Mairon forced himself to focus on the present. "Oh, it is just that such qualms do not suit you, my noble lord. You are, after all, a great warrior – you have slain people before!" He paused. "As has Aphanuzîr, come to think of it."

"Yes, yes, of course, but that was in war or punishment," Ar-Pharazôn said. "But in worship? Somehow that feels... I don't know. Wrong. In all the ceremonies I had to attend at my uncle's behest, there were no sacrifices..."

"Well, that should tell you how useless those ceremonies were," Mairon said hotly. "A gathering on a windy mountain-top and no sacrifice, what good is that supposed to do? Why should a supreme being be inclined to listen to its worshippers when they do not even care enough to offer gifts? Ridiculous." He was half-afraid that the king would take offense at his brash tone, but he could not find the energy to maintain his usual mask.

The king was too upset to take offense, anyway. "Why, out of love, I suppose," he said. Mairon closed his eyes in despair. Fortunately Ar-Pharazôn was not done thinking yet. "But you are right, of course. We are not, after all, intending to repeat Inziladûn's mistakes."

"Indeed, my lord," said Mairon, infinitely relieved.

"It is just a troubling thought, that is all," Ar-Pharazôn said. "Can we not offer a bull or something of the sort?"

"If you wish to attain immortality for the cows of Yôzayan, then by all means, sacrifice a bull. With all due respect, lord King, I fail to see what troubles you so. I know your laws, and I am quite certain that being quartered is no more pleasant than being burned alive- "

"Justice must be dealt," Ar-Pharazôn said, and when his eyes met Mairon's again, they were defiant. "Slaying people wantonly is a different matter."

"Wantonly? Highness, if you want to win a favour from the Lord of All, certain sacrifices have to be made!" Mairon had heard people describe their king as ruthless. Clearly, they had no idea what the word meant. "Combine it with justice, then," he said in a more peaceable voice. "Sacrifice only those who deserve it – traitors and murderers, for instance. That should ease your qualms, I take it?"

The king appeared a lot less troubled. "If it could be done like that, I would indeed be much relieved." He even managed to give Mairon a rather mischievous look. "Except that you are having all our traitors released after the Temple is built."

Mairon, who had hoped that the king had forgotten about that part of the bargain, managed a shrug. "I would not worry about that. Some people never learn..."

There was nothing lordly about the former Lord Elentir anymore, yet he stood between Mairon and his fellow prisoners with all the self-assuredness of his lost office. "You promised that we would be released," he said, his eyes glinting with belligerence. "We have fulfilled our part of the deal – we have endured all this punishment – and I hardly need to add that most if not all of us are innocent of the crimes of which you accuse us in the first place-"

Mairon ignored his tirade, and only said, "I cannot remember permitting you to speak."

With most of the prisoners, he felt, that should have sufficed. There were various flinches around the cell, and some faces averted in fear. Elentir, however, remained unfazed. Even after months of hard work and deprivation, he managed to stand as proud as if he were wearing golden clasps instead of lice in his tangled hair, and splendid robes instead of chains. "We were told that we would be released as soon as your... building... was completed," he said, squaring lanky shoulders. "It is completed now. Therefore I no longer consider myself bound by your terms."

Unbelievable, Mairon thought. This family seemed to exist purely to stump him. With their combination of mortal obstinacy and Finwëan pride, they truly were more troublesome than all the Valar combined! Only with some effort could Mairon maintain his façade of cool indifference.

"Yes, well, it seems that your chains speak a different language," he said.

One of the guards snickered. Mairon glared at him before he could stop himself. It was such a pity, he thought, that he had to make do with such dull fellows. Back at home, his guards and stewards had been the more intelligent inhabitants of his stronghold. Here, the only people willing to serve him were the decidedly Orc-minded. Well, that would all change once he was the king. Until then...

"Only if you betray your promise," Elentir interrupted his planning. "But surely even you have some vestige of honour!"

"Oh, of course I do," Mairon retorted. "Is it not so, Rahak, Karbukhôr?" He turned to two of the newer guards, who had started out as prisoners but had been smart enough to change sides. Rahak looked a little worried at being addressed, but Mairon gave him an encouraging smile and the man relaxed. "Have you not been treated honourably, after you gave up your foolish misapprehensions?"

"Very honourably, sir," said Karbukhôr while Rahak nodded eagerly.

"There you go, then. The good and the loyal are rewarded freely. But I will not brook opposition. My enemies-" he caught himself on time, and added pointedly, "that is, the king's enemies, will be punished without mercy."

"Without mercy indeed," Elentir growled. "Wait until my nephew on the throne hears about the way you have treated us..."

Ah, that was a sore spot indeed! Mairon was certain that he kept his worry secret, but something must briefly have registered in his eyes – Elentir was one of the few who managed to look him in the eye – for the old man gave a triumphant smile. "That is why you will not release us, isn't it? You are afraid that we will speak of these... indignities... to the king, and then it will be you who goes in chains again!"

Mairon fought down an absurd flash of fear. "Hardly," he said in a cold voice before the guards might get any wrong ideas. "Pharazôn has fully authorised me to deal with you as I see fit. Rebellion against me means rebellion against the king – so you are making yourself a traitor twice over. Besides, you have been so very useful – it would be foolish to let go of such useful servants, would it not?" He smiled briefly. "But I am not, despite all you think, without mercy. Forswear your ill faith and renew your pledge of loyalty, and you can have your precious freedom." He looked around at the other prisoners, who watched their argument in apprehensive silence. "That goes for all of you."

Elentir actually laughed – a loud, scornful laugh. "Why should we believe your promise now, when you have already proven to be a liar? And why should we forswear what we know to be true, and become traitors to our conscience and to Eru?"

Insufferable fellow! Mairon just barely resisted the temptation to strike him down. Patience, patience! A duel of wits had to be won with words. He forced himself to smile. "'What you know to be true'? Second-hand knowledge at best, crumbs off the Nimîr's(1) table, misinterpreted and mangled across the generations! Why should you believe such garbled traditions instead of my testimony, who I was present when the world was created?"

For a moment, something like doubt seemed to flash up in Elentir's eyes, and Mairon's smile intensified. That would be a fine victory, to turn Amandil's own brother against the Elf-friends' faith – almost worth losing such a satisfying victim!

But again, the man's obstinacy won out. "Your testimony is a lie, just as your promises were lies. That is all you are, Lord Zîgur – a lord of lies!" And he spat in Mairon's face. His aim was good; it hit Mairon underneath the right eye, from where it slowly trickled down his cheek. Mairon shuddered with disgust.

But the guards had moved already, bearing Elentir to the floor and striking and kicking him for his insolence. That helped Mairon to maintain his composure. He wiped the spittle of his face with one decisive flick of his hand.

"It would do you some good to ponder that your Eru, if he existed, created me in this manner," he told Elentir, pleased at how measured his voice sounded. Then he turned to the guards. "Very well! I believe we have a volunteer for tomorrow's sacrifice."

Chapter End Notes

(1) Nimîr (sg. Nimir): Adûnaic word for the Elves

Mairon paced in circles before the king's study, trying to work out his defense. That, at least, was an advantage of Ar-Pharazôn's refusal to see him – it gave him some time. Nonetheless Mairon was not at all pleased that the king was preferring the company (and, no doubt, the earful she was giving him) of Ar-Zimraphel to his own. Things were not going as planned, not in the least. If he did not steer very, very carefully now, he was about to run aground. The past day's ceremony had very nearly been a desaster. That accursed tree had burned with such dark smoke and such a smell that no one could possibly believe any deity would take pleasure from the offering. Additionally, Elentir had once more proved incontrollably troublesome. He had used the large audience present to preach against Melkor, even under the lash and the knife. Mairon had been forced to abbreviate the rites in order to burn him sooner, but even that had not sufficed to silence that obstinate man, who had sung praises to Eru even on the pyre until finally he expired. The mere memory enraged Mairon – was such stubbornness to be believed? And of course such a display of faith under duress had made quite an impression on the audience. He would have to drug any future sacrifices senseless to avoid a repetition of that spectacle, but that would of course make them insensible to the torments also. Most unsatisfying. Now people were muttering that the Giver of Freedom had not accepted the sacrifice, who had so clearly resisted him until the very end - if they were not protesting the worship of Melkor altogether. And the king might be inclined to listen, Mairon feared; he had looked rather ill at ease throughout the ceremony, and had been unwilling to speak to Mairon afterwards. It was Mairon's fortune that the king had not recognised Elentir in the sorry state he was in – otherwise all would be lost.

He had been too hasty, that was now painfully obvious. Now all his work of the past years was at risk. To add insult to injury, the grandson of Amandil, who according to Mairon's informants had spent the past months more dead than alive after a mysterious hunting accident(1), had chosen yesterday of all days to recover miraculously. Now the queen was probably busy telling Ar-Pharazôn that this showed Eru's will at work, and what was worse, she might even be right. And instead of being able to defend himself, Mairon was locked out while she poured her poison into the king's ears. Curses!

By the time the queen emerged from the study, however, Mairon had managed to calm himself and to prepare his defense. Thus he managed to bow with seeming equanimity when she gave him a haughty and triumphant stare. She did not deign to speak with him, instead striding away quickly. Mairon glared after her, counted to ten, and then cautiously looked into the study.

"May I come in, lord King?" he asked, and thought, too meek – Pharazôn shouldn't get the idea that he felt sorry about anything. He tried again, more firmly. "I think we may need to talk."

"Zîgur. Yes, indeed," he said. Mairon closed the door, and walked closer, pretending not to notice that the king still looked upset, or that he appeared to look through rather than at Mairon as if thoroughly distracted.

"I am delighted to report that the inauguration has met with great success," Mairon said with a smile. That brought the king's attention back to the present at once.

"It has what?" he asked sharply. "Did we attend the same ceremony, Zîgur?"

Mairon tilted his head in mock-surprise. "I believe we did, lord King. Whyever not? Everything has been done according to protocol, and has not Mulkhêr (2) already sent a sign of his pleasure?"

Ar-Pharazôn blinked. "He has?"

"Oh yes, your Highness. I've had reports that the young lord Nîluhâr (3) has recovered from his injuries quite unexpectedly – this very night! Clearly the Lord of All has chosen to show his power by plucking your nephew from the very gates of death. Bountiful is Mulkhêr!"

"I heard of that," Ar-Pharazôn said. "You think it was the work of Mulkhêr?" He ducked his head unconsciously when speaking the name, which Mairon registered with delight. The king went on, "My wife told me that it rather showed the might of Eru..."

Mairon took a deep breath. Then he spoke, deliberately slowly, as if hesitant to contradict the queen. "Your wife is undoubtedly a very wise woman, but in this matter she is naturally blinkered by the prejudices of her father. Think about it, dear lord: Nîluhâr's family is foremost among the worshippers of Eru, and surely they have prayed for the lad's recovery. Should not their Eru, if he had the power, have answered their prayers? Instead, Nîluhâr has lain dying for months, and awoke only now that we have made prayer and sacrifice to Mulkhêr. Indeed, if their Eru existed, should he not have prevented the sacrifice of one of his followers?"

"My wife says that Eru gave that man the strength to endure... the ceremony," said Ar-Pharazôn, but he no longer sounded convinced.

It hardly needed Mairon's wry retort, "My, what a generous way to reward such loyalty! See Mulkhêr instead: He has saved one who opposes him to show his might and mercy."

The king nodded thoughtfully. "I suppose you are right. Yes, that makes sense. Bountiful indeed!"

"As you say, your Highness."

"No, my good Zîgur, as you say. Forgive my doubt."

Mairon bowed before the king could see the wild delight in his eyes. "Majesty, there is nothing to forgive."

"So when," Ar-Pharazôn asked, "can we have the next ceremony?"

Mairon smiled. "As soon as you wish."

Chapter End Notes

(1) As the Silmarillion tells us that all Faithful were forbidden to enter the courts of the king and that nobody at all was permitted to come near Nimloth, Isildur would surely have been executed in his bed if anyone of consequence had figured out that he was the stranger in the garden – it would have been the perfect excuse for Sauron to act against Amandil's household directly. Accordingly I presume that nobody figured it out. In my reading of the story, Amandil and/or Elendil immediately came up with some hunting accident story to explain Isildur's injuries, even towards friends and allies, so no conflicting story could get around.

(2) Mulkhêr: Apparently the Adûnaicised form of Melkor's name.

(3) Nîluhâr: And while we're at it, Isildur clearly needed an Adûnaic name as well. nîlo/nîlû for the moon (Quenya isil) is attested; hâr is again my invention, as explained in Chapter 2.